MILO PUNCHED THE MDT's keypad, ran a search on Salazar, Michelle.

The screen lit up. Three hits: Michelle Angela, 47, with a record for larceny, Michelle Sandra, 22, imprisoned in Arizona for manslaughter, and Michelle Leticia, 26, arrested two years ago for prostitution, a year after that for possession of narcotics.

"There you go," I said. "The age is perfect."

"Echo Park. Let's go— Would you recognize her?"

"No, it was dark," I said. "Maybe."

Michelle Salazar lived in a two-story, peach-colored sixplex on a twisting street one block east of Micheltorena and two blocks north of Sunset. A brown sky hung low over the potholes, boxy hieroglyphics sang gang sagas, small children played in the dust. Two doors up a cluster of shaved-head young men in white tank tops and baggy pants crowded an old white van, sharing cigarettes and beer and lean looks.

As we got out of the unmarked, some of the beer drinkers watched us. Milo's gun hand was relaxed but in the right place as he threw them a salute. Big group effort not to respond. We were in Ramparts Division, where a police scandal had broken a couple of years ago—CRASH officers forming their own criminal gang. LAPD claimed the bad cops had been weeded out. LAPD had denied the existence of bad cops for too long to have any credibility.

The lock on the building's front door was missing. Inside, a dark central hall was ripe with the gamy perfume of too-old menudo. Mailboxes set into the right-hand wall were padlocked and unmarked. Milo knocked on the first door, got no answer, tried the next unit and received a shouted "Si?" in response.

"Policia." Reciting the word quietly, but there was no way to make it inviting.

Long pause, then a woman said, "Eh?"

"Policia."

"Policia par que?"

"Senora, donde esta Michelle Salazar, par favor?"

Nothing.

"Senora?"

"Numero seis." A radio was turned up loud enough to block out further discourse. We made our way to the stairs.

Different smells up on the second floor: sour laundry, urine, orange soda.

Milo rapped on number 6. Another female voice said, "Yeah?" and the door opened six inches before he could respond. Held in place by a loose chain, bisecting a woman's face. One watery brown eye, half a parched lip, sallow skin.

"Michelle Salazar? Detective Sturgis—" The door began to close, and he blocked it with his foot, reached around, undid the chain.

I didn't recognize her, but somehow I knew it was her.

Last time I'd seen her, she'd had two arms.

She wore a green nylon robe with moth holes on the lapels. Thirty pounds heavier than when I'd watched her dance with Lauren. A once-pretty face had puffed in all the wrong places, and sprays of pimples crusted her forehead and chin. The same luxuriant mop of jet black hair. One hand held a cigarette with a gravity-defying ash. Her left sleeve was tied back at elbow length. Empty space from the shoulder down.

"Oh, shit," she said. "I didn't do anything—please leave me alone."

"I'm not here to hassle you, Michelle."

"Yeah, right." The room behind her was squalid with dirty clothes and old food and clumps of what looked like dog waste on gray linoleum. As if confirming that, a small, hairless thing with a white-fringed head pranced across my field of vision. Seconds later a high-pitched yelp sounded.

"It's okay, baby," said Michelle. The dog mewed a few more times before withdrawing to tremulous silence.

"What is that, a Mexican hairless?" said Milo.

"Like you give a shit. Peruvian Inca Orchid." Her voice slurred, and her breath was sharp with alcohol. A blue bruise smeared the left side of her neck.

Milo pointed to the mark. "Someone get rough with you?"

"Nah," she said. "Just playing around. I'm tired, man—go hassle someone else. Every time you guys got free time, it's always here."

"Police harassment, huh."

"Nazi tactics."

"How foolish to waste time here," said Milo. "Place like this, a veritable church."

Michelle rubbed her single arm against the front of her robe. "Just leave me alone."

"Ramparts guys visit a lot, huh?"

"Like you don't know."

"I don't. I'm West L.A."

"Then you got lost."

"This isn't about you, Michelle. It's about Lauren Teapie."

Two rapid blinks. "What?"

"West L.A. Homicide." He showed her his card. "Lauren Teague got killed." Yet another recitation of the details. I hadn't gotten used to it, and my gut clenched.

Michelle began to shake. "Oh, God, oh, Jesus—you're not lying?"

"Wish I was, Michelle. Can we come in?"

"It's a shitpile—"

"I don't care about interior decorating. I want to talk about Lauren."

"Yeah, but—"

"Couldn't care less about your medicine cabinet, Michelle. This is about someone making Lauren dead—"

The tremors continued. She reached around with her right hand, took hold of the empty left sleeve, and squeezed. "It's not that — it's . . . There's someone in there."

"Someone you don't want listening in?"

"No, it's—" She glanced back. "He didn't know Lauren."

"Long as he doesn't come out shooting, he's no problem for me."

"Hold on," she said. "Let me just go explain."

"You wouldn't be trying to rabbit, Michelle?"

"Sure, I'm gonna jump out of a two-story window — one of you wants to wait down below to catch me, fine."

"How about this," said Milo. "Have lover boy show himself, then go back to sleep or whatever he's doing."

"Whatever," she said, backing away, then stopping. "Lauren's really dead?"

"As dead as they come, Michelle."

"Shit. Damn." The brown eyes misted. "Hold on."

