I took one last gulp of tea, locked the front door, and slid onto the creamy leather seat of Lucy's vintage black Caddy, the kind with huge shark fins on the back.

I left Lucy waiting near the front desk while the officer escorted me into a blue interview room of the West Valley Police Station on Vanowen Street. I waited for fifteen minutes, expecting Beavers to show up. When the door finally opened, I stiffened. Kaplan walked in.

Detective Kaplan was Beavers's younger partner. The jerk arrested me four months ago, causing me a lot of unnecessary grief. In the aftermath, he never apologized for his behavior. I couldn't stand him.

I looked in the hallway, but no one else was there. "Where's Detective Beavers?"

With his combination of liquid brown eyes, olive skin, and curly black hair, Kaplan was probably irresistible to young women and girls. To me, however, he was just an arrogant little punk.

He looked at me with a slight smirk, which I immediately wanted to slap away. "The LAPD has a policy. Detectives cannot interview the women they're sleeping with."

I glared at him. "I guess that means where you're concerned, all the hookers in LA can breathe a sigh of relief!"

Kaplan's eyes blazed, and he opened his mouth to respond, but he must have thought better of it. After a beat, he said, "Just tell me about this morning."

"I went for a walk and saw the body. I called Detective Beavers. I didn't touch anything. When I realized I knew the victim-Dax Martin-I threw up. Then I sat down and waited for the police to show up. EMTs briefly examined me and then Detective Beavers escorted me back to my house. The end."

Kaplan was far from done. He kept me there for another half hour, asking questions about how I knew Martin and digging for details about the relationship between the neighbors and Joshua Beaumont School.

"I went to Beaumont myself," he interjected at one point.

That explains everything!

I tried my best to protect Ed Pappas. I read his name upside down on a folder sitting in front of Kaplan on the table and a.s.sumed the contents must have been Ed's arrest record from his fistfight with Martin. But I knew Kaplan wouldn't be interested in my opinions.

"Have you seen any of the homeless people back there in the wash? Can you describe any of them?"

"Do you think one of the homeless people killed him?" I had, in fact, heard Dax Martin brag on television how he and his a.s.sistant coaches periodically visited the occasional person camping out behind his ball field. The coaches cleared out "those losers" so his young ballplayers wouldn't have to look at them. He actually winked at the interviewer. I wouldn't blame the homeless if they had killed Martin.

"I ask the questions here."

Give me a break.

"No. I've never actually seen any of them. They purposely stay out of sight. I don't think they want any trouble."

I spoke from firsthand experience. Four months ago, I met a homeless woman, Hilda. She sold me a discarded baby quilt, which turned out to be the key to finding a killer. Hilda worked hard every day to support herself by collecting recyclables and way overcharging me for information. She was a real entrepreneur and harmless.

"Well, they're about to get a whole truckload of trouble."

Oh, please. My daughter, Quincy, was around the same age as Kaplan. I hoped she never got involved with someone like him.

As Lucy drove me back home, she asked, "Arlo didn't interview you, did he?"

I shook my head, still seething at Kaplan's crude remark.

"I imagine interviewing you is no longer kosher," continued my Catholic friend. "After all, you two are dating."

"Guess so," I snapped.

Lucy pulled up to the front of my house and smiled. "See you in the morning at Birdie's." For the last fifteen years, Lucy, Birdie, and I got together to quilt every Tuesday morning-no matter what.

"Thanks for everything, Luce. See you tomorrow."

I closed the car door and stood in the ninety-degree heat as I watched Lucy drive away. Five motorcycles sat in Ed's driveway. He loved his Harley and, in the days before the baseball stadium, used to have his friends over for parties after riding all day.

As far as I could tell, the guys in Ed's biker club always behaved respectfully to the neighbors. Even so, some of the locals were freaked out by the men's matching leather vests that had VE painted on the back in big purple letters.

A biker I'd never seen before stood in front of Ed's place, the kind of guy you'd remember: a white male, well over six feet, and weighing about three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He looked like a golem, wearing a black leather vest and a red bandana do-rag. He watched me closely as Lucy drove away.

CHAPTER 5.

I cracked open a can of diet cola and sat down at the kitchen table. My large cat, b.u.mper, jumped up on my lap. "Hey, handsome!" I smoothed his fluffy orange fur. He rewarded me with an affectionate purr and settled on top of my thighs, one of his favorite soft places to rest.

