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acting. And failing at that, finding the needle or the powder. All ending somehow in a damp storm drain, missing a high-heeled pump with her skirt over her waist. Felix the Cat grinning at Chippy Gibson of the California Highway Patrol from the Jane Doe dead body, the DB’s pale, cold rump. The uniformed cops who always found these innocent gals gave them a nickname, Sweet Jane. And the authorities finally started to notice these girls turning up dead in the general vicinity of a grinning cat face.
    Three or four days before Rachel’s face slap, Cheryl’s sergeant chalked up a version of Felix’s mug on the blackboard in the ready room for their shift briefing.
    â€œI guess you’ve all noticed the new cat on the street.…”
    He shrugged a little. “Puss ’n’ Boots here. And I’d like to tell you we know what the hell it is. We can’t. Gang Task Force tell us it’s spread across territory lines, Crips, Bloods, over to the Spanish, M-13, La Surenos, Los Zetas, and even the Wah Chings—there just doesn’t seem to be any locus we can put our finger on.”
    The sergeant shrugged again. “So what can I say today? What I say every day—you see one of these marks, in an alley, on the sidewalk, on a routine stop—exhibit extreme caution. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t try to figure it out on your own, but take a picture on your cell, take some notes, and we’ll shoot it all back to Intelligence for the big brains to cogitate.”
    Here, the sergeant wiped Felix’s grinning puss from the board, swiping it into a faceless mush of chalk dust. “As the saying goes … Exercise extreme caution .”
    *   *   *
    So later in her shift, Cheryl showed extreme etcetera when she flagged a smoking hot Lowrider on Interstate 10 out by Redlands, belching exhaust; but the pull-over didn’t go down easy. The souped-up Impala ignored her, sped up, and ripped down the I-10 off-ramp, jamming a side street and blasting through the chained gate at Pharaoh’s Lost Kingdom, a quarter mile away. Thirty seconds of tear-ass, Cheryl’s legs turning to water as she clung to the bike. The defunct amusement and water park was dead as the great Sphinx of Giza. Lawyer carrion had been fighting over its carcass for years, one of LA’s dead zones—and this was no good.
    Cheryl heard her own voice, a trifle too urgent, talking to Dispatch: “Officer 62, I-10, WB, Pharaoh’s Lost Kingdom Parking lot, reckless speed, ignoring instructions. Request other units or local PD.”
    Dispatch came back, “Pharaoh Parking.”
    â€œThat’s affirm.”
    The vehicle screeched to a halt with a smoke of rubber, but its engine still belched exhaust. Cheryl stopped her BMW copper chopper twenty feet behind.
    â€œMid-sixties bright orange Chevy Impala, California Vanity Plate, FLX22.”
    Dispatch came back again. “Local San Bernardino, black & white ETA three minutes.”
    Three minutes. A prompt response window, but still an ice age in real life real time. Cheryl dismounted the motorcycle, unclipped the safety strap from her Glock 9mm, held her right hand on the grip, ready to pull the gun from the holster. She always hated the way the thing felt in her hand. Always blood-warm, since she drove around in the sun all day, and then clammy at night.
    â€œPlease shut off your engine, sir.” Her voice came out strongly now, no room for argument. The engine died with a last burp of exhaust. She approached the orange Chevy, five steps away. “Please put your hands on the wheel, sir.”
    But the driver’s hands were already clamped on the steering wheel, yet something was decidedly wrong. Cheryl took in the man in the front seat. A Chicano, about age twenty, Laker’s B-Ball Jersey, yellow, number 24, Bryant—with the wrong kind of hands on the wheel. A woman’s hands ; a pair of lady’s