“Remember the bust two weeks ago for the girl in the trunk?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s Santa Monica,” he said. “We just helped out.”

“Yeah, I know. You guys took Winslow down for them. That’s what I’m calling about.”

“It’s still their case, man.”

“I know but I can’t get a hold of Walker over there and I don’t know anybody else in that department. But I know you. And I want to ask about the arrest, not the case.”

“What, is there a beef? We didn’t touch that kid.”

“No, Detective, no beef. Far as I know, it was a righteous bust. I’m just trying to find the kid’s house. I want to go see where he was living, maybe talk to his mother.”

“That’s fine but he was living with his grandmother.”

“You sure?”

“The information we got in the briefing was that he was with the grandmother. We were the big bad wolves hitting grandma’s house. There was no father in the picture and the mother was in and out, living on the street. Drugs.”

“Okay, then I’ll talk to the grandmother. Where’s the place?”

“You’re just cruising on down to say hello?”

He said it in a disbelieving tone and I knew that was because I was white and would likely be unwelcome in Alonzo Winslow’s neighborhood.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take somebody with me. Strength in numbers.”

“Good luck. Don’t get your ass shot until after I go off watch at four.”

“I’ll do my best. What’s the address, do you remember?”

“It’s in Rodia Gardens. Hold on.”

He put the phone down while he looked up the exact address. Rodia Gardens was a huge public housing complex in Watts that was like a city unto itself. A dangerous city. It was named after Simon Rodia, the artist who had created one of the wonders of the city. The Watts Towers. But there wasn’t anything wonderful about Rodia Gardens. It was the kind of place where poverty, drugs and crime had cycled for decades. Multiple generations of families living there and unable to get out and break free. Many of them had grown up having never been to the beach or on an airplane or even to a movie in a theater.