As a general rule, police commissioners stayed away from crime scenes and focused on the really important work, like paperwork and politics and making sure they looked good in front of the cameras. They were more administrators than cops, and wherever they traveled the media wasn’t too far behind.

But there were exceptions, like the killing of a police officer, or if the crime had a high-profile element to it that needed to be thoroughly understood so it could be spun properly for the public. What happened here in Brentwood had both elements: a cop killed during the commission of a blood crime in one of the safest, most expensive neighborhoods in Los Angeles—a definite first. Of course the man was here.

It was easy to spot Kelly, a mountain of a man who stood six six. He paced along the grass near the side of the house where Danny had entered the backyard. As Ellie drew closer, she saw Kelly had a phone mashed against his ear. He wore a tan suit with a stylish tie and a pair of rimless eyeglasses with lenses that magnified his intense blue eyes.

She didn’t know the man personally—had never met him—but she had heard he was frank and tough, with zero tolerance for bullshit. When he was deputy chief, he was given the nickname “the Pied Piper” for his ability to ferret out crooked cops.

Kelly told the person on the other line he had to go and hung up.

“Walk me through what happened,” he said. Then he paused, as if reconsidering his words, and looked her over briefly. “Are you up to it?”

“I’m up to it.”

“Good.”

The way he said it, Ellie got the feeling she had passed some sort of test. “Have we made any progress here, sir?”

“We’ve got an APB out on the vehicle and the shooter, copters in the air searching, but so far, nothing.”

She led Kelly through the backyard dappled with afternoon sunlight, and explained everything that had happened. Everywhere she looked she saw glass fragments and spent shell casings and blood—and three dead bodies.

“The boy over there? He’s a stickman,” Ellie said. “That’s what they call themselves, the kids they use to find out if people are carriers.”

Why did I say that? Of course he knows what a stickman is. Kelly flashed her a look that told her as much. Dammit, Batista, get your shit together.

“What makes you think he’s a stickman?” Kelly asked.

“May I show you?”

The commissioner scratched the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Go ahead,” he said.

Ellie moved to the chaise longue where the skinny teenager with the man bun had sat earlier. His body and what was left of his head were now concealed inside a forensic tent to prevent news copters and any reporters and bystanders from viewing the carnage.

She reached into her pants pocket for a pair of latex gloves, used her other hand to wave down one of the forensic techs working the backyard. She wanted this documented and on the record, just in case. Better to cover your ass than to have your ass handed to you in court.