Camera. Action.

Cut.

My guts pogoed as I got in the unmarked, wanting to sort it all out, to make sense of it before I said anything to Milo. He started up the engine, sped through the morgue lot, and turned left on Mission. We roared off.

Orange Grove showed no signs of ever having hosted citrus trees. Just another L.A. street full of small, undistinguished houses.

The house we came to see was hidden behind an untrimmed ficus hedge, but the green wall didn't extend to the asphalt driveway and we had a clear view all the way to the garage. No vehicles in sight. Milo drove a hundred feet down and we returned on foot. I waited by the curb as he made his way up the asphalt, gun in hand, back to the garage, around the rear of the wood-sided bungalow. Even in the darkness I could see scars on the paint. The color was hard to make out, probably some version of beige. Between the house and the ficus barrier was a stingy square of dead lawn. Sagging front porch, no shrubbery other than the hedge.

Milo came back, gun still out, breathing hard. "Looks empty. The back door's Mickey Mouse, I'm going in. Stay there till I tell you."

Another five minutes, ten, twelve, as I watched his pen-light bounce around behind shaded windows. A single firefly. Finally, the front door opened and he waved me inside.

He'd gloved up. I followed as he turned a few lights on, exposing a poverty of space. First we .did an overall check of the house. Five small, shabby rooms, including a dingy lavatory. Grimy yellow walls; the window shades crazed, gray oilcloth patched in spots by duct tape.

Colorless rental furniture.

Where the space allowed. The bungalow was filled with crisp-looking cardboard boxes, most of them sealed. Printed labels on the outside. THIS SIDE UP. FRAGILE. Scores of cartons of TV's, stereos, video gear, cameras, PC's. Cassettes, compact discs, computer discs. Glassware, silverware, small appliances. Stacks of video cartridges and Fuji film. Enough film to shoot a thousand birthday parties.

In a corner of the larger bedroom, squeezed next to an unmade queen-size mattress, stood a pile of smaller boxes. The labels claimed Sony minirecorders. Just like the one Heidi had used to tape Peake.

"The movie stuff's out in the garage," said Milo. "Dollies, booms, spotlights, crap I couldn't identify. Tons of it, piled almost to the ceiling. Didn't see any saws, but they could be buried under all the gear. It'll take a crew to go through it."

"She was in on it," I said.

He'd moved into the bathroom, didn't answer. I heard drawers opening, went over to see him remove something from the cabinet beneath the sink.

Glossy white shoe box. Several more just like it stacked next to the pipes.

He lifted the lid. Rows of white plastic bottles nesting in Styrofoam beds. He extracted one. "Phenobarbital."