On the way to baggage claim Bentz called Olivia and left a message that he’d landed safely. He found his one bag, then rented a small SUV with a G.P.S. already installed. He’d done it all without using his cane and, though his hip ached, he ignored the pain and threw the damned walking stick that he’d brought along into the backseat.

As he exited the rental lot in the Ford Escape, he slipped a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. The scenery was familiar, the tightness in his chest new. Years ago he’d left L.A. with a bad taste in his mouth; now all those old feelings came back at him in a rush. Guilt over Jennifer’s suicide, remorse over the death of a twelve-year-old kid with a toy pistol, gnawing frustration that he would have been able to solve the Caldwell twins’ double homicide if he’d been at the top of his game, and the fog of too many numbing shots of whiskey.

He’d been a mess. Jack Daniel’s had become his best friend and that friendship had damaged every other relationship. It had also compromised his job performance and his ability to see clearly.

Though officially he’d quit the LAPD, the pressure to resign had been palpable, the tension in the department thicker than the smog that blanketed the city. Even his remaining friends, the few coworkers who “had his back,” had been relieved to see him leave. His departure had been better for all concerned. Especially him.

Except that he’d left some unfinished business behind.

It had been years since he’d been in Southern California, and though the area had changed, the royal palm trees and space-age arches of the Encounters restaurant at LAX were reminders of a time he’d tried hard to forget.

As he maneuvered onto the freeway he couldn’t see the surrounding hills through the layer of smog that hovered over the area. He fiddled with the air conditioning to combat the rising temperature as buildings rose ghostlike through the shimmering heat waves. By instinct he headed toward his old neighborhood, which wasn’t too far from Culver City.

The area had changed a little. The shrubs and trees were larger, the neighborhood as a whole seeming to have gone a little downhill, evidenced by the cracked sidewalks and wrought-iron bars on some windows.

His old house looked pretty much the same. Sometime in the past twelve years, it had been painted a dove gray, but now was in dire need of another coat. The garage door was blistered and didn’t quite close, the yard overgrown and dry. Weeds turned brown in the sun-bleached bark chips near the tired front porch. A FOR RENT sign was wedged into the grass, but it too was fading beneath the intense California sun.