Lena had logged enough miles in uniform to know that even in their prime the cars rolled and pitched around corners. By the time they earned their make over, the cars bobbed down the road like toy boats. Hers had been in the shop for the past three days, and it was a relief to be in her own car again, despite its age.

She grabbed the shift, gearing down as she exited onto the 110.

She was heading south, skirting the city raked in bright sunlight. After a mile, she finally reached the road west and pointed her car toward the dark clouds. The glare lifted away from the windshield and she raised the visor. As she slid into the left lane, she realized that the risk had paid off. The road appeared clear all the way to the ocean. But as she settled into her seat and reached for her coffee, that feeling of déjà vu came back. Heavier this time. Close enough to touch.

Novak said that Oak Tree Lane was off Brooktree. Why did it seem so familiar?

It dawned on her that she already knew the back end of the neighborhood. It had been four years ago. Lena was working narcotics at the time, and a two-strike loser named Rafi Miller had a pound of grade-shit junk to sell. Rafi was holding a half-price sale because his stash was so dirty that end users were dying before they hit liftoff. Word of mouth wasn’t doing much for the dealer’s reputation. By the time Lena and her partner tracked down Rafi as the source and made an offer to buy him out, he was more than anxious to play let’s do da deal.

Lena took another sip of coffee as she thought about the bust.

She could remember Rafi picking a remote location and insisting that Lena come alone. Rustic Canyon Park was set in a quiet neighborhood by the ocean and didn’t amount to much more than a public swimming pool and a couple of tennis courts. She could still see Rafi’s face as he climbed out of his yellow Mercedes and winked at her in the darkness. Still remember the strong smell of vinegar permeating the smack as he popped open the trunk, handed her a sample, and gave his personal guarantee that the shit was prime-time.

The south end of Brooktree Road was half a block down from the park. It had been sealed that night as a possible escape route just in case Rafi broke loose and made a run for the bank.

Lena knew the neighborhood after all.

She looked out the window at the ocean as she cruised off the 10 and up Pacific Coast Highway. The sun was gone, lost in a thick, blurry fog spitting against the windshield. Switching her wipers on, she made a right on West Channel and began working her way through the narrow streets into the hills. Within a few minutes, she spotted Rustic Canyon Park in the gloom and made a left onto Brooktree. As she glided down the hill, she caught the flares burning in the street and saw a cop standing before a small wooden bridge. She lowered her window, glancing at the stream as she reached for her badge and flashed it. When he waved her through, she idled over the bridge and down the road as if passing through a gate into the sleepy little neighborhood in the woods.

Novak had been right. She didn’t need an address to spot the death house on Oak Tree Lane. Easing by a long row of black-and-whites, she glanced at the yellow crime-scene tape already stretched around the perimeter. The open spot at the curb would be left for the Scientific Investigation Division truck when it arrived. But the coroner’s van was already here, backing into the drive under Novak’s supervision and leaving enough space for what Lena guessed would be a temporary command post beneath the eaves of the roof.