Bob Hernandez needed the money.

Nothing but money would get him out here this early.

At five a.m., Pacific Public Storage was a fog-shrouded dump-like one of those gloomy places they used for serial killer and drug shootout movies. Twenty-four-hour facility, but most of the bulbs supposed to light up the passageways between the units were out and the auctioneer had to use a flashlight.

At this hour, no one was fully awake except for the Asian guy. Lousy turnout compared with the other auctions Bob had attended. Just him and four other people and the auctioneer, a white-haired guy named Pete in a suit and tie. The suit was cheap and brown and the tie needed Viagra. Guy reminded Bob of those shabby lawyers hanging around the downtown court building, waiting to be assigned to a case.

L.A. law but nothing like L.A. Law. Or Boston Legal, for that matter.

Bob would’ve loved to get hooked up with a good-looking girl attorney like on those shows, real passionate about defending him. Passionate about other stuff, too, after she saves his butt, the two of them…

Instead he got Mason Soto from the PD’s office, guy went to Berkeley, let that fact slip into the conversation three separate times. Trying to bond with Bob, like they were homeboys, talking about immigration, La Raza.

Mason Soto had grown up in San Francisco and thought the country should open its borders to everyone. Bob had been raised in West Covina by a third-generation Mexican American ex-marine firefighter dad and a fourth-generation Swedish American police dispatcher mom and both his brothers were cops and the whole family, including Bob, thought people should play by the rules and anyone who didn’t should get their ass kicked out.