We waited in the doorway, and a few moments later a man wearing nothing but red running shorts appeared from the left, rubbing his gums. Thirty-five or so, with unruly dishwater hair, a goatish chin beard, and sleepy, close-set eyes, shoulders brocaded by tattoos, chest acne, and fibroid scars up and down his arms. He held his hands up, accustomed to surrender, prepared to be rousted. Michelle materialized behind him, saying, "They're cool, Lance — go back to sleep."

Lance looked to Milo for confirmation.

"Pleasant dreams, Lance."

The man returned to the bedroom, and Milo entered the apartment, maneuvering around the dog dirt, taking in everything. I followed his footsteps, struggled to keep my shoes clean.

The hairless dog perched on a folding chair, eyes bugging. The kitchen was an arbitrary clearing, with a hot plate and a minifridge and a single plywood cabinet hanging crookedly. Cracked tile counters were piled high with empty soda cans and take-out cartons. An ant stream originated under the plate and continued up the wall. Two small windows were browned by dirty shades, and Latin music — maybe the din from the unit downstairs — percussed the floor.

Besides the dog's chair the only furnishings were a frayed brown sofa strewn with more empties, crushed cigarette packs, matchbooks, yetmore dog droppings, and a redwood coffee table intended for outdoor use, similarly decorated.

Michelle stood watching us, playing with the sash of her robe. "You can sit."

"Been sitting all day, thanks. Tell me about Lauren."

Michelle sat down and placed the dog in her lap. It stayed in place, silent but edgy as she plucked at its ear. Michelle stretched out her index finger, and the dog licked it. "You just made me depressed beyond belief."

"Sorry," said Milo.

"Sure you are." She reached around the dog and flicked her empty sleeve. "I'm like a pirate, see? Captain Hook. Only I've got no hook."

She stroked the dog for a long time. "Infection—not AIDS. For the record."

"Recently?" I said. Reflexively. For a second I'd felt I was facing a patient. If my breaking in bothered Milo, he didn't show it.

Michelle said, "Couple of years ago. One of those flesh-eating bacteria things. They said I could've died." Tiny smile. "Maybe I should've. The guy I was living with then didn't want to take me to the hospital, kept saying it was just a mosquito bite or something. Even when it started spreading up my arm. Then half my body swelled up like a balloon, then everything just started rotting and he split, left me alone. By the time they got to me—man, I felt I was disappearing. And it hurt"

"I'm sorry," said Milo. "Really."

"Yeah, sure—now you telling me this about Lauren. ... I can't believe it."

"When's the last time you saw her, Michelle?"

Her eyes rose to the ceiling. "A year ago—no after that. Later—six months? Could've been five, yeah, I think it was five months. She came by and gave me money."

"Was that a regular thing?"

"Not regular, but she used to do it once in a while. Bring me food, bring me stuff. Especially after I got out of the hospital. When I was in the hospital, she was the only one who visited. And now she's dead— Why the fuck did God bother creating this fucked-up world? What is He, some kind of fucking sadist?"

Her head drooped, and she ran her hand through her hair, pulling at black strands, muttering, "Split ends, cheap shitty shampoo."

"Five months ago," said Milo. "How was Lauren doing?"

She looked up. "Her? She was doing great."

"How much money did she give you?"

"Seven hundred bucks."

"Generous."

"Her and me go way back—went way back." Her eyes flashed, and she stroked the dog faster. "In the beginning, I used to help her—taught her how to dance. In the beginning she used to dance like a white girl. I taught her all kinds of stuff."

"Like what?"

"How to deal with reality. Developing your attitude. Technique." Smiling, she ran her finger around the contours of her lips. "She was smart, she learned fast. Smart about money too. Always saved whatever she could. Me, I have money, it just slips away, I'm extremely fucked up—and you won't hear me blaming the bacteria, even though that really did fuck me up, because even before the bacteria I was pretty fucked up. Personally."

She lifted the sleeve, let it fall. "Becoming a freak didn't help my self-image, but I get by. You can always find some guy who digs . . . Like I'm talking to someone who cares."

Reaching into a pocket of the robe, she pulled out a cigarette. No pack, just a loose cigarette; easier access with one arm. Milo was quick to light it for her.

"A gentleman." She sucked smoke. "So who offed Lauren?"

"That's the big question, Michelle."

The brown eyes narrowed. "You really don't know?"

"That's why we're here."

"Aw," she said. "And here I was thinking it was my technique brought you over. Well, I sure can't tell you. Lauren and I—we went different ways. I thought she was getting it together. Back when we were dancing and working together, I always thought she had a better chance of getting it together."

"Why's that?"

"First, like I said, she was smart. Second, she never got into dope in any big way. Had no Jones for men either. She never got attached to anyone, let them get their hooks into her. Tell the truth, she was really kind of a nun—know what I mean?"

"Not a party girl," said Milo."Not a party girl," Michelle repeated. "Even when she was partying, her real head was somewhere else, you know? It's like no matter what we did, and we did some shit, believe me, she was like . . . doing something but really not doing it, you know?"

"Detached," I said.

"Yeah. At first it used to bug me. I used to worry some customer would pick up on it and that would screw the whole deal—kill the fantasy, you know? 'Cause all they want—customers—is to be God for five minutes. And I knew Lauren—no matter what she was doing—thought the ............