“No, sir. IA is all I know.”

They turned south on 110th Street, back toward Lancaster.

“What did you promise Laws, Hood?” asked Warren. “Before he died.”

“He was dead by the time I could form a thought.”

“Then what did you promise him when you saw he was dead?”

“That I’d find who killed him.”

“Do you believe that, Hood?”

“Without question.”

“Good. You are assigned to this case as an officer of Internal Affairs. The fewer who know that, the better for everyone. Your superiors will be advised and tomorrow someone will e-mail you an IA charge number for your time card.”

Hood thought about this. From his tours in Iraq assigned to NCIS he knew what it was to be hated. And not just by the enemy, but by his own men. “Mr. Warren, I don’t want to work for Internal Affairs.”

“You made a promise and this is the only way for you to keep it.”

“You have more experienced investigators.”

“None with his partner’s blood on his shirt.”

Someone in front pushed a button, and an overhead light came on. Hood looked at the front of his winter-weight wool-blend shirt and at his shield and he knew it was more blood than could have come from the shrapnel still caught in his cheek.

“I respect what you did in L.A.,” said Warren.

“The last thing I wanted to do was take down a fellow deputy.”

“It was unavoidable for anyone with a functioning moral compass. Hood, I want you with us. I want you watching the watchers, protecting the protectors. There’s no higher calling in law enforcement-you will learn this with time. I’ll have Laws’s package on your desk tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t have a desk,” said Hood.

“You do now. It’s at the prison. In a place we unjokingly call the Hole. Report to the warden’s office at seven a.m. His secretary is named Yolanda.”

Hood watched the dark desert march past the windows, sand blowing upon sand, Joshua trees stiff against the wind.