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dismissed the idea.
    The road took an unexpected dip and shunted office politics to the back of Allen’s mind once more. The wave of nausea rose and retreated, leaving an unpleasant thought in her mind like driftwood on a beach.
    “This isn’t a decomp, is it?”
    “Nope. Day or two at the most, they said. And if it’s one day, we might even have an idea of who it is.”
    “Yeah?”
    Mazzucco nodded. “Sarah Dutton. Reported missing last night; lives up on Mulholland.”
    “How long was she gone before they reported her?”
    “Since last night.”
    “So why do we know about it already?” Allen was curious. Contrary to popular belief, there was no official waiting period of twenty-four hours before you could report somebody missing, but that was generally still how it worked in practice.
    “I guess Dad made sure it was on the fast track.”
    “Ah,” Allen said. “She lives on Mulholland. So who’s the father? Movie producer or something?”
    “I don’t think he’s in the business,” Mazzucco said. “Although I heard he lives in Marlon Brando’s old house.”
    “That’s novel. I was beginning to think there was nobody in this town who wasn’t either a cop or an out-of-work actor.”
    Mazzucco grinned. “And how is the new boyfriend? Dave, is it?”
    “Denny.” She sighed. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
    “Ohhh-kay.” Mazzucco’s eyebrows rose behind his sunglasses.
    “No, really. Denny’s great.”
    “But . . .”
    “But I think he’d prefer it if I were an out-of-work actor rather than a cop, you know?”
    “Allen, there are some days I’d prefer to be an out-of-work actor rather than a cop. A lot of days.”
    Allen smiled and tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. The headache was way too intense to wear it in her usual ponytail. “How’s Julia?” she asked after a minute. She asked only out of politeness, because he’d made the effort to ask about Denny. From the way Mazzucco’s wife had sized her up the one time they’d met, she was pretty sure they weren’t ever going to be getting together on a social basis.
    “She’s great,” Mazzucco said quickly, unconsciously mirroring her lukewarm endorsement of Denny. Allen could always tell when Mazzucco and his wife had been fighting the day before. He was always a little quieter, less chatty. She guessed a cop’s marriage was stressful enough—throw a new baby into the mix and it wasn’t surprising things were a little tense. All of a sudden, Allen was grateful that most of her off-duty problems could be solved with aspirin.
    Mazzucco slowed and took the turnoff for the fire road. The surface was rough and pitted for the initial stretch. A minute later, they saw a uniformed cop standing in front of the open gate at the point where the road turned into a narrow dirt track. He waved them down. The narrow-eyed stare told Allen that he was reasonably convinced of who they were by the make and model of their car but wasn’t taking any chances. He approached the driver’s window, which was already rolled down, and Mazzucco badged him.
    “Detective Mazzucco, Detective Allen, RHD.”
    The uniform nodded and told them his name was McComb, out of West LA Division, and waved them through.
    Mazzucco slowed to ten miles an hour or so as they passed through the gateway and onto the dirt track.
    The scene was another half mile along the fire road. Two more marked cars and a coroner’s van were jammed at the edge of the track in single file. The hill rose up from the road at a shallow gradient, and the focus of activity was about fifty yards up the slope. Mazzucco parked on the dirt shoulder and they got out and started the ascent. The earth was still damp from the rains the previous night as they picked their way up through the rocks and brush.
    Allen breathed in and out through her nose, grateful to be out of the car at last. She decided the pulsing headache was at least as much to do with caffeine withdrawal as it was to do with