I couldn't get the picture out of my head of Dax Martin and his fellow coaches hara.s.sing the poor homeless people behind the ball field. Did one of them fight back and kill Martin? They'd probably never get the chance. Bullies, like Dax Martin, rarely did their dirty work alone. If you scratched the surface of most bullies, you'd find a coward. If Martin tangled with the homeless, he wouldn't have gone in without backup.

Without support, Martin would have stayed within the safety of the fenced-off ball field. So, what drew him to the river's edge in back of the field? How did his killer lure him there? He must have felt safe enough to go there alone. Did Martin trust his attacker? Did he know him?

What about the homeless? Was anyone hiding there who might have seen the attack? If I could find a witness, maybe I could help Ed Pappas. I wouldn't actually be searching for the killer. I knew how mad Beavers would be if he thought I was poking my nose in police business again.

No, I only would be looking for one piece of the puzzle. I only wanted to help clear Ed as a suspect.

I needed to find Hilda. My stomach growled as I got in my Corolla and drove south toward Ventura Boulevard (known as "the Boulevard" or simply "Ventura" to local residents). She hung out in front of a strip mall wedged between two tall office buildings on Ventura, with a great little falafel place I liked to go to. Whenever I saw her sitting in her spot near the sidewalk, I'd stop for a chat and slip her a twenty. I hoped to find her there today.

I pulled into a parking spot halfway down the block and walked toward the mall. Rafi's Falafel was easy to find. You just followed the scent of c.u.min and hot oil wafting seductively out toward the sidewalk. My watch read three in the afternoon and my last meal had been a virtuous breakfast of scrambled egg whites and coffee, which-come to think of it-hadn't stayed with me long. Technically, I'd eaten zero calories today. Pangs of hunger stabbed me accusingly.

Hilda sat in her usual spot and smiled as I approached. She wasn't old, wasn't young. Her years of living rough etched her with a kind of agelessness and a wary ability to blend into the background. In the heat of the day, her hair clung to her head in moist strings, and her skin looked desiccated. "Hey, Wonder Woman! Caught any bad guys lately?" She burst into laughter at the joke she always greeted me with.

"Hi, Hilda. I'm just on my way to Rafi's for a shawarma. Care to join me? My treat."

"Only if he lets me park by the door. I gotta keep an eye on my cart." Hilda kept her worldly goods in an old shopping cart, along with large black trash bags full of the cans and bottles she collected for recycling, her major source of income.

"Never hurts to ask."

Hilda got up and wheeled her cart near the restaurant and waited for me while I went inside. The interior was refreshingly cool and smelled of cooked meat and spices. Rafi looked up and smiled. He was short, with the dark curly hair and brown skin of a Sephardic Jew from Syria or Iraq.

"Hey!" I waved.

"Martha! Shalom." He pointed to Hilda with his chin "Ma koreh?" ("What's happening?") "My friend Hilda-we want to have lunch in here, but she needs to keep an eye on her cart."

Rafi shook his head sadly. "I see her every day. Haval." ("A shame.") "You know, in Israel, there is no homeless. We take care of poor and old. America's a rich country. I don't understand why anyone live like her."

"Well, can we park her cart near the door so she can see it?"

Rafi shrugged. "Why not?"

I waved to Hilda that the coast was clear. We took a seat at the window.

Rafi came over to our table with a pad and pencil in his hand and looked at Hilda. "Welcome."

"Hi." She smiled, showing remarkably clean teeth.

"What can I get you?"

While we waited for our orders, she drank two gla.s.ses of ice water.

"Hilda, do you know anything about the small homeless campsite on the riverbank behind the baseball field north of here?"

Her eyes suddenly narrowed. "Why?"

"I found a dead body back there this morning. He was a baseball coach, but he wasn't killed on the baseball field. He died on the river's edge, right across from someone's camp."

Her voice went flat. "So you're blaming the homeless?"

"Frankly, Hilda, I don't know who's to blame. The police will find out. It's just that one of my neighbors is a suspect, and I'd like to help clear him."

She eyed me suspiciously. "What do you want from me?"

"Looked to me like a couple of sleeping bags were still in the camp. I just want to know if the people living there might have seen what happened. That's all."

Rafi brought our shawarma sandwiches-fresh, spongy pita bread stuffed with a bed of chopped lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and cuc.u.mbers. Lying on top were fragrant strips sliced off a rotating stack of succulent lamb and turkey meat. Rafi drenched everything with tahini sauce, which dripped down the sides of the pita. I'd figure out the total Weight Watcher points later.

