OUR OFFICE was a good place to be that morning. There was only the tocking of the Pinocchio clock, the scratch of my pen, and the hiss of the air conditioner fighting a terrible heat. Fire season had arrived, when fires erupted across the Southland like pimples on adolescent skin.

Joe Pike was waiting for me to finish the paperwork. He stood at the French doors that open onto my balcony, staring across the city toward the ocean. He had not spoken nor moved in more than twenty minutes, which was nothing for Pike. He often went soundless for days. We were going to work out at Ray Depente's gym in South-Central Los Angeles when I finished the grind.

The first call came at nine forty-two.

A male voice said, Are you Elvis Cole?

That's right. How can I help you?

You're a dead man.

I killed the call and went back to work. When you do what I do, you get calls from schizophrenics, escapees from Area 51, and people claiming to know who killed the Black Dahlia and Princess Diana.

Pike said, Who was it?

Some guy told me I was a dead man.

Pike said, Smoke.

I glanced up from the work.

Where?

Malibu, looks like. Maybe Topanga.

Then Pike turned toward the door, and everything that had been normal about that ordinary morning changed.

Listen

A stocky man with a short haircut and wilted tan sport coat shoved through the door like he lived in Fallujah. He flashed a badge as if he expected me to dive under my desk.

Welcome to hell, shitbird.

A woman in a blue business suit with a shoulder bag slung on her arm came in behind him. The heat had played hell with her hair, but that didn't stop her from showing a silver-and-gold detective shield.

Connie Bastilla, LAPD. This is Charlie Crimmens. Are you Elvis Cole?

I studied Pike.

Did he really call me a shitbird?

Crimmens tipped his badge toward me, then Pike, but talked to the woman.

This one's Cole. This one's gotta be his bun boy, Pike.

Pike faced Charlie. Pike was six-one, a bit over two, and was suited up in a sleeveless grey sweatshirt and government-issue sunglasses. When he crossed his arms, the bright red arrows inked into his deltoids rippled.

I spoke slowly.

Did you make an appointment?

Crimmens said, Answer her, shitbird.

I am a professional investigator. I am licensed by the state of California and run a professional business. Police officers did not barge into my office. They also did not call me a shitbird. I stood, and gave Crimmens my best professional smile.

Say it again I'll shove that badge up your ass.

Bastilla took a seat in one of the two director's chairs facing my desk.

Take it easy. We have some questions about a case you once worked.

I stared at Crimmens.