Sumner Hitchens had been bouncing between partners, hitting the guardrail, getting slapped to the center, and ringing all the tilt buzzers, before ending back in the return tray like the kinetically overshot pinball he was. We were currently the only two unattached detectives at Homicide Special.

A captain from Ad Vice jostled us as he made his way back to the bar. "These guys look sloshed," Sally commented. "Its dangerous to drink at these things."

"Its a Christmas party," I said noncommittally. "Hopefully, Yellow Cabs gonna make the difference."

Sally hugged me and we wished each other luck.

Twenty minutes later I had Alexa by the arm and we were mercifully out of there. We walked to the valet stand out front, followed by the faint strains of "Frosty the Snowman."

My black MDX pulled to the curb and we both got in. Alexa and I had ridden in together this morning because of the party. My wife never drinks at police events either, so thankfully, with what was just about to happen, we were both completely sober.

I turned out of the parking lot and headed down the hill, then took a left on Franklin, making my way toward the Hollywood Freeway.

According to the Communications Division, the radio call we answered a few minutes later hit dispatch at 10:13 P. M.

It was December 22nd, three days before Christmas.

Chapter 3.

LAPD protocol demands you always keep your police scanner on even while off duty. Alexa reached into the glove box as we hit the 101 freeway and flipped the switch. A steady stream of low-value mistakes bubbled out at us, all of it delivered in a flat, rambling female monotone.

"One X-Ray Seven, meet L-Fifteen Code Six at the market, 3316 West Olympic," the RTO said. "Cross street is Western. Felony 211 suspect needs transport to MCJ for booking."