At least the Northeast Division’s station was shiny and new-looking, a contrast to the more modest commercial and industrial buildings that surrounded it. Audrey had driven through this part of L.A. before but wasn’t familiar with it. Were they in Atwater Village? Glassell Park?
It probably didn’t matter all that much.
The desk sergeant, a pretty black woman in her late thirties or early forties, was obviously expecting them, because as soon as Michael gave his name and showed her his driver’s license, she handed them a bulky dark manila envelope. “House keys and garage remote,” she said. “If you could sign this form.”
She pushed a clipboard toward them, and Michael briefly scanned the paperwork on it before taking the attached pen and signing his name. “Is Detective Mendoza here?”
“No
