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found it. Giving a wide berth to the gore on the floor, she unlocked a glass door and slid it open. She walked onto a terrace, leaving the cool house for the mounting heat. Leaning over the edge to look at the garden below, she saw a large doghouse. She didn’t see bowls for food or water.
    She looked at the 210 freeway where it traversed the Arroyo Seco Wash on what locals called the new bridge.The old bridge, the Colorado Street Bridge, was south of it. To the east was the area of restaurants and retail establishments called Old Pasadena. It was bisected by Colorado Boulevard, which cut across the city, disappearing into haze and smog. To the north were mountains, their presence hinted at by a slight darkening in the distance through the brownish air.
    Something on her shoulder drew her attention. The yellow butterfly was still there. She blew at it again, seeking to release it outside. Again, it weathered the onslaught and stayed put.
    She watched Kissick through the open door.
    “Where’s Mercer’s right hand?” Kissick ran his palm across his sandy brown hair. He’d just had it cut and the edges were razor sharp. “Unless it’s underneath, it’s missing.”
    He joined her outside, leaning against the railing with both hands as he looked out.
    The sounds of large engines drew their attention skyward.
    “Old prop planes.” He grinned as he pointed at a quartet of planes flying in formation. “That’s a Bearcat. There’s a Tomahawk. That’s a Nieuport 28, like Eddie Rickenbacker flew in World War One. Must be an air show someplace.”
    His mouth gaped boyishly as he watched them cut across the sky, making a tremendous noise before fading into the smog.
    It tickled her to see that side of him. He didn’t reveal that facet of his personality at work, so she never saw it anymore. That was her fault. He’d always liked aircraft and flying. When they’d briefly been an item two years ago, he’d talked about taking flying lessons. She hoped he had.
    They turned at the sound of vehicles approaching the house.
    She followed him inside.
    Vans from Pasadena’s forensic team and from the county coroner’s office were in the driveway. Crime scene technicians and coroner’s investigators were unloading equipment. Sergeant Folke was directing uniformed officers, putting feet on the street.
    Vining and Kissick reviewed what they’d learned with the forensic professionals, who set about their tasks.
    Vining gazed at the bloody message on the wall: ALL WORK NO PLAY .
    “Think his name is Jack or he’s just messing with us?” Kissick asked her.
    “One thing’s for sure. He’s the bad man.”
    “But not T. B. Mann,” he said.
    She looked at Kissick with surprise. It was jarring to hear that name uttered by someone other than herself or her daughter, Emily. She had told it to Kissick just once. T. B. Mann was the nickname she and Em had given the unidentified male who had ambushed and almost murdered her and escaped. T. B. Mann was her personal bad guy.
    It had been months since she’d conjured his face or said his nickname. The scars he’d left went deeper than her skin. They had begun to take over her life. After being obsessed with hunting him down, she’d set her rage on the back burner. To salvage her life, she’d had to let him go.
    Thus she lived in twilight, neither light nor dark. She felt in her bones that this in-between time was going to end. Something was in the works. He was out there, calling from the shadows for her to step into the light. The fresh blood of the murder victims had awakenedsomething within her. Somewhere out there, she felt him stirring too.
    The butterfly rose from her shoulder, spiraled around, and flew away.

THREE
    A sign on the shoulder of the 101 freeway said, THIS HIGHWAY MAINTAINED BY BAD BOY BAIL BONDS . Kissick exited at Melrose and headed west. This was the seedy side of Melrose, with family-owned carnicerias and tiendas and storefront attorneys specializing in