She hesitated for a second, then gave a tiny shrug. “Sure, we have a security manager who looks after our surveillance cameras. Let me take you to his office.”

In Pryce’s experience, security managers employed by retail outlets, hotels, and apartment complexes like this one were often former military personnel or ex-cops. Or those who weren’t good enough for a career in the armed forces or the police. He hoped he wasn’t about to deal with the latter, or he would probably be heading back to his desk empty handed and having to apply for that search warrant after all.

The receptionist’s stiletto heels clicked loudly on the tiled floor like the staccato burst of a machine gun as Pryce followed her down a narrow corridor. She knocked on a door and then opened it without waiting for an answer. “Mr. Delaney, are you free to help out this detective?”

A man wearing black pants, a white shirt with black epaulettes, and a black tie sat flicking through the sports section of the Los Angeles Times. In front of him were two computer screens, each split into four sections, showing various black-and-white scenes from the apartment complex, including the front entrance and lobby Pryce had just walked through. Any fears he had about being denied access to the security camera footage evaporated when the man looked up from his newspaper.

Chip Delaney was a former LAPD detective who had worked the Rampart area before taking his pension the previous year. A good cop with a good reputation, and his rugged mustachioed looks and dark curly hair had often drawn comparisons with Tom Selleck in his Magnum, P.I. days. The mustache and the hair were still there, albeit both a little grayer than before, and Delaney looked like he had managed to buck the trend of most other retired cops by losing a few pounds instead of gaining them. Retirement clearly agreed with him.

“Hey, Pryce, how’s it going?” Delaney got up from the chair and shook his hand enthusiastically and slapped him on the back.

“Not too bad, thanks. You’re looking well, Chip. Nice little number you’ve got yourself here.”

Delaney leaned against the desk and grinned. “It pays the bills.”

Pryce knew Delaney’s gig at Urban Heights was less about the money and more about filling his days with something productive to do, about still feeling useful. Hours spent on the golf course soon lost its appeal after the first couple of weeks.

“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it,” the receptionist said.

She retreated from the office and closed the door behind her. Pryce could hear the sharp snap of her heels quickly fading as she hurried back to her post at the front desk.

“You still working the Hollywood beat?” Delaney asked.

“Sure am. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you might be able to help with a case I’m working on.”