It sucked and everybody knew it.

Jess Mendez nodded at the lieutenant and called over his shoulder. “Hey, Lanier! What time you tee off?”

Batiste didn’t turn around. He heard Lanier behind him. “I got three subpoenas first. Say nine-thirty.”

Abe Glitsky’s desk was near the back window with a view of the freeway and, beyond it, downtown. Today, however, at 7:50, there was no view but gray.

Glitsky did not have a bag of clubs leaning against his desk. He was also one of only two men in the squad who worked without a partner. He and Batiste had come up to Homicide the same year, and neither of them had given a shit about their minority status-Glitsky was half Jewish and half black, Batiste a ‘Spanish-surname’-so there was a bond of sorts between them.

Batiste pulled up a chair. “Forget your clubs, Abe?”

Glitsky looked up from something he was writing. “I was just going to come see you.”

“Complete a foursome?”

Abe moved his face into what he might have thought was a smile. He had a hawk nose and a scar through his lips, top to bottom. His smile had induced confessions from some bad people. He might be a nice person somewhere in there, but he didn’t look like one. “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

Abe put his pen down. “Flo and I, we’re thinking we might make a move.”

“What are you talking about?” This was worse than golf clubs.

“L.A.’s recruiting. I’d have to go back to Burglary maybe for a while, but that’d be all right.”

Batiste leaned forward. “What are you talking about? You’ve got, what, nineteen years?”

“Close, but they’ll transfer most of ’em.” He motioned down at his desk. “I was just working on the wording here on this application. See where it says ‘Reason for Leaving Present Employment?’ Should I say ‘incredible horseshit’ or keep it clean with ‘bureaucratic nonsense’?”