When Emma Lazarus wrote her famous words underneath the Statue of Liberty, she must have had places like the Foothills Division of the LAPD in mind, the area being a multicultural mix of displaced and struggling whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and other ethnicities thrown into the immigrant salad. It was arid terrain, making it Saharan hot in the summertime, swimming in the smoggy haze of vehicular combustion. It had been the division that Decker had called home for fifteen years, working there even as it sat under microscopic scrutiny after the Rodney King beating. In this lonesome geographical glitch called the Northeast Valley, the title of “Hero of the Century” still belonged to Ritchie Valens. To Bert Martinez, the deceased singer was still tops.

At the helm of the unmarked Dodge, he sped along the 5 North, driving by groups of peeling stucco houses and apartment units, disassembled car parts spangling weed-choked lots. In the harsh sunlight, the chrome and steel reflected heat but no warmth.

“I went to school not far from here,” Martinez said.

Webster glanced at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Pacoima High. My prom date lived off the freeway…before this was a freeway. In the old days, the only things out here were houses and a White Front discount department store.” He changed lanes. “My old man was a housepainter, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, him and his brother. Between the two families, we were seven boys. My father wore a big, black belt and felt free to use it on our butts.” A smile. “Those were the days when Children’s Services meant a hot lunch at the cafeteria.” He shook his head at the passage of time. “I’m not saying corporal punishment is a good thing, but neither me nor my three brothers resented him for it. Just the way it was.”

“Or maybe your old man knew when to stop.”

“Maybe.” Martinez exhaled. “When I lived here, it was home. Now it just seems like another blighted area—depressing as hell. And it hasn’t even changed all that much. Amazing what perspective does.”

“Do you still have relatives out here?”

“Nah. The minute any of them got a little money, they moved away.”

“Where does Luis live?”

“Montebello.”

“Where he works.”

“Yeah. Did I tell you he made sergeant?”

“No. Tell him congratulations from me.”

“I will. The other two live in the Union Station area.”

“That I know. I think my wife has taken half our neighborhood down to the store. They all like the part when your brother takes out the screwdriver and starts pounding the shit out of the wardrobe to prove how strong that fabric is.”

Martinez chuckled. “He’s got the routine down pat.”

The Dodge whined as it ascended the smooth grade up to the mountains. The temperature gauge started to rise. Not precipitously, but enough to cause some concern.

“Open the windows?” Martinez suggested.

“It’s better than overheating.”