The Housing Authority investigators were Strummer and Fernandez, both mid-forties, both wearing jeans and athletic shoes, Los Angeles County Housing Authority windbreakers and baseball caps. Strummer had lank blond hair and a long nose. Fernandez, who held a clipboard, was slope-shouldered and short.

Strummer explained that they’d heard complaints of marijuana use and loud music, and rumors that the boys living here had broken into a neighboring home, stolen a flat-screen plasma HDTV and put the family’s Chihuahua in the freezer before they left. The dog was almost dead when the family found it, but it had survived. Nobody had filed a complaint with the Sheriff’s Department.

“Single mom, Jacquilla Roberts,” said Strummer. “Sons sixteen and eighteen, down with the Southside Crips. Two young ones. She’s got a boyfriend, of course-a Lynwood felon who smelled the easy pickings up here in the desert. He’s not supposed to live here but he mostly does. Fine citizens all.”

“We’ll see what we see,” said Hood.

He and Laws followed the investigators up the walk. The porch light was on.

“If you guys draw some iron we’ve got a better chance of being invited in,” said Strummer.

“Draw your own iron,” said Laws.

“Would if I could.”

“That’s exactly why nobody will give you a gun.”

“I’m trying to do my job.”

“Then do it.”

Strummer banged hard on the front door and waited. Then he banged again.

A woman’s voice asked who it was and Strummer told her to open the goddamned door.

She was a tall black, strongly built and angry. Hood guessed upper thirties. She had on white warm-ups and white athletic socks and a white sweatshirt. Her hair was straightened and pulled back from a handsome face. She looked at each one of the men with an unhurried hostility.