Poitras studied the squad room, then raised his voice.

Where's Bobby? McQue on deck?

When no one else answered, Starkey spoke up.

Court day, Top. He's cooling it downtown.

Poitras stared at her a moment.

You were with Bobby on the house up in Laurel, right?

Yes, sir.

Pack up. You're coming with me.

Starkey dropped the cigarette back in her purse and followed him out.

Chapter 4

THE LATE-MORNING sun bounced between sycamores and hundred-foot eucalyptuses as I drove up Laurel Canyon to the top of Lookout Mountain. Even with the heat, young women pushed tricycle strollers up the steep slope, middle-aged men walked listless dogs, and kids practiced half-pipe tricks outside an elementary school. I wondered if any of them knew what had been found up the hill, and how they would react when they heard. The family-friendly, laid-back vibe of Laurel Canyon masked a darker history, spanning Robert Mitchum's lurid reefer ranch bust to Charlie Manson creeping through the sixties rock scene to the infamous Four on the Floor Wonderland Murders starring John Johnny Wadd Holmes. Driving up through the trees and shadows, the scent of wild fennel couldn't hide the smell of the recent fire.

The address Lou gave me led to a narrow street called Anson Lane cut into a break on the ridge. A radio car was parked midway up the street with a blue Crown Victoria behind it. Poitras, a detective I knew named Carol Starkey, and two uniforms were talking in the street. Starkey had only been on the bureau for a few weeks, so I was surprised to see her.

I parked behind the Crown Vic, then walked over to join them.

Lou. Starkey, you driving now?

I shot Griggs for the job.

Poitras shifted with impatience.

Catch up on your own time. Starkey rolled out with Bobby when the uniforms phoned in the body. They were on it until the task force took over.

All of a day and a half. Fuckers.

Poitras frowned.

Can we watch the mouth?

Sorry, Top.

Poitras turned toward the house.

You wanted to see what we have, this is it.

The house was a small Mediterranean with a Spanish tile roof heavy with a mat of dead leaves and pine needles. The lot was narrow, so the living quarters were stacked on top of a single-car garage. The garage door was splintered as if a latch had been pried, probably so the police could gain access. A rickety stair climbed the entry side of the garage to a tiny covered porch. On the far side of the garage, a broken walk disappeared between overgrown cedar branches where it ran alongside the garage. A single knot of crime scene tape was still tied to the garage, left by whoever pulled down the tape.

Poitras squinted up at the house like it was the last place on earth he wanted to go.

Starkey can lay out the scene for you, but we don't have any of the forensics or case files. Downtown has everything.