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too.”
    â€œHave we found Dana Courson?”
    â€œShe lives in Studio City. There was no answer on her phone, no answer at her door. The public defender’s office said she told them she would be out for a week. I left word for her to contact us if she calls in.”
    I looked at Chavez, whose soft, dark eyes were never very good at hiding even the most innocent of emotions.
    â€œYour father was questioned in a murder case eighteen years ago,” he said. “A bad arrest was made. My bet is it ends there.”
    â€œIt didn’t for my brother and Detective Williams,” I said. “You think LAPD has made the connection between the River Killer and this?”
    â€œIf there is a connection,” Chavez said. “They haven’t made it yet if they’re still looking for a cop killer.”
    â€œCan we get the complete case file on the River Killer?”
    â€œLAPD has made it very clear that if you stick even a toe into your brother’s or Williams’s death, they’ll arrest you for obstruction.”
    â€œAll they have to know is that we’re looking at an eighteen-year-old murder case.”
    Chavez shook his head. “Once they get their heads out of their asses, they may make the connection.”
    â€œCan you get the files?”
    Chavez sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    I looked down at the mug shot of my father. He was years older in the picture than the last time I had seen him. The charming good looks that had fueled a dream of stardom had faded. The sparkle in the eyes was gone; the sharp lines of his face had softened. I tried to imagine what his life had been like after he left my mother and me, but I couldn’t. Mug shots freeze a moment in time unlike any other photograph. The subject has no past, no future, just a single terrible moment in the white light of the camera’s flash. The truth was, if I met this man on a street this afternoon, I wouldn’t know who he was.
    I took the file and stepped into my office while Harrison called the doctor who had attended to Gavin. I glanced at the mug shot of my father one more time, then closed the file and picked up the phone. I knew the number but, as I did every time I called, I looked it up in my book. Perfect daughters don’t make mistakes.
    â€œIt’s me,” I said when she answered. “I need you to tell me something.”
    â€œIt’s one of those conversations, is it?” my mother said.
    â€œNo, I just need you to be honest with me.”
    â€œWhen have I not been honest with you?”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant.”
    â€œWell, that’s what it sounded like,” she said.
    â€œI’m sorry, I should have phrased that differently.”
    â€œYou talk to everyone as if you suspect they’ve committed a crime.”
    I closed my eyes and took a breath.
    â€œIt’s a bad habit,” I said.
    I thought I could hear the sound of a cigarette being lit, even though she swore she quit years ago.
    â€œOkay, now what do you need to know?” my mother asked.
    I thought I knew how to ask the question, but I suddenly realized I didn’t. Or at least I didn’t know how to ask without her thinking I was accusing her of something. I hesitated, and then asked it the only way I knew how. The way a cop would ask.
    â€œDid my father ever abuse you?”
    There was silence on the other end, as if the words had taken her breath away.
    â€œHow can you ask something like that?” she finally said, a slight trembling in her voice. “How can you?”
    â€œI had a dream last night he was choking you.”
    â€œA dream? You accuse me of that because of a dream.”
    â€œSomeone who is the victim of abuse hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m not accusing you of anything.”
    â€œYou think I’m the kind of person who would stay with someone who did that to them?”
    â€œThere is no kind of