The photo showed a glowering thirty-year-old man with a blond buzz cut and a cold dead-eyed stare.

32 PRYCE

32

PRYCE

Nate Daniels resided in Echo Park, according to the information filled out on the rental agreement. Pryce and Medina thanked Peterson and Jimmy for their help and jumped back into the Dodge Charger.

While Pryce drove east, in the general direction of Dodger Stadium, Medina made a call and received confirmation the address was accurate, that Daniels had no prior convictions, and that he had a vehicle registered in his name.

A black Subaru SUV.

Medina said, “I’ve ordered a BOLO on the Subaru in case our friend Mr. Daniels isn’t at home. But if he already has a car of his own, why rent one?”

“Would you use your own car as the getaway from a murder scene?”

“Good point.”

Daniels’s apartment was on the second floor of a three-story cream cement block, with front doors leading straight onto narrow wraparound balconies. Two stairwells provided access to each floor at opposite ends of the building. It looked a little like a motel but without the free Wi-Fi and cable TV.

The sound of their footsteps echoed in the stairwell as Pryce and Medina made their way to the second level and found the apartment halfway along the balcony. The day had darkened suddenly, and a low rumble sounded in the distance before the sky lit up with a flash of white.

“Lightning,” Medina said.

Pryce nodded. “Storm’s coming.”

They each withdrew a Beretta 92FS from their hip holsters and hugged the wall on either side of the door. Pryce’s nerves were tuned tighter than a guitar string. He looked at Medina. His partner’s jaw was set, his face tense. Pryce felt the familiar rush of adrenaline flood his veins.

Medina pounded on the door. “LAPD! Open up!”

They waited. There was no answer. They could hear the muffled sound of television sets burbling in other apartments. The smell of food being cooked wafted through open windows. There was no sign of life from inside apartment 210. Medina pounded again. The sound was hollow. A cheap door that wouldn’t offer too much resistance.

It didn’t.

Medina stepped back, braced himself against the balcony ledge, and aimed a heel at the lock, putting as much weight as possible behind the kick. The door and the frame splintered. The detectives made their way into a small dim hallway, both leading with their weapons.

Medina peeled off to the right, through a doorway into the living room. Pryce took the bedroom on the left. The furnishings were sparse. An unmade queen bed, dresser, and built-in closet. Most of the floor space was taken up by weights and a bench press machine. A typical bachelor apartment. Pryce crouched down and looked under the bed. He pulled open the closet doors and pushed aside hangers filled with suits and jeans and shirts. No Nate Daniels.