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“You’re wanted at Parker Center,” the voice told her.

“Now?” Annie sighed. “It’s rush hour.”

“You were requested by name by the deputy chief of Special Services.”

“He asked for Agent Juno, secret company goon for hire?”

“No,” the voice said. “But he knew your real name. Most people just ask for our LA interrogator.”

It was more than she’d ever gotten out of this man on the other end of the line before, so she decided not to alienate him. “Thanks,” she said.

Her name wasn’t a secret. She didn’t have to live her life undercover anymore. She didn’t know what they knew about her or what kind of memo had been circulated that made everyone so willing to call in a stranger to poke holes in their investigations. But she didn’t remember meeting any deputy chiefs the last time she was at Parker Center, and the Special Services division handled the cases that were likely to causea media frenzy. Celebrities and rich people. Successful serial killers.

She went home, letting herself in through the gate instead of going through the house. She opened the door and considered her sparse clothing options.

She settled on a dress with a structured jacket, hoping the shoulder pads made her look more professional. She pushed up the sleeves because the heat during the day was still intense and dry, never mind that it was nearly October.

She threw some snacks into her purse—a little bag of cookies and a packet of trail mix—and locked the door behind her.

Helen was standing in the yard when she turned around, her hands on her hips.

“What did I say about sneaking around?” Helen asked.

“I’m not sneaking. I’m just hurrying.”

“I was going to grill tonight since it’s still so nice out.” Helen shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun with her hand. “Are you going to join us?”

“Save me some,” Annie said.

“Ashley’s birthday party is this Saturday,” Helen said. “I know she’d like it if you came.”

Ashley wouldn’t care if Annie fell off a cliff and landed into the open mouths of alligators, but she just nodded. “Okay.”

“Be careful out there.”

“I always am,” Annie assured her. “I’m sorry. I need to go downtown, and the traffic is going to be a nightmare.”

“Go on,” Helen said. “You know you can always call if you need help.”

“Thank you.”

As she started the car, she puzzled over the conversation. What did Helen think she was doing that she needed to be careful or might call for help? Maybe she should come up with a lie tocover her tracks better. Working in a doctor’s office or temping or something.

She took surface streets, driving by shops with boarded-up windows, the wordOPENspray-painted on more than one. A lot of people were starting to get back to normal after the riots, but insurance companies were backed up with claims, and many small business owners couldn’t afford repairs before they got their insurance checks.

Two hours after she received the page, which included the hour it took her to get downtown, she arrived on the Special Services floor. She usually came in to the chaos of a case gone wrong, but the elevator doors opened to an empty office. She stepped over the threshold and walked down the hall.

Outside the main room, a man sat at a desk. When the phone rang, he answered with “SSD, this is Woodward.”

She stepped in, surveying the cluster of desks. Beyond them was a glassed-in office obscured by long vertical blinds. The door was closed.

The man on the phone held up a finger.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, thanks. Yeah, she’s here now.” He hung up and looked at her. “The desk sergeant just called to say you were on your way up. Efficient, huh?”

She looked at him, a blank expression on her face.

“You are the translator, right?” he asked. “You speak Russian?”