1

      Logan first heard of Johnny P. Jones at about eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night. Los Angeles was in the midst of its usual October heat wave, and Logan was sitting in his living room in his Jockeys with the fan on high. The phone rang. Logan muted the TV and plucked his cell phone from the coffee table. The notification said Steve.

      “What’s up?” Logan said. He was pretty sure he knew what was up because there was generally only one reason why Steve called him.

      “Got another one,” Steve said.

      “How bad?”

      “At least three broken ribs and an eye that we might not be able to save.”

      Steve was a nurse at Our Lady of Newport in Mission Hills. Women who’d been abused tended to show up there. Steve was pretty down on that kind of thing and knew Logan felt the same and would do something about it, though he didn’t want to know what.

      “Details?” Logan said, grabbing a pen and turning over a flyer some realtor had left.

      “Name’s Tiffany Titus. Lives in Sunland. I have an address.”

      “Shoot.” Logan copied it down. “You know who put her there?”

      “Not for sure. But the emergency contact’s listed as a Johnny P. Jones. Same address.”

      “Seems like the place to start. Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

      “I’ll probably know when he shows up here,” Steve said and broke the connection.

      Logan went into the room he more or less used as an office and pulled up some information he had no business looking at. The Johnny P. Jones living at the address he had was born in Bakersfield and had a rap sheet. Mostly involving stolen goods, either as the one who stole them or the one who moved them, but there were also a couple of assault charges, one of which got him into New Folsom for five to eight. Which turned out to be four, partly based on the character witnessing of one Tiffany Titus.

      Logan threw on some clothes and went out to the car. It was cooler outside. Maybe even below eighty. But Sunland would still be an oven.

      He rolled the windows down and left the A/C off and turned on the GPS in his phone. It was about the only piece of modern technology that he was fond of. It gave him a route involving at least four freeways. Right where the second connected to the third an oil tanker had overturned. It took him over an hour to reach Sunland. Which irritated him. Which was okay because he liked to take his irritation out on guys like Johnny P. Jones.

      As expected, it was hot as blazes when he got to Johnny and Tiffany’s place, which turned out to be in a trailer park. Their singlewide had tires lying around and a trashcan from which a stuffed animal peeked. It could have been a bear, and it could have been a monkey. There was a sad-looking rose bush in a five-gallon can. There were chickens. There was a late ’70s or early ’80s Corolla with a two-tone paint job, blue and primer. Duct tape held the passenger door closed.

      Just as Logan was about to pull in, he saw a gaunt young man emerge from the trailer he was headed for. He was short, and long blond hair spilled out from under his John Deere cap.

      At the next trailer, a man was showing his kids the stars through a telescope. Logan didn’t like witnesses, so he aborted the parking maneuver and continued down the lane. In his rear-view, he saw the guy climb into the Corolla. The engine came to life. The muffler farted, and the car drove away.

      Logan turned around at a spot down the driveway and went back the way he came. The driveway ended in a T at the road. The only car in sight was headed north, to the left. Logan turned the same way.

      He stayed pretty close. Johnny didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would figure out he had a tail.

      They took the 210 to the 5 and the 5 to the 14. Logan was about ready to say to hell with it, leaving Johnny for the next night, when his quarry suddenly