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“I suppose you want reports on everyone. Write down everything I see.”

“That would be nice.”

“What if all I see is the idiots reading palms and going to McDonald’s for Shamrock Shakes?”

“Then write that down. The smallest thing might be helpful as the case progresses.”

“If I’m right and Tamerlan is at the center of this, you owe me a drink,” I say.

Julie considers it.

“All right. And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not. But if I am, you get free rentals at Max Overdrive.”

“I’m not really a movie person. I’m more of an ESPN person.”

“I used to run Hell and now I’m working for a jock.”

“I used to be a U.S. marshal and now I’m working with a felon.”

Candy raises a ­couple of fingers and says, “Two felons.”

“Two felons.”

Julie looks at Brigitte.

“I don’t suppose you’re a felon too?”

“No. Merely an ex-­pornographer.”

Julie looks into the distance and sips her coffee.

“It could be worse,” I say.

“How?”

I think for a minute.

“Actually, I’m not sure. But I’ll think of something and put it in my report.”

“I can’t wait to read it.”

“I can’t wait to make it up.”

STARTING TOMORROW I’LL be a potted plant. Humpty-­Dumpty sitting in a car, making notes, eating donuts, watching my gut get big, and wanting to blow my brains out. But until then, no one told me what to do.

I leave Candy at home, happily pecking away at the laptop. This is the first time I haven’t missed her since we started this case and she decided she liked data better than kicking in doors. She doesn’t need to go where I’m going. It’s not the worst place in L.A. It just smells the worst.

I drive out to Echo Park and leave the Crown Vic by the arboretum in Elysian Park, a sprawling patch of green near the 5 Freeway. On the east side of the park, just about under the freeway, is a greasy-­spoon diner called Lupe’s. Supposedly Lupe Vélez used to eat there in the thirties, back when it was a chic spot for movie stars to slum. They say she ate her last meal here just before she took eighty Seconal and lay down for one last long nap.

Next to Lupe’s is an auto wrecking yard with no name I’ve ever been able to find. Out front is a hand-­painted sign that says WRECKERS, and that’s it. No hours. No phone number or address. Above the razor-­wire-­topped fences you can see piles of dead, rusting car bodies. Through the fence are wooden bins full of greasy axles, dusty brake drums, carburetors, and a hundred other parts. Everything you’d need to fix or assemble a car. But I’ve never seen anyone inside, and don’t know anyone who’s seen a sign of life from the place. No one even knows how long it’s been there. As far as anyone can remember, it’s always been in this spot, even when they were originally building the freeway. But I’m not here for Lupe’s or Wreckers. I’m here for what lies between them.

Piss Alley.

It’s exactly as fragrant as its name, but the smell doesn’t seep into the street or bother the diners at Lupe’s. You have to go into Piss Alley to get a hit of the pure product, and, man, what a product it is. It’s like all the toilets in L.A. take a detour through the alley on the way to Piss Heaven. It smells like ammonia and rotten meat. It doesn’t matter how many times you go into Piss Alley, it’s always a shock. Your eyes water, your nose runs, and your stomach says, “You weren’t planning on ever eating again, were you?”

I hold my breath and take a step between Lupe’s and Wreckers. I’m nauseous for a second. This is why ­people used to think that smells—­miasmas—­caused disease. If smells could kill, Piss Alley would make a nuke seem like a car backfire on the