The line went dead again, but this time we didn't call back. Pike went to his Jeep, I climbed into my car, and we drove north through the Cahuenga Pass toward Sylmar.

Chapter 38

SYLMAR WAS a small rural community at the foot of the Newhall Pass, where the San Fernando Valley died against the mountains. The main streets were lined with outdated strip malls and fast-food outlets, but remnants of truck farms and plant nurseries were scattered across a landscape gone largely undeveloped thanks to the ugly convergence of freeways, railroad tracks, and power stations. It was the kind of area where signs offered FEED and TACK.

Pike followed me to a small house in a ragged neighborhood between the Golden State Freeway and the railroad. The yards were large the way they tend to be in rural areas, and burned dead by the heat. More than one house sported rusted-out cars and chain-link fences so old they sagged from the weight of the air. Even in that shabby neighborhood, Sara Hill's house looked tired and sad.

The white Neon was not in her drive, so we cruised the area to see if it was parked nearby or hidden in someone's yard. When we returned to the house, we parked on either side of the street, then Pike trotted down the drive to cover the rear. I found three letters and some throwaway flyers in the mailbox. The letters were addressed to Sara Hill. We had the right place.

I brought the mail to the door, rang the bell once, then knocked. A few seconds later, Mrs. Sara K. Hill called from behind the door.

Who is it?

I phoned about Ivy Casik.

Go away. I don't know anything about the credit, and I ain't got nothin' to say about it.

I have your mail.

Her voice rose.

Put it down. Stealin' mail is a federal crime. I'll call the police.

I'm the police. Open the door and I'll show you my badge.

Lying is often the best policy.

Sara Hill threw open the door. She was a large woman with angry eyes and swollen joints, and she filled the frame with her bulk. She wore a thin housedress frayed at the hem, and rested her weight on a cane. I tried to see past her, but couldn't.

You're not from the credit?

I don't know anything about the credit. See?

I held up my license. It didn't look anything like a badge, but she probably didn't understand what she was seeing.

You gimme that mail. I don't like the look of you one bit. You look like your voice.

I held up the mail but didn't give it to her.

The Neon.

You're not from the credit?

No, I am not from the credit. I'm trying to find the woman who is driving your car. She may have knowledge of a crime and she might be in danger.