The apartment manager answered their ring and asked them inside. It was by no means a down-market property. In fact, B.M. Driscoll was thinking he wouldn’t mind living there if he could afford the rent. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and looked as though she had just come home from work. Her silver-streaked hair was cut like a man’s, and she was what is called handsome in women her age.

She said, “I’m Cora Sheldon, and I called about the new tenant in number fourteen. Her name is Eileen Leffer. She moved in last month from Oxnard and has two young children.” She paused and read from the rental agreement, “A six-year-old son, Terry, and a seven-year-old daughter, Sylvia. She said she’s a model and seemed very respectable and promised to get us references but hasn’t done it yet. I think there might be a problem.”

“What kinda problem?” Benny asked.

“I work during the day, but we never see or hear a peep from the kids. The owner of the building used to rent our furnished units to adults only, so this is new to me. I’ve never been married, but I think normal kids should be heard from sometimes, and these two are not. I don’t think they’re enrolled in any school. Even on weekends when I’m home, I never hear or see the kids.”

“Have you investigated?” B.M. Driscoll asked. “You know, knocked on the door with maybe an offer of a friendly cup of coffee?”

“Twice. Neither time was there a response. I’m worried. I have a key, but I’m afraid to just open the door and look.”

“We got no probable cause to enter,” Benny said. “When was the last time you knocked on the door?”

“Last night at eight o’clock.”

“Gimme the key,” B.M. Driscoll said. “And you come with us. If there’s nobody home, we all just tiptoe away and nobody’s the wiser. We wouldn’t do this except for the presence of little kids.”

When they got to number fourteen, Benny knocked. No answer. He tapped sharply with the butt of his flashlight. Still no answer.

Benny called out, “Police officers. Anybody home?” and knocked again.

Cora Sheldon was doing a lot of lip biting then, and B.M. Driscoll put the pass key in the lock and opened the door, turning on the living room light. The room was messy, with magazines strewn around and a couple of vodka bottles lying on the floor. The kitchen smelled of garbage, and when they looked in, they saw the sink stacked with dirty dishes. The gas range was a mess with something white that had boiled over.

B.M. Driscoll switched on a hallway light and looked into the bathroom, which was more of a mess than the kitchen. Benny checked the master bedroom, saw an unmade bed and a bra and panties on the floor, and returned with a shrug.

The other bedroom door was closed. Cora Sheldon said, “The second bedroom has twin beds. That would be the children’s room.”

B.M. Driscoll walked to the door and opened it, turning on the light. It was worse by far than the master bedroom. There were dishes with peanut butter and crackers on the floor and on the dresser top. In front of the TV were empty soda cans, and boxes of breakfast cereal were lying on the floor.

“Well, she’s not much of a housekeeper,” he said, “but other than that?”

“Partner,” Benny said, pointing at the bed, then walking to it and shining his light at wine-dark stains. “Looks like blood.”

“Oh my god!” Cora Sheldon said as B.M. Driscoll looked under the bed and Benny went to the closet, whose door was partially open.

And there they were. Both children were sitting under hanging garments belonging to their mother. The six-year-old boy began sobbing, and his seven-year-old sister put her arm around him. Both children were blue-eyed, and the boy was a blond and his sister a brunette. Neither had had a decent wash for a few days, and both were terrified. The boy wore shorts and a food-stained T-shirt and no shoes. The girl wore a cotton dress trimmed with lace, also food-stained. On her feet she wore white socks and pink sneakers.

“We won’t hurt you, come on out,” Benny said, and Cora Sheldon repeated, “Oh my god!”

“Where’s your mommy?” B.M. Driscoll asked.

“She went with Steve,” the girl said.

“Does Steve live here?” Benny asked, and when Cora Sheldon said, “I didn’t rent to anyone named -” he shushed her by putting up his hand.

The little girl said, “Sometimes.”

B.M. Driscoll said, “Have they been gone for a long time?”

The little girl said, “I think so.”

“For two days? Three days? Longer?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Okay, come on out and let’s get a look at you,” he said.

Benny was inspecting the stain on the bed, and he said to the girl, “Has somebody hurt you?”

She nodded then and started crying, walking painfully from the closet.

“Who?” Benny asked. “Who hurt you?”

“Steve,” she said.

“How?” Benny asked. “How did he hurt you?”

“Here,” she said, and when she lifted her cotton dress slightly, they saw dried blood crusted on both legs from her thighs down, and what looked like dark bloodstains on her lace-trimmed white cotton socks.

“Out, please!” Benny said to Cora Sheldon, taking both children by the hands and walking them into the living room, first closing the bedroom door to protect it as a crime scene.

B.M. Driscoll grabbed his rover to inform detectives that they had some work to do and that they needed transportation to the hospital for the children.

“Wait in your apartment, Ms. Sheldon,” Benny said.

Looking at the children, she said, “Oh,” and then started to weep and walked out the door.

When she had gone, the girl turned to her younger brother and said, “Don’t cry, Terry. Mommy’s coming home soon.”

It was nearly midnight when Flotsam and Jetsam were in the station to get a sergeant’s signature on a robbery report. A drag queen claimed to have been walking down the boulevard on a legitimate errand when a car carrying two guys stopped and one of them jumped out and stole the drag queen’s purse, which contained fifty dollars as well as a “gorgeous” new wig that cost three hundred and fifty. Then he’d punched the drag queen before driving away.

Jetsam was in the process of calling to see what kind of record the dragon had, like maybe multiple prostitution arrests, when the desk officer asked Flotsam to watch the desk while he ran upstairs and had a nice hot b.m.

Flotsam said okay and was there when a very angry and outraged Filmore U. Bracken came shuffling into the lobby.

Flotsam took a look at the old derelict and said, “Dude, you are too hammered to be entering a police station of your own volition.”

“I wanna make a complaint,” the codger said.

“What kinda complaint?”

“Against a policeman.”

“What’d he do?”

“I gotta admit he bought me a hamburger.”

“Yeah, well, I can see why you’re mad,” Flotsam said. “Shoulda been filet mignon, right?”

“He brought me here for the hamburger and left my property with a big fat degenerate at a dirty bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Which dirty bookstore?”

“I can point it out to you. Anyways, the degenerate didn’t watch my property like he said he would and now it’s gone. Everything in my shopping cart.”

“And what, pray tell, was in your cart?”

“My anvil.”

“An anvil?”

“Yeah, it’s my life.”

“Damn,” Flotsam said. “You’re a blacksmith? The Mounted Platoon might have a job for you.”

“I wanna see the boss and make a complaint.”

“What’s your name?”

“Filmore Upton Bracken.”

“Wait here a minute, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “I’m going to talk this over with the sergeant.”

While Jetsam waited for the Oracle to approve and sign the crime report, Flotsam went to the phone books and quickly looked up the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, a notorious and hated lawyer in LAPD circles who had made a living suing cops and the city that hired them. Somebody was always saying what they would do to Harold G. Lowenstein if they ever popped him for drunk driving.