I headed back to my open door with the file. I noticed Rojas was standing at the front stoop, chatting with Mrs. Pena. I whistled and signaled him back to the car. We had to get going.

I got in. Message received, Rojas trotted back to the car and jumped in himself.

“Compton?” he asked.

“No, change of plans. We’ve got to get up to Van Nuys. Fast.”

“Okay, Boss.”

He pulled away from the curb and started making his way back to the 110 Freeway. There was no direct freeway route to Van Nuys. We would have to take the 110 into downtown where we’d pick up the 101 north. We couldn’t have been starting off from a worse position in the city.

“What was she saying at the front door?” I asked Rojas.

“She was asking about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She said you looked like you shouldn’t need a translator, you know?”

I nodded. I got that a lot. My mother’s genes made me look more south of the border than north.

“She also wanted to know if you were married, Boss. I told her you were. But if you want to circle back and tap that, it’ll be there. She’d probably want a discount on the fees, though.”

“Thanks, Rojas,” I said dryly. “She already got a discount but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Before opening the file I scrolled through the contacts list on my phone. I was looking for the name of someone in the Van Nuys detective squad who might share some information with me. But there was nobody. I was going in blind on a murder case. Not a good starting point either.

I closed the phone and put it into its charger, then opened the file. Lisa Trammel had become my client after responding to the generic letter I sent to the owners of all homes in foreclosure. I assumed I wasn’t the only lawyer in Los Angeles who did this. But for some reason Lisa answered my letter and not theirs.