Ellie was already out of the car before it came to a stop. She got down on one knee beside the dog and Danny remained behind the wheel, blinking in shock, Ellie knowing he was thinking about his Bernese mountain dog, Mickey. The dog had been the most loving thing during the final months of his marriage—his anchor, he had admitted to her more than once.

“Danny!”

He threw open the door, his gut brushing against the steering wheel as he got out. The dog lay on its side, shaking and panting, its eyes closed against the bright sun. Danny looked like he was going to pass out.

“Didn’t break any bones, as far as I can tell, and I don’t see any cuts,” Ellie told him. The Lab flapped its tail in agreement, then stopped when Ellie started rubbing its soft pink belly. “Probably just whacked Sasha here with the fender.”

Danny let loose the caged breath he’d been holding. “Sasha?”

“Dog’s name, according to the tag on his collar.”

The dog had several tags. Ellie was focused on the one shaped like a red fire hydrant. SASHA was etched on the front, along with a phone number and an address right here in Brentwood.

Ellie held the tag along its side. “Take a look at this,” she said, and flipped the tag over so Danny could see the words someone had written in black marker, beneath a bloody fingerprint:

Help Us.

CHAPTER 2

ELLIE BAGGED THE dog collar just in case this turned into something—and it had to be something; it was too bizarre not to be something. Afterward she placed the dog in the backseat, Sasha wagging her tail, the memory of being hit already forgotten. Ellie slid into the passenger seat, got on the horn to dispatch, and worked the laptop while Danny drove to the address printed on the dog tag.

One twenty-three Bleeker was a lot like the typical Mediterranean-style houses popular in affluent Los Angeles neighborhoods: a low-pitched red-tile roof with stucco siding and arched windows and wrought iron balconies. There was a fountain in the front, and the grounds were meticulously maintained—no doubt thanks to the abundant and cheap migrant labor.

A driveway wrapped around the front of the house. By the time they had pulled in and parked, Ellie had some background info on the home’s current owners. She showed Danny the license pictures on the laptop’s screen.

Louis Vargas was fifty-nine and wore every second of it on his face: dark circles under his eyes; jowly, wrinkled, and saggy skin. Sophia Vargas was fifteen years his junior but could have passed easily for late thirties: perfect complexion, black hair, and lovely dark eyes. No criminal record, either one of them. No traffic tickets or violations or citations. No children. No report of a missing dog.

Danny left the engine running. Before he got out, he cranked the AC up to its highest setting, since the dog would be staying in the back for the time being. Ellie slipped on her sunglasses, a pair of Ray-Ban Caravans, and followed Danny to the front door, a big ornate slab carved from oak. He rang the doorbell.