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was loaded onto a car carrier bound for the crime lab’s garage, Matt had been warned by a criminalist that the likelihood of finding an undamaged slug anywhere in the vehicle was nil. Now Martin Orth, the SID supervisor shepherding their case through the system, would have something to examine and possibly work with.
    Matt’s phone started vibrating, and he fished it out of his pocket. It was Hughes’s partner, Frankie Lane. As he took the call, Cabrera turned away to check out the view.
    “How you holding up?” Lane said in a raspy voice.
    “The autopsy’s over. It’s done.”
    “You watched them cut up Hughes?”
    “No. My partner did.”
    “You see today’s paper?”
    Matt glanced at Cabrera, still gazing at the city with his back turned. “Yeah, I saw it.”
    “The three-piece bandit, or whatever the fuck they’re calling the piece of shit. You got video, Matt?”
    “Nothing that would ID the guy. Just what he did.”
    Lane coughed. When he spoke, his voice had an urgency to it. An edge.
    “I’ll bet,” he said. “Listen, Matt, we need to talk. This morning, man. Not this afternoon.”
    “Where are you?”
    “At my desk, or outside catching a smoke.”
    “You started again?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “Last night. See ya soon.”
    Matt heard the line click and switched off his phone. Cabrera turned and gave him a look without saying anything. When a light breeze swept by, Matt picked up on the harsh odor from the autopsy room that had saturated Cabrera’s clothing and followed him to the car. But only for a split second or two. He was really thinking about Frankie Lane, the things he’d said and the way he’d said them. Lane didn’t sound like he was grieving. He sounded nervous.
    “What is it, Jones? Who called?”
    “Hughes’s partner,” he said. “Frankie Lane. He says we need to talk.”

CHAPTER 10
    It took almost an hour to make the short drive out to the North Hollywood station, the 170 Freeway inching along at under thirty-five miles an hour, due largely to the growing number of potholes. When they finally arrived, Lane was waiting for them by the entrance. He was smoking a cigarette and talking to his supervisor, Lieutenant Howard McKensie. Both men appeared exhausted and unshaven, and Matt guessed that neither one of them had gone home last night. Matt had met McKensie many times over the past couple of years, knew how much he thought of Hughes, and was surprised when the lieutenant vanished into the building with nothing more than a halfhearted wave.
    It left a bad taste in his mouth, like downing a shot of vinegar. McKensie knew better than most that he and Hughes served together and had been close friends.
    Matt tried to let it go as he watched Lane get rid of his cigarette and approach the car with a small backpack slung over his shoulder. When Lane bent down to shake hands, his eyes flicked over to Cabrera, then bounced back.
    “Who’s he?” Lane said.
    Matt shrugged. “Denny Cabrera. Frankie Lane.”
    Lane pulled his hand away. “Why didn’t you come alone?”
    “Was I supposed to?”
    Lane couldn’t seem to find the words and nodded finally.
    “What’s wrong, Frankie? What is it? And what’s wrong with McKensie?”
    Lane stepped back and appeared to be overwhelmed by the barrage of questions. The situation. His hands were trembling, his fingers stained from nicotine. After a long moment he came to some sort of decision.
    “Okay, Matt, okay,” he said. “As long as I don’t have to worry about the guy, you can bring him along. What’s your name? Cabrera? Denny Cabrera? Do I need to worry about you, Cabrera?”
    Matt glanced over at his partner, then turned back to Lane. Something was going on. Something heavy. On a good day Lane appeared emaciated, his ultra-pale skin set against his frizzy black hair, giving his thin face the look of someone who had spent forty-five years living in darkness. But this wasn’t a good day, and as Matt watched him still