He also brought a bowl of hamutzim-pickled turnips and beets. Extra meat made Hilda's sandwich especially fat. Rafi had a big heart.

We both made short work of our sandwiches; and when Rafi saw we were done, he brought over two golden baklavas dripping with honey. "On the house." He winked at Hilda. "Special for first-time customer."

An idea suddenly popped. "Rafi, what do you do with your cans and bottles?"

"Nothing. I throw them in trash with everything else."

"Well, if you could save them, Hilda could take them off your hands. She already has an arrangement with Sol's Deli down the street."

Hilda raised her eyebrows; she was surprised I remembered something she'd told me four months earlier.

Rafi looked at her. "Sure!" He shrugged. "Why not? I keep separate bag in kitchen. You come every morning at seven to pick up. Otherwise, I throw away. Deal?" He stuck out his hand.

Hilda grinned. "Deal!" She pumped his hand once.

She slurped her tea. "I don't know who camps over there, but I know someone who does know. They call him 'Switch.' He's sort of an unofficial king of a bunch camping all along the river-from the wildlife reserve, off the 405 Freeway and Burbank Boulevard, all the way west."

Hilda referred to a whole area of green s.p.a.ce surrounding the LA River, part of the Sepulveda Flood Control Basin operated by the Army Corps of Engineers. The three-mile strip west of the 405 Freeway featured a wildlife reserve, golf courses, and parks-including the one next to our community along the watershed.

These days, n.o.body ventured into the reserve because unsuspecting joggers and bird-watchers risked being accosted and raped. Police believed the group camping there was also responsible for a lot of local burglaries and drug deals. Citizens were advised to stay away from the area.

"I'd be too afraid to go there." I made a face.

"You'd be right about that. You can't go alone. He knows me. I'll go'n ask if he'll meet with you. If he says yes, then we can go back together, but you'll have to bring a lot of money. Couple hundred bucks. You're gonna have to pay a lot to get anything from him."

"Okay." I hated to think what Beavers would say if he knew what I was about to do.

"Meet me back here tomorrow afternoon. I'll have his answer by then."

I slipped Hilda a twenty and walked back to my car. As I headed home, I wondered what the heck I'd gotten myself into.

CHAPTER 6.

I parked in front of my house at four-thirty. Only one police car and a crime scene unit van were parked next to the ball field. Just one Harley remained in Ed's driveway, along with the huge biker in the red bandana. He turned to look at me, frowned, and started moving in my direction. I didn't like the looks of him. I hurried inside, closed the door, and set the alarm. Half a minute later, the doorbell rang.

I never opened my door to strangers. I looked through the peephole in the door. A ma.s.sive set of shoulders filled it. "Who's there?"

"Crusher."

Oh, my G.o.d!

"What do you want?"

"I've been waiting for you."

This guy can break down my door with one blow of his fist.

I stepped backward toward the hall table, where I'd dumped my purse and cell phone. How long will it take for the cops to respond?

"Step back from the door and let me see your face." I clutched my cell phone, ready to call for help if he didn't comply.

"Ed told me to talk to you. You said you wanted to help him, right?"

I went back to the peephole and Crusher had stepped back a little so I could see him better. The bearded giant looked down and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Since Ed sent this man, maybe I should hear him out.

I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath. I turned off the alarm and opened the door a crack. Crusher glanced at the mezuzah on my door, identifying mine as a Jewish household.

This giant clearly enjoyed the menacing effect he imposed on people. He wore a short-sleeved black T-shirt under his black leather vest, thick denim jeans, and dusty brown work boots. Up close, he looked a lot older than Ed, somewhere in his late forties. Deep lines engraved his forehead under his red bandana do-rag, crow's feet creased the corners of his blue eyes, and his red beard was shot through with gray. His beefy arms were freckled and sunburned, except for a white scar running the length of his right upper arm, bisecting the remnants of an angular tattoo. Crusher had some serious years on him.

I wasn't ready to let him get comfortable, so we stood just at the door. I tentatively stuck out my hand. "I'm Martha Rose."

Crusher nodded once. His calloused hand, stained with black grease, completely enclosed mine like a whale swallowing a minnow. "Yeah. Ed told me."

I pulled my hand away. "Why did he send you?"