As she passed the Monastery of the Angels, she glanced at the statue of the Virgin Mary on the hill, then grit her teeth and floored it all the way to Franklin. A few minutes later, she was rolling down Hollywood Boulevard and making the turn onto Ivar Avenue.

She could see the coroner’s van pulling behind a row of black-and-white cruisers parked in the middle of the street. Yellow crime scene tape had been stretched across the sidewalk from the corner on Hollywood all the way up Ivar to Yucca Street. The Scientific Investigation Division truck was already here, backed into the alley and blocking the entrance. When Lena glanced across the street and spotted a news van and the video camera that came with it, she understood why. The SID truck had been placed strategically to hide the view.

She turned back to the road. It looked like the lot across from the Knickerbocker Hotel had been taken over by the investigation. When she spotted a cop with a clipboard at the entrance, she signed in and found a place to park.

That feeling in her chest was back, along with a moment of self-doubt that flickered off and on like a lightbulb ready to blow As she started down the sidewalk with her briefcase, she glanced at the hotel. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had spent their honeymoon at the Knickerbocker. Elvis Presley had stayed there while shooting Love Me Tender. But that was a long time ago. Now it was a senior-citizen residence for Russian immigrants in a neighborhood that had hit the skids and needed a shot in the arm.

Someone called out her name. When she looked across the street she noticed that another news van had arrived. A third was waiting for the light to change at the corner. She looked for a familiar face, but didn’t see one. As she turned back, she realized that it had been Ed Gainer, the lead investigator from the coroner’s office. He was waving at her from inside the van.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said. “You hear anything?”

“Just the word Go.”

He nodded, acknowledging the media. “The chief’s office made the call over the radio. Can’t believe they didn’t use a land line. They should know better.”

Lena shrugged. Of course they knew better. Everyone who carried a badge did. If a radio was used, then the newsrooms were listening.

She swept past the SID truck, wondering why the chief and his adjutant wanted the press here and thinking about the word trap again. But as she entered the alley, it almost seemed like someone had turned off the lights. The entire space was cast in a deep blue shade, the air thick with fragrant smoke from the grill at Tiny’s. Waving the smoke away, she spotted her old partner, Pete Sweeney, standing with Terry Banks halfway up. A handful of criminalists from SID were waiting off to the side as a burly figure with coffee-and-cream skin worked the crime scene with his Nikon and a motor drive. The photographer was Lamar Newton, another friend and ally she knew she could count on.

As Lena approached, she followed the path of the camera lens until it became blocked by a trash Dumpster. Picking up her pace, she looked back at the two homicide detectives from Hollywood. Although Sweeney was a big, wide man with an extra-easy manner, he appeared extra pale and unable to stand still. Terry Banks seemed just as uneasy, the rich color of his ebony skin and buffed head misted with perspiration in spite of the cool breeze.

Sweeney waved her closer.