“When are you meeting your scumbag friend?” Marge asked Decker.

“Around three.”

She switched into the left lane of the freeway and floored the accelerator. The 210 was empty today, the mountains flanking the asphalt abloom with flowers and shimmering in the heat. It was already late June; summer had overslept this year, but the high temperatures this week had finally marked its awakening. The mercury was already past 90. Decker turned up the air-conditioning.

“And this scumbag was an army buddy of yours,” Marge said.

“Yep. Stop calling him a scumbag.”

“Hey, that’s what we’ve always called rapists.”

“Alleged rapist.”

“Shit.” Marge passed a big rig and rode the tail wind. “Now you’re playing lawyer on me. What was his excuse? ‘She asked for it,’ or ‘You’ve got the wrong guy’?”

“You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Figures.” Marge shook her head. “He’s a scumbag, Pete. Don’t get sucked up by him because he once saved your life or something.”

“He never saved my life.” Decker took out a cigarette.

“You’re smoking. I hit a nerve.”

“Did you bring a map of the Manfred development?” Decker asked.

“It’s in my purse. About two hundred and fifty houses. Hope you brought a comfortable pair of shoes.”

“I’m starving,” Decker said.

“Want to stop at a Seven-Eleven?”

“Not enough time,” Decker said. “And that’s why I’m smoking. Not because you hit any nerve, lady.”

“Peace, bro.”

Decker laughed.

The car exited at Deep Canyon Road—a main thoroughfare that traversed the mountain-pocket communities of the Foothill Division of the LAPD. The road was narrow and winding, but as it hit the business district, it spread into six lanes. The unmarked passed through the shopping district—discount dress outlets, fast-food drive-ins, a Suzuki dealership, Mexican cantinas, and bars built for drinking, not mating. The retail stores soon yielded to the wholesalers—lumberyards and brickyards, roofing supplies, warehouses. Beyond the warehouses was residential land—small wood-framed houses, and larger ranches. Churches stood like watchtowers every few miles.

Decker had bought empty acreage in the district years ago, right after his divorce. The land had appreciated, but not as much as property in the affluent parts of L.A. But he liked the open space—his ranch was zoned for horses—liked the mountains and the convenience of being fifteen minutes from work.

They passed the turnoff for Yeshivas Ohavei Torah, a religious college for Jewish men—Jewtown, the other cops called it. Women also lived on the premises, with their husbands or fathers. Rina Lazarus had been an anomaly—the sole widow. The first time Decker had ever stepped foot in the place had been two years ago. He’d been the cop assigned to a nasty rape case, Rina had been his star witness.

Two years ago, and such significant change had overtaken his life.