BEAKMAN AND Trenchard could smell the fire—it was still a mile away,

but a sick desert wind carried the promise of Hell. Fire crews from

around the city were converging on Laurel Canyon like red angels, as

were black-and-white Adam cars, Emergency Services vehicles, and

water-dropping helicopters out of Van Nuys and Burbank. The

helicopters pounded by so low that Beakman and Trenchard could not

hear their supervisor. Beakman cupped his ear.

"What did you say?"

Their supervisor, a patrol sergeant named Karen Philips, leaned into

their car and shouted again.

"Start at the top of Lookout Mountain. Emergency Services is

already up, but you gotta make sure those people leave. Don't take any

shit. You got it?"

Trenchard, who was senior and also driving, shouted back.

"We're on it."

They jumped into line with the fire engines racing up Laurel

Canyon, then climbed Lookout Mountain Avenue up the steep hill. Once

home to rock 'n' roll royalty from Mama Cass Elliot to Frank Zappa to

Jim Morrison, Laurel Canyon had been the birthplace of country rock in

the sixties. Crosby, Stills, and Nash had all lived there. So had Eric

Burdon, Keith Richards, and, more recently, Marilyn Manson and at

least one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Beakman, who banged away at a

Fender Telecaster in a cop band called Nightstix, thought the place was

musical magic.

Beakman pointed at a small house.

"I think Joni Mitchell used to live there."

"Who gives a shit? You see that sky? Man, look at that. The frakkin'

air is on fire!"

A charcoal bruise smudged the sky as smoke pushed toward Sunset

Boulevard. Beginning as a house fire at the crest of the Hollywood Hills,

the flames had jumped to the brush in Laurel Canyon Park, then spread

with the wind. Three houses had already been lost, and more were

threatened. Beakman would have plenty of stories for his kids when he

returned to his day job on Monday.

Jonathan Beakman was a Level II Reserve Officer with the Los

Angeles Police Department, which meant he was armed, fully sworn,

and did everything a full-time uniformed officer did, except he did it

only two days a month. In his regular life, Beakman taught high-school

algebra. His kids weren't particularly interested in the Pythagorean

theorem, but they bombed him with questions after his weekend ride in

the car.

Trenchard, who had twenty-three years on the job and didn't like

music, said, "Here's how it goes down—we get to the top, we'll leave

the car and work down five or six houses on foot, me on one side, you

on the other, then go back for the car and do it again. Should go pretty

quick like that."

The Fire Department had been through the area, broadcasting an

order to evacuate over their public-address system. A few residents

already had their cars piled high with clothes, golf clubs, pillows, and

dogs. Others stood in their front doors, watching their neighbors pack.

A few were on their roofs, soaking their homes with garden hoses.

Beakman worried the hosers might be a problem.

"What if somebody won't leave?"

"We're not here to arrest people. We have too much ground to

cover."

"What if someone can't leave, like an invalid?"

"First pass, we want to make sure everyone gets the word. If

someone needs more help, we'll radio down or come back after we

reach the bottom."

Trenchard, ever wise for a man who didn't like music, glanced over.

"You okay?"

A little nervous, maybe. One of these houses, you watch. Some old

lady's gonna have fifteen pugs waddling around. What are we going to

do with fifteen pugs?"

Trenchard laughed, and Beakman found himself smiling, though his

smile quickly faded. They passed a little girl following her mother to an

SUV, the girl dragging a cat carrier so heavy she couldn't lift it. Her

mother was crying.

Beakman thought, This is awful.

When they reached the top of Lookout Mountain, they started the

door-to-door. If the inhabitants weren't already in the act of

evacuating, Beakman knocked and rang the bell, then pounded on the

jamb with his Maglite. Once, he hammered at a door so long that

Trenchard shouted from across the street.

"You're gonna knock down the goddamned door! If they don't

answer, nobody's home."

When they reached the first cross street, Trenchard joined him. The

cross street cut up a twisting break in the ridge and was lined with

clapboard cabins and crumbling stone bungalows that had probably

been built in the thirties. The lots were so narrow that most of the

houses sat on top of their own garages.

