“She’s not here. She’s six feet under now. But she may have stopped off here before she ended up in the morgue.”

“You ain’t from Vice?”

“Uh uh. Homicide.”

The whore looked at the picture again.

“Don’t know her.”

He uncuffed her, but blocked her escape.

“Where do the kids hang out?”

“Same place we do.”

“C’mon.”

“It’s true. They’re still hookers, Honey, even if the pussy’s a little newer.”

Decker grimaced. “Think about this—you’re a new runaway without a pimp yet. Where do you go?”

“Put it that way, only one place to go.”

“Where?”

“Hotel Hell.”

The five-story structure was set back from Hollywood Boulevard, burnt out and condemned, peeling paint on pocked concrete, stucco shedding in clumps. The building still retained some broken windows, but most of the sashes were nothing but open holes punched into the rotting plaster. The property was surrounded by a chain-link rent-a-fence with a missing section where a gate should have been. Some of the links had been clipped, leaving the metal spurs sharp and threatening.

He entered the grounds—a jungle of tall, tangled weeds—and went inside the doorless building. The lobby flooring was cracked linoleum and dirt, and as he walked, the soles of his feet stuck to the grimy surface. It was dark and dank, reeking of urine, feces, and vomit. He waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust. The moonlight shone through the empty sashes, checkerboarding the floor. Looking down the long corridor, Decker began to make out figures and shadows scurrying and darting—live pawns on a chessboard. The hallway flickered with trash-can bonfires.

A rat danced at his feet. Decker sidestepped and immediately tripped over a soft lump on the floor. He took out his penlight and shone it on a girl balled in a fetal position. A mutt was curled at her feet, whimpering. He gave her ribs a gentle prod, but she didn’t move. Bending down, he turned her over and she sprawled out, arms flopping randomly. Her skin was ashen and cold to the touch. She had no pulse.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

There was nothing he could do for her now. He’d take care of the body later. Standing up, he walked down the hall.

Empty eyes, vacant stares, shreds of cloth that shrouded living cadavers, muted rodent sounds. Most of the zombies were trying to get warm, rubbing together hands encased in fingerless mittens: some were crouched in corners, rocking back and forth, humming dirges. Others were sleeping fitfully. As he passed the kids, the background noises hushed. A stranger. He had to be up to something—some kind of hustle.

On the second floor he found a group huddled around a pile of burning newspaper and came toward them slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal. When he was next to them, he shone his penlight on the picture of Lindsey Bates.