Pike watched Deets walk away. Terrio was already in the car. Deets walked around to the far side, and got in behind the wheel. The woman in the backseat was talking to Terrio. They drove away. The plainclothes officers followed. The neighborhood returned to normal.

Everything was normal except Frank Meyer was dead.

The tattooed woman trotted up, excited and anxious.

“Dude, that was crazy. What did they want?”

“A friend of mine was murdered.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. That’s awful. They think you did it?”

“Nothing like that.”

She made a ragged laugh, nervous at the edges.

“Dude, listen, they do. I’m tellin’ you, man, those cats were scared of you.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m not.”

The tattooed woman punched him in the arm. It was the first time she had touched him. Pike studied her for a moment, then shouldered his ruck.

“You don’t know me.”

Pike settled the pack, and continued his run.

Chapter 3

3

WHEN PIKE REACHED HIS JEEP, he drove directly to Frank Meyer’s home. Pike had lied to Terrio. He had seen Frank three years ago, though they had not spoken. A mutual friend told Pike about Frank’s new house in Westwood, so Pike cruised by. Pike also cruised by the little ranch home Frank and Cindy owned in Studio City a few years before that. Frank Meyer had been on Pike’s team, so Pike liked to make sure he was doing okay even though the two hadn’t spoken in years.

The Westwood house was taped off as an active crime scene, though the crush of lookie-loos and newspeople that would have been present the day before were gone. A black-and-white radio car was out front, along with two SID wagons, an unmarked sedan, and a single TV news van. Two female officers posted to protect the scene were slumped in the radio car, bored out of their minds with nothing to do except listen to their iPods.

Pike parked a block behind their car, then studied Frank Meyer’s house. He wanted to know how Frank died, and was thinking he would break in later that night when a tall, thin criminalist named John Chen came down the drive to an SID wagon. Chen was a friend. Pike would have called Chen anyway, but Chen being here was a stroke of good fortune that would save time.

Chen’s vehicle was directly in front of the radio car. If Chen left, Pike would follow. If Chen returned to the house, Pike would wait.

Pike was waiting to see what Chen would do when his phone rang. The caller ID read John Chen.

Pike said, “Hello, John.”

Chen was a paranoid. Even though he was alone in his vehicle his voice was guarded, as if he was worried about being overheard.

“Joe, it’s me, John Chen. I’m at a murder scene in Westwood. The police are coming to—”

“I’m behind you, John.”

“What?”