Trenchard said, "Can't be more than eight or ten houses in here.

C'mon."

They split sides again and went to work, though most of the

residents were already leaving. Beakman cleared the first three houses

easily enough, then climbed the steps to a run-down stucco bungalow.

Knock, bell, Maglite.

"Police officer. Anyone home?"

He decided no one was home, and was halfway down the steps when

a woman called from across the street. Her Mini Cooper was packed and

ready to go.

"I think he's home. He doesn't go out."

Beakman glanced up at the door he had just left. He had banged on

the jamb so hard the door had rattled.

"He's an invalid?"

"Mr. Jones. He has a bad foot, but I don't know. I haven't seen him

in a few days. Maybe he's gone, but I don't know. He doesn't move so

well, that's why I'm saying."

Now she had the irritated expression of someone who wished she

hadn't gotten involved.

Beakman climbed back to the door.

"What's his name?"

"Jones. That's all I know, Mr. Jones. He doesn't move so well."

Beakman unleashed the Maglite again. Hard.

"Mr. Jones? Police officer, is anyone home?"

Trenchard, finished with his side of the street, came up the stairs

behind him.

"We got a holdout?"

"Lady says the man here doesn't move so well. She thinks he might

be home."

Trenchard used his own Maglite on the door.

"Police officers. This is an emergency. Please open the door."

Both of them leaned close to listen, and that's when Beakman

caught the sour smell. Trenchard smelled it, too, and called down to

the woman.

"He old, sick, what?"

"Not so old. He has a bad foot."Down on the street, she couldn't smell it.

Beakman lowered his voice.

"You smell it, right?"

"Yeah. Let's see what's what."

Trenchard holstered his Maglite. Beakman stepped back, figuring

Trenchard was going to kick down the door, but Trenchard just tried

the knob and opened it. A swarm of black flies rode out on the smell,

engulfed them, then flew back into the house. Beakman swatted at the

flies. He didn't want them to touch him. Not after where they had

been.

The woman shouted up, "What is it?"

They saw a man seated in a ragged club chair, wearing baggy plaid

shorts and a thin blue T-shirt. He was barefoot, allowing Beakman to

see that half the right foot was missing. The scarring suggested the

injury to his foot occurred a long time ago, but he had a more recent

injury.

Beakman followed Trenchard into the house for a closer look. The

remains of the man's head lolled backwards, where blood and brain

matter had drained onto the club chair and his shoulders. His right hand

rested on his lap, limply cupping a black pistol. A single black hole had

been punched beneath his chin. Dried blood the color of black cherries

was crusted over his face and neck and the chair.

Trenchard said, "That's a damn bad foot."

"Suicide?"

"Duh. I'll call. We can't leave this guy until they get someone here

to secure the scene."

"What about the fire?"

"Fuck the fire. They gotta get someone up here to wait for the CI. I

don't want us to get stuck with this stink."

Trenchard swatted futilely at the flies and ducked like a boxer

slipping a punch as he moved for the door. Beakman, fascinated,

circled the dead man.

Trenchard said, "Don't touch anything. We gotta treat it like a

crime scene."

"I'm just looking."

A photo album lay open between the dead man's feet as if it had

fallen from his lap. Careful not to step in the dried blood, Beakman

moved closer to see. A single picture was centered on the open page,

one of those Polaroid pictures that develop themselves. The plastic

over the picture was speckled with blood.

The flies suddenly seemed louder to Beakman, as loud now as the

helicopters fighting the flames.

"Trench, come here—"

Trenchard came over, then stooped for a closer look.

"Holy Mother."

The Polaroid showed a female Caucasian with what appeared to be

an extension cord wrapped around her neck. The picture had been

taken at night, with the woman sprawled on her back at the base of a

trash bin. Her tongue protruded thickly from her mouth, and her eyes

bulged, but they were unfocused and sightless.

Beakman heard himself whispering.

"You think it's real? A real woman, really dead?"

"Dunno."

"Maybe it's from a movie. You know, staged?"

Trenchard opened his knife, then used the point to turn the page.

Beakman grew scared. He might have been only a reserve officer, but

he knew better than to disturb the scene.