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anywhere. The guy’s a junkie, probably all he wanted to do was get a stick in his arm. So he shoots a hot load — he’s not being too careful ‘cause he’s shook — he gets out of his car at the overlook, maybe to take a leak or something, wanders down the road. He’s disoriented, he slips, down he goes. It’s dark. He can’t find his way out ‘cause he’s too stoned. Goes into coma. End of story.”
    “Very tidy,” Frank said, watching Gail return with a manila folder.
    “Here you go,” the ME said, “Those two are positively antediluvian.”
    “Think we could get a bug guy to look at those maggots? Make sure they’re not from a housefly?”
    “I can do that,” Gail nodded.
    “And you’ll let me know tox results as soon as you can?”
    “Of course.”
    Noah asked, “So we gonna see you at the Alibi tomorrow?”
    “I don’t know,” Gail said doubtfully. “Last time I was there Johnnie set some poor woman’s hair on fire.”
    “Ah, that was an accident,” Noah insisted.
    The woman was a redhead that Johnnie had been lusting over. She and her friends had been snubbing him all night, so in an inebriated moment of vengeance Johnnie’d “accidentally” lit her hair while he was lighting his cigarette. This enabled Ike and Johnnie to douse her with their fresh drinks and put the fire out.
    That little antic had cost Johnnie another conduct unbecoming write-up and Frank suppressed a frown. Sober, Johnnie was a great cop; drunk, he lost all impulse control. That was his third CUBO in just over a year, not good stats to have in his file.
    “Come on, doc. You’re due.”
    “I assume you’ll be there,” she said to Frank. “Most likely.”
    “We’ll see then,” she replied, fanning her nose. “You stink. Go change.”

Chapter Five
    On Friday night the Alibi was thick with suits, civilians, and a handful of uniforms. The ninety-third squad ringed a table in the middle of the crowded bar with a shapely rookie in the center. Ike and Johnnie were barely giving the pretty boot room to breathe and Frank wondered what might happen before the night was over.
    She surveyed her crew, happily awaiting the lab work that would convince them Luis Estrella was responsible for his family’s homicide. Not only that, the nine-three had had two closures during the week, one a double homicide. Frank wished she could celebrate with her boys but she was catching this weekend. Besides, she wasn’t as convinced about Estrella’s guilt.
    Drinking old coffee, she circled her finger over the table when she caught Nancy’s eye. A few minutes later the harried waitress set down two slopping pitchers of Budweiser, confiding into Frank’s ear, “You’d think I’d lose all this weight on Friday nights.”
    Nancy glanced around, making sure everyone was taken care of, and Frank encouraged, “Don’t lose an ounce. Looks perfect just where it is.”
    She batted Frank’s shoulder and disappeared into the throng. Noah poured more beer and smiled. Over the din, Frank said, “Guess who I saw the other day.”
    Noah played their old game, answering, “Elvis?”
    “Not so many sequins.”
    “Pat Boone?”
    “Not so white.”
    “Tupac.”
    “Not so dead.”
    “Hey, he’s not dead. He’s headlinin’ at Caesar Palace with Elvis.”
    Frank shook her head. The rules required the right answer to be given up after the third wrong answer, so Frank said, “Placa. Gave her a ride home the other night. She was walking through Playboy 60 turf like she owned it.”
    “Oh yeah? How’s she doing?”
    “Good. Too skinny. Big circles under her eyes.”
    “Think she’s using ?”
    “Didn’t seem like it. You know how intense she is. But then guess who calls me at work today.”
    “The governor?”
    Frank shook the blonde hair against her neck.
    “That was yesterday.”
    “Hmm. The president?”
    Frank shook again.
    “Much more interesting.”
    Swirling a finger in his beer foam then licking it off, Noah settled back,