When our schedules didn’t coincide, I spent my off-hours hunting—for Joseph Fedek, for Leonard Chatlin, for poor David Tyler, who had dropped out of sight. The good news was Raymond Paxton was true to his word, helping Louise Sanders and me with cash as well as with personal items. I had several good pictures of David. I went through dozens of homeless camps and shelters, and lots of abandoned buildings, flashing David’s photo and receiving blank looks for my efforts. I called local municipalities and got addresses. I checked them out. I found nothing.

Sometimes Koby would come with me. One hot day toward the end of August, I specifically asked him to come with me. The address I had was southeast in a black area outside of L.A. I thought that maybe David would go there because he was black and might feel safer, less conspicuous among his own.

It was a twenty-minute freeway drive into a district of heat and smog and dirt and concrete. The apartment buildings were run-down, the streets pocked and littered, and the buildings desecrated with graffiti warfare. The area held many more liquor stores than schools and libraries, and not much hope where hope should be. It had a few storefront churches and a lot more thrift shops.

The directions I had were good. Once we were off the freeway, I gave Koby a series of rights and lefts and he found the shelter sandwiched between a fast-food joint and a Laundromat. But there was no parking directly in front of the building, forcing us to pull into a space a half block away. I knew I was out of my element, but Koby appeared comfortable. Maybe more protective than usual, looping his arm squarely around my shoulder. This wasn’t our usual Hollywood beat and was probably as foreign to him as it was to me. I was dressed for the heat in knee-length cutoffs and a green tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. Koby wore a red muscle shirt and jeans, his skin now the color of chocolate, made much darker by all of our forays into the California sunshine.

As we headed toward the shelter, a couple of homeys passed by. Big men, both as tall as Koby; the one with a shaved head was at least twice as wide as my boyfriend. But it was his dreadlocked partner with the tattooed arms who spoke up.

“Yo’, niggah! Whatchu axin’ for yo’ ho’ bitch?”

Koby’s eyes narrowed and I saw him clench his fists. Immediately, I pulled out my badge and flashed it in front of their faces.

“Move along, gentlemen,” I told them.

“Dreadlocks” stared and started to speak, but I didn’t give him a chance. “I said, move along!” Then making solid eye contact, I added a please.

They paused long enough to give me ’tude and defiance, but then they probably figured I wasn’t worth the effort. They ambled on, Dreadlocks spitting a couple of inches from my foot. Koby looked over his shoulder, his eyes fuming. When he started to turn around, I took his hand and pulled him forward.