Cranking open the car window, Decker inhaled clean air, enjoying the smogless blue skies common during the cooler months. As he traveled west, the houses gave way to bigger buildings—apartment houses, factory showrooms, a medical plaza, and the ever-present shopping centers. Traffic was light, the area surrounded by foothills made green and lush from the recent rains. The mountains were the boundaries of LA City—to the north was the Santa Clarita Valley, to the west Simi Valley. Most of the hillside areas were still undeveloped plots or regional parkland, giving the San Fernando Valley plenty of breathing room.

Decker thought about his partner.

It was Marge’s first time in Homicide and she was chomping at the bit for a real case. All they’d gotten so far were two gang-related retaliations, a half dozen Saturday night party-hearty shootings, and some irate spouses with problem ’tudes toward their adulterous mates. Messiness with no brainwork.

But thems what it is.

Even if the cases were “routine,” it didn’t mean the victims were any less dead. Marge had treated each assignment with impeccable sensitivity. But having spent some six professional years with the woman, Decker knew she wanted serious cerebral exercise. She wanted to prove herself.

Marge was around Rina’s age—old enough to know the ropes but still full of the fire of youth. Marge was standing on the threshold of opportunity and was bursting to take a giant step forward.

They had been on Homicide detail for less than a year.

Time was on her side.

Living in California earthquake country, Decker couldn’t figure out why Devonshire, like most of LAPD’s station houses, was made out of bricks. Maybe the architect wanted to impress upon the bad guys that the station was wolf-blowing durable and could double as a jail in a pinch. Or maybe the city had a sweetheart contract with a brickyard. Whatever the reason, Devonshire was like the rest of LA’s station houses—a windowless masonry building adorned by an American flag. Except that this substation had the unique pleasure of being located next to power transmitters. Yes, a policeman’s job was a dangerous one, but up to now, leukemia hadn’t been a real concern.

What the hell. So he’d glow in the dark.

He drove the Plymouth to the back lot restricted to “authorized personnel only,” then saw Marge stalking through the parking area. She wore an olive car coat over khaki slacks, her arms folded across her chest. Her face, normally softened by doelike eyes, was stiff with tension. Decker honked, Marge looked up. Immediately, she shifted direction, tramped over to the Plymouth, and plopped down in the passenger’s seat.

“Know what that Davidson asshole did?”

“What?”

“God, I hate that man. He treats me like a peon. While I realize I am a peon in this upper echelon of the boys’ brigade, you’d at least think he could fake it better.”