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to see something unusual call this number.”
    She deftly tucked the card into his shirt pocket and turned away, catching something churlish about “dykes and the LAPD.” It was far from the first or last time. Cop-bashing was popular recreation in the ‘hood. Being female and not acting the part only exacerbated the censure, but Frank had learned even as a recruit not to hear it. Or at least not care about it.
    By noon she was ready to leave the rec area and check out employees who’d been off for the last two days or on leave. Frank gravely thanked the rec area manager for her cooperation and apologized for taking her away from her work for two days.
    The woman laughed and tossed the hair off her freckled face. “Are you kidding? It was a relief to get out of that office! I just wish it could have been for a more pleasant reason.”
    Driving out of the rec area Johnnie observed, “Nice dame.”
    “Dame?” Noah glanced in the rearview mirror. Johnnie’s arms were stretched against the back seat and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth.
    “What are you, Humphrey Bogart?”
    “Did either of you get hits on the pictures?”
    Johnnie pulled a list from his pocket.
    “Yeah, we got a couple.”
    Frank compared his list to hers. One of the pictures showed up on both their lists.
    “Daniel Nathan Sproul,” she said. “Let’s check him out.”
    Turned out that Daniel Nathan Sproul had three priors, two drug-related, one for lewd behavior. The computer spit out an address for him and at six o’clock that evening Frank and Noah were on his doorstep. He lived in an apartment in Baldwin Hills and he came to their knock sleepily, as if they’d woken him.
    Frank held her badge up to him, asking if he was Daniel Nathan Sproul.
    “What if I am?”
    “If you are we have some questions for you.”
    “This isn’t a good time,” he answered dreamily. “Why don’t you come back later?” He slumped against the doorframe, his eyes on the detectives but looking through them.
    “What are you on?” Noah asked politely.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean what are you trippin’ on?”
    He smiled. “Ain’t trippin’.”
    “Internal possession’s a felony, Sproul. But to be honest, we’re not narcs. We’re homicide cops. I don’t care if you’re shootin’. I just want to ask you some questions.”
    Sproul smiled, as if a long lost buddy was waving at him from behind the homicide cops.
    “Do you know what today is?” Frank asked.
    “First day of the rest of my life?” Sproul guessed.
    “The date,” Frank said patiently. “What is today’s date?”
    Sproul giggled. “I don’t know. You’re cops. You should know stuff like that.”
    Noah reached behind for his cuffs.
    “Take him in?”
    “May as well put him in the cooler and see what we can get out of him in the morning.”
    Noah hooked him despite a feeble protest, checking out the track marks on his arms. They drove him downtown, right through the bright lights and glamour that people called L.A.
    Sproul didn’t look very good when he came out of the chilled holding cell almost a day later. He was only twenty-two but could have easily passed for being in his late thirties. His skin was tinted yellow and he needed a shave. The muscles in his arms held no tone. He was nearly as tall as Noah, though, and broader. Even in bad shape a young girl shouldn’t be trouble for him.
    In the tiny interview room Noah asked Sproul basic questions—name, age, occupation, education—that required simple, innocuous answers. The detectives already knew the information, but it gave them a chance to establish their suspect’s verbal and physical style when he was relatively relaxed and calm. As they questioned him, any changes in this style could be indicators that he had tensed or was nervous about something.
    “So how long you been chippin?” Noah asked.
    “I don’t know,” he responded tiredly, “two, three years.”
    “Kinda dangerous isn’t it?”
    The