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roommate in the campus newspaper. I’ve only been here for ten days and I’m already looking for a new place. This girl,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room, “just parties too much.” He was on a roll now. The cop looked bored but was clearly waiting for more. “So this weekend I was in San Francisco, visiting my folks. I had to take the midnight shuttle home and I think I ate some bad food at the airport ’cause I was sick as a dog by the time we landed in LA.” All this time he was standing in the doorway, eyes locked with the cop in the hall.
    “So I get home and she had just gotten back herself. She was fighting with her date and seemed pretty loaded at the time. I needed to sleep so I just stayed in here and locked the door.” He had no idea where the story came from—it just flowed. He remembered the disappointment of not qualifying for college.
    The cop looked at him in silence, softly tapping the nightstick into his palm. He thought of the scale—it was right next to the gun in the closet, along with the coke and the money. A voice from the front door said, “You ready?” and the cop replied, “Yeah, let’s clear out.” He looked at Jeff and said, “Get some sleep,” then turned around and left.
    He heard the front door pull shut, then creak open on its broken hinge. In the outside hallway, footsteps receded until finally it was quiet. He waited for ten minutes, then got dressed, gathered his bag and briefcase, and walked to his car. As he rolled out of the driveway, he shook his head, thinking about what he had just pulled off. He had skated on some thin ice before, but this morning was a capper.
    Driving through Brentwood toward the beach, he grimaced at the brightness of the day. It was hot, but he didn’t care. His apartment was four miles away. If he made it there, he could sleep until dinnertime, or maybe all the way through to the next morning, and things would be different. He would be rested, he would eat, and then he would figure out what to do.

CHAPTER 6
    ⍫
    He found it buried in the third page of the Metro section of the LA Times :
    SUICIDE IN WESTWOOD
    Twenty-eight-year-old Marilyn Fenner, a research assistant at UCLA, was found dead Monday morning, apparently after jumping from her twelfth-floor balcony.
    Joe Greiner put the paper on his desk and wondered who made the decisions about whose death made which page and how much of a story it would get. Didn’t this girl have a life, a family, a history? He sipped at his coffee. It was sweet, loaded with sugar and powdered creamer. Like a liquid candy bar, he thought.
    The phone rang. “Homicide, Greiner.” He didn’t really feel like talking.
    “Joe? Ron Pool. I catch you in the middle of something?”
    Pool, from the Times . Decent guy. Wrote the piece on the girl. “Always, Ron. In the middle of a sea of shit. What’s up?”
    “I got curious about the girl, is all. You call it a suicide, we print it’s a suicide. But it bugged me so I did a little checking.”
    “Yeah?” Pool was a thorough guy, a professional. “What kind of checking?”
    “Well, I haven’t come up with much. Except that the suicide rate for women in her age group on the Westside took a big jump in the last couple of years.”
    “Yeah, so it’s a fuckin’ epidemic. What of it?” Pool usually came up with better.
    “I don’t know,” Ron said, “but it’s got me like an itch. I pulled files on a few others but don’t really have much. Fax me what you’ve got and I’ll keep you up to date if anything shows up.”
    “Hey, maybe it’s a suicide conspiracy.” Joe wasn’t big on hunches. You show up, look around, ask questions, weed out the bullshit; what starts out as a puzzle always gets dumb and simple. Except here there wasn’t any puzzle. “Hey, what the hell, I’ll pull suicide files, last two years, Westside, female, twenty to thirty.”
    “Thanks. I’ll get back to you.” Pool hung up.
    Joe started to put