Grady Frostokovich was my second call. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding young and polite. I identified myself, and asked if he knew of or had been related to a Sondra Frostokovich.

He said, The one who was murdered?

That's right. I'm sorry to disturb you like this.

Hey, no worries, I barely knew her. They found the guy. All this time later, they got him. How cool is that?

I'm looking into the original investigation back at the time of her murder. Think you could help with that?

Well, I would if I could, but she was my cousin, you know? Our family isn't the closest family in the world.

Was Sondra from here in L.A.?

Oh, yeah. They lived in Reseda.

Are her parents or sibs still here?

That's my Aunt Ida. Uncle Ronnie died, but her mom was Aunt Ida. You should talk to Aunt Ida.

There was an I. L. Frostokovich on my list.

Is that I. L. Frostokovich?

Yeah, that's her. She's really nice. My mom hates her, but she's really nice.

Grady was right. Ida was nice. I explained I was working with the family of the seventh and final victim, Debra Repko, and asked if she would be willing to tell me about her daughter. Five minutes later I was heading for Reseda.

Chapter 28

IDA FROSTOKOVICH lived in a small tract home in the center of the San Fernando Valley, north of the Los Angeles River and fifteen degrees hotter than the basin side of the city. When Ida was a child, orange groves covered the valley floor as far as she could see with Zen perfection identical rows of identical trees, each tree identically distant from its neighbors; row after row of low green clouds heavy with orange balls that smelled of sunshine. She remembered those times, and thought often of the trees, but during the boom years after the Second World War, the groves were bulldozed and the trees replaced by row after row of small, low-cost houses. Most of the houses were much the same in size and shape as the thousands of other houses there on the valley floor, but none of them smelled like sunshine.

Ida had probably let the house go after losing both her daughter and her husband. The small stucco house with its composite roof, faded paint, and ragged yard seemed weary. A single orange tree from the original grove stood in the front yard like a lonely reminder of better times. Two more trees were in her backyard, the crowns of the trees visible past the roof. I circled the block twice before I stopped, checking to see if someone was watching her house, but found no one. The paranoia.

I was walking up the drive when she opened the door. Ida had been waiting for me to arrive.

Mr. Cole?

Yes, ma'am.

Come in where it's cool.