I checked this morning, but the gate was closed.”

Lena noticed the SID van pulling around the corner.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Louie,” the man said with pride.

“Make sure you tell the officers about Louie when they stop by.”

The man nodded. She pulled a business card from her pocket, a generic card provided by the department, and filled in the blank spaces with her name and phone number. She had placed an order for preprinted cards last week. Like her cell phone, she would have to pick up the expense on her own. She passed the card over, then asked for the man’s name and phone number. Shielding her notepad from the drizzle, she wrote the information down and drew a circle around the time the dog started barking last night. It was only a hunch, but odds were that the deputy coroner and pathologist would match it with the time of death.

Slipping her notepad into her blazer pocket, she thanked the man and headed down the street. But as she passed a hedgerow, her view cleared and she slowed down to take in the death house through the mist. It was an older home, probably built in the 1920s, and had the feel of a one-story gatehouse leading to something bigger hidden in the foliage. The exterior walls were a mix of smooth river rock and cedar clapboard that had been stained a dark brown. Patches of emerald green moss marred the slate roof along the seams. Behind the house she could see a grove of sycamores and two huge oak trees. The canopy overhead looked particularly thick. Even on a clear day, she doubted the place got much sun.

She stretched the crime scene tape overhead and stepped beneath it. Then a cop handed her a clipboard, and she signed in with her name and badge number. As she crossed the yard to the drive, she sensed the tension in the air. Crime scene techs were readying their equipment, absorbed in their tasks, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all. She looked for a familiar face but didn’t recognize anyone. All except for the burly figure with the coffee-and-cream skin hopping off the back of the SID van. Lamar Newton flashed an uneasy smile her way, scratched his head, then sat on the rear gate and opened his camera bag. They had known each other since the bust at Rustic Canyon Park. Two cameras equipped with night-vision lenses had been mounted in the trees overhead. While Lena met with Rafi Miller, Lamar sat in the community center, documenting the event on videotape. Lena and Lamar shared a bond after that night, working well together ever since.

She stepped around the coroner’s van and found Novak standing on a six-foot ladder, clipping a blue tarp to the rain spout. He seemed concerned with the view from Brooktree Road and took a sip from a can of Diet Coke as he made an adjustment. If the press arrived, they would come with cameras and long lenses, maybe even tip-readers. Novak was trying to buy some privacy.

“You made good time,” he said, climbing down.

His smile was forced. She caught the ragged look in his blue eyes, the gray overtaking his blond hair, his ashen skin. He looked ten years older than he did before they’d grabbed a day off. She felt her stomach begin churning again.

“You took a peek,” she said.

He nodded.