Decker climbed the front steps and entered the reception area. The room was walled with redbrick and yellow plaster, the front desk colored Day-Glo orange. The flooring was ancient yellow tile, the grout permanently blackened. In the center of the room, inlaid in the tile, was a red-and-black granite “Hollywood Boulevard” pavement star, the words LAPD HOLLYWOOD STATION #6 inlaid in brass. A hype was leaning against a coke machine, swaying on his feet to keep his balance. A fat man stood against the side wall, sipping coffee, checking his watch against the station’s clock. Two teenage black girls, wearing shorts and tank tops, sat on the attached bench at the back of the room, their fingers twirling the cornrows of their hair, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed upon the star as if it represented a myriad of fallen dreams.

Decker showed his gold badge to the desk sergeant and went inside the detectives’ reception room. The detective manning the phones had an amoebic ink stain on the pocket of his shirt. He was balding and needed a shave.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Decker from Foothill,” Decker said. “I’m looking for George Andrick.” He showed the detective his badge.

“I’m Rados,” he said. He regarded the chalkboard duty roster. “Andrick’s on Robbery. He’s in the field. Should be back soon.”

“Then I’ll grab myself some coffee and wait at his desk.”

Rados handed Decker an unused Styrofoam cup. “Help yourself to the swill in the back.”

“Thanks.”

Cup in hand, Decker entered the squad room. It was bigger than Foothill’s, carpeted, and had metal desks instead of tables. Each unit was indicated by burnt-wood signs hanging from the ceiling. Robbery was in the back, left side, sandwiched between the lockers and CAPS—crimes against persons. Andrick’s place of honor was in the middle-left of a capital I-shaped arrangement of desks. A supervising detective sat at the head of the I, reading a memo, his lips curled into a sneer. He looked to be in his late forties, his face scored with wrinkles, his shoulders packed with muscle. He noticed Decker’s badge and stood. They were about the same height.

“Medino,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Decker. I called earlier. I understand Andrick was the field investigator for a rape case couple of days ago. Perp was booked here, transferred downtown. His name was Abel Atwater.”

Medino said. “The gimp.”

“That’s him.”

“Scrawny thing.”

“I’d like to look over the file.”

“Andrick has it locked, and I don’t have the key.”

“I’ll wait.”

Medino shrugged. “Suit yourself. Coffeepot’s over to the right.”

“Thanks.”

Decker poured himself a cup—black mud. He sipped as he walked back to the desk. “You guys have gotten carpets and new desks.”

“No thanks to the city. Some civilian donated them. Only thing the city’s given us this past year was a few push-button phones. Their idea of state-of-the-art equipment.”