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rough it when they had to. Perry didn’t see any security gates or cameras. But he guessed that made sense. Why would burglars make the trek out to the edge of the world when there was a whole city’s worth of conveniently located marks within walking distance?
    Looking for a place to park, Perry noticed a weather-beaten Jeep whose scarred and pitted paint said it had habitually been left out in the cold. Thinking that Jeep would make good company for his ancient Datsun with its dangling exhaust pipe, Perry parked alongside it. He climbed out and started to lock the doors then looked from the Jeep to the Datsun. He put the keys back in his pocket.
    Out here on the bluff, the wind cut into Perry like an icy blade. He wrapped Nicky’s scarf around his neck and dipped his head to spare his face but willfully left his trench coat open (a wardrobe choice he freely admitted was a bit on the nose, but he liked the zip-out lining feature—currently zipped in).
    The ranch-style house looked to be about ten thousand square feet, judging from the size of its bleached-white facade. Like the other houses in the area, it had a generous veranda that wrapped around the entire perimeter and several large shuttered windows. Just beyond the house, Perry spotted the pool. He climbed the steps to the front door, then stopped and turned to enjoy the view for a moment. The sky and ocean blended to form a vast, seamless gray expanse that made Perry feel smaller than a grain of sand. Oddly, the thought relaxed him.
    Through the door, he heard Jimi Hendrix crooning his mournful version of “Hey Joe.” Perry let his hand hover over the doorbell to listen for a moment. When he finally pushed the button, it played some tune, something sweet and syrupy. Was it “The Impossible Dream,” of all things? Jesus. Luckily, it played for only a few seconds and he got another full minute to listen to Hendrix’s guitar solo. He had just raised his hand to try knocking when he heard a man call out, “Yeah, I’m coming, gimme a sec.”
    Perry instinctively reached for his badge and gun, preparing to bang the door open, then stopped himself. Shook his head. Old habits died hard. Whatever this guy was hiding—and it was a fair assumption he was hiding something —it was unlikely to have anything to do with Angel.
    Thirty seconds later, a man Perry presumed was Norman Loki stood in the doorway.
    In spite of the near-freezing temperature, Loki’s feet were bare. And very well-tended feet they were. At a glance, the rest of him looked equally as well groomed. But his wardrobe choices were a strange, almost dissonant counterpoint. His jeans were holed out and ripped, but they were neatly rolled to a precise few inches above shapely golden, and seemingly hairless ankles. His T-shirt (bearing the bull’s skull logo that even Perry—no big fan of the group—recognized as that of the Grateful Dead, circa 1970s) was thin and faded, but sparkling clean. A silver skull pendant hung from a leather cord around his neck, and an engraved leather cuff snapped around his wrist. Hippie-esque threads on a country-club body just starting to lose its battle against time.
    Perry would’ve tagged Norman’s age at no more than mid-to-late forties had he stopped at the neck, but the face edged his estimate up by about twenty years. Though still blondly handsome, time—and no doubt sun—had leached the bounce from his cheeks, turned thefew remaining wisps of hair to straw, and left deep creases in the skin around his large, age-paled blue eyes. Still, there was a gap between body and face that seemed to be commonplace among baby boomers. Perry guessed that meant his own nascent paunch, despite hours spent at the gym, showed he was part of the younger generation. Nice to know all those beer and pizza dinners were good for something.
    Behind Loki, an impressive stack of wood was burning fast and high in a large, brick fireplace. The heat rolling out of it gave Perry welcome