We were friends. His name’s Kevin Hughes. He wore a watch and a gold wedding band. He carried a wallet and a gun. And now the asshole who did this to him has everything, including his ID and an LAPD badge.”

Cabrera switched off the flashlight. A long moment passed, and no one moved. Somehow Matt had managed to say what he needed to say.

He took a last look at his friend, buried in the darkness of that body bag. Then he turned and walked away, hoping he wouldn’t trip or fall down as he heard someone zip up the bag. He could feel a certain weight on his back again. A prickling sensation between his shoulder blades. Either everyone was staring at him, or it was the mix of juice and terror and now despair, that odd combination that felt so hideous tonight. So rotten. He wiped his eyes and brushed his fingers over his cheeks—he didn’t want to lose it in front of everyone. As he tried to pull himself together, he saw a man leaning against the fence. It was Hughes’s partner, Frankie Lane, staring at him as if the world had just stopped spinning and tumbled through a black hole. Frankie was supposed to have joined them for a couple of beers, maybe stay for dinner if he could.

Their eyes met. Matt nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, then watched Frankie wilt onto the fence.

Welcome to Hollywood Homicide.

CHAPTER 4

It wasn’t very big, but it was beautiful: a two-story Mediterranean off West Kenneth Road in Glendale. The grounds were heavily landscaped, the gardens, stepping down the hill to a small pool and spa in the backyard, more than just lush. Over the rear wall was a picture-perfect view of both Glendale and downtown Los Angeles, a view that had become lost in the trees and forgotten by the original owner, who sold the house cheap before his bank could steal it away and foreclose.

Matt couldn’t see any of this because it was 3:00 a.m. and he was still sitting in his car. He’d been parked across the street for the better part of an hour, sipping coffee and chewing nicotine gum while trying to decide how to go about the impossible task of walking up to that house and ringing the doorbell.

Matt had never made a next-of-kin notification before, yet he had a feeling that this one wouldn’t require many words. He was wearing the news on his face. On his person. One look and Hughes’s wife, Laura, would know.

During the course of the night, any doubt as to the identity of the murder victim had been lifted. By 10:00 p.m. the manager from the GM dealership had been located at a bar in Eagle Rock. By 10:30 they had the name of the customer who had been given the black SUV as a loaner while his Escalade was being serviced. An hour later a tech from SID called from the lab to say he had brought the cell phone back to life.

Matt glanced at his watch. Seconds had ticked by, not minutes, and it was still 3:00 a.m.

He took another sip of coffee and looked back at the house. Except for a small table lamp burning in the foyer by the front door, every window in the place was dark, peaceful, and at rest.

Hughes had been more than a friend to him.