Underneath the seventy-six-trombone headache, there sounded the morning chorus of barking pit bulls. I turned the corner onto Abbot Kinney Boulevard, where a long line of drunks supported a brick wall while they waited for the door to open at The Brig, the only bar in this area with early hours.

The sun lit up the morning mist, and as I got closer to the ocean the real estate improved. I'd forgotten to put on lipgloss, and my lips were so dry they hurt.

My destination was the canals. The canals run into the beach, and they are also part of Venice, but much different because when you hit the canals the area abruptly transforms into an exclusive community of movie stars, studio execs and others employed in the entertainment industry. As I got closer, the homes got bigger, and the windows had leaded and stained glass in them instead of the black security bars of my neighborhood.

When I dropped over a small hill I was greeted by the canals, full of ducks and sunshine-reflecting bridges. I pulled past a rowboat on the last canal into a long driveway of a small palace and followed a row of pepper trees toward the beach. I took in a deep breath. A clump of palm and banana trees concealed what turned out to be a bungalow built on rocks and stilts out over the surf line. The front door faced the water, where the sun shone through the fog and glimmered golden on ocean blue.

I parked. Praying for Chapstick, I groped around in my glove compartment, found some and swiped it across my lips with a measure of relief. Getting out, I adjusted my gun and closed the door of my unmarked with extra care not to slam it. I was feeling delicate. I pressed my lips together, making sure the Chapstick had covered the whole lip area, and took a moment to absorb the scene while I put on my game face.

"Hey, Joan!"

Even with my sunglasses, the glare made it hard to make out anything more than a large indistinct form. The voice was vaguely familiar, vaguely annoying. I figured it was Trevor Krantz. Trevor--yeah, he was working Pacific Homicide. That made sense. Had to be him.

We were rivals years ago at the police academy. We had this competition thing going, always looking to knock the other out of the top spot, and now, here we were. He lumbered toward me.

I refused to answer, as it would only add more pain to my aching head. The waves pounding against the rocks and pilings of the house was relentless. I caught peripheral movement that turned out to be a big black dog. It was sad-faced and furtive and immediately slunk behind a rock. Dogs aren't the best creatures to have around a crime scene. They like to carry things off and bury them.

I fast-stepped toward Trevor, hoping to shorten the drama of my approach. He was all teeth, grinning at me like I was an old war buddy or something. I smiled back even though it hurt my face.

"You gone Hollywood on us, Joan?"

"Huh?"

"What's with the shades?"

"Oh. My eyes hurt. The glare," I said with a small wave of my hand toward the ocean.

Trevor nodded.

"Yeah, there's some sensitive to it. Me, I just squint."

"Squint doesn't work for me, Trevor."

"How long you been back?" he asked, still grinning. Or maybe he was squinting.

"Today's my first day."

"You look good."

"Thanks, I feel like shit. It's nice to see you, though."

"I knew they couldn't keep you away," he added.

"Well, if you knew that, you knew more than I did."

That old sheepish look spread across his face.

"To tell you the truth, I have to thank you 'cause today I collect fifty bucks. I told them you didn't crack. You're a tough guy."

It wasn't the first time I'd had odds laid on me. I was beginning to feel like a racehorse.

When I went on board with Pacific Homicide, everybody in my unit said I wouldn't last long, that I cared too much. Bets were laid down that I wouldn't make it six months. But here I was, higher in the ranks than many of those who'd wagered against me.

"I appreciate your vote of confidence, but tough ain't always the answer," I said.

"Yeah, well, tell that to the bad guys."

"Really, huh." I agreed. "What do we got today, anyway?"

"Dead girl. Not from around here. St. Louis. Looks like a sex fest in there."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Gadgets, dungeon stuff?"

"No, cozy. A real love nest."

"Like you would know."

A pained expression shot across his face, but then he recovered, back to business.

"This one don't even seem dead. It's like lookin' at a big doll. A big pretty doll, no kiddin'."

"Who does that black dog belong to?" I asked.

"What black dog?"

I looked around, but the dog was out of sight. I shrugged and gave him a feeble smile.

"It doesn't even look like a homicide to me," he continued.

"No? Then what is it?"

"Recreational drug overdose, some lethal cocktail. Kids these days are into ecstasy and all that designer shit. It's not like we need Specials to come crashing in to figure it out."

"Maybe they just decided to give me an easy one. You know, my first day back and all. Maybe it didn't hurt that I'm from St. Louis. Her parents are heavy hitters, so don't take it personal. We'll make a big deal over the tragic death of their daughter, and everybody can go home with a job well done."

"Okay. Right. Make your stats look good."

"Later," I said, immediately unhappy about how I had framed it. Why was I so quick to respond to his peevish complaints? Why did I feel I had to care for his precious ego? I made my move away from him and toward the crime scene.

"You've heard that there's three types of female detective?"

I turned back to him with exaggerated reluctance, or maybe it wasn't exaggerated.

"Your morning joke?"

"Nope, no joke."

"Okay, I'll bite. What's the three types of female detective?"

"Nympho, lesbo and psycho."

"Very clever."

"Which one are you?"

I snorted and considered.

"I think I'll have to go with psycho."

"It's not as interesting as the other two, but I see your point." He grinned his big teeth at me. "Welcome back," he said.

"Yeah. Is VanChek in there?"

He nodded. "We already filled him in on all the details."

A breeze blew off the ocean as I followed a stone path through the sand to the front of the house and breathed in the smell of sea air. Once in front of the house, I stopped for a moment and took in the expanse of ocean. I spotted the black dog making his way down the beach. A wave slammed against a big rock beside the house and sprayed me in the face and shoulder. It was oddly invigorating.

Another one of LAPD'S finest was putting up yellow crime tape. Heavy in the middle with rosy red cheeks, he looked like a young W.C. Fields. The tape slipped out of his grip, and the yellow ribbon blew up in the air. It flew and dipped, snapping over my head. I grabbed it and handed the plastic strip back to the detective, held up my badge, and he waved me in.

"McKenna," he said.

"Joan Lambert," I answered.

I wiped my sunglasses dry on my shirt and pressed sea-wet curls behind my ear as I pushed open the front door. It was of golden wood, carved in geometric shapes that fit together. One-of-a-kind, custom living. You see it a lot in Special Section.

I entered the foyer and immediately got the "love nest" feeling Trevor had conveyed. The place had a pleasant smell of incense. The decor was hip, sexy, with textured satins and silks amid jungle patterns and tropical plants. The constant crashing of the surf against the foundation pilings was unnerving. Yet the overall feeling of the place was "hideaway."

My partner, Gus VanChek, Detective third level, was tall and Clark Gable handsome. I'd known him for a good ten years. In his late forties, the women were still major crazy for him. He strode toward me into the foyer from the living room on long legs like a big gray cat.

"You ready?" he asked.

I nodded, glad to see his thin rugged face and pepper-gray hair.

"What I want to know," he said, "is how can people live with that water slapping back and forth all day and night?"

"I guess they must have a thing for the ocean."

My eyes were drawn to an African mask on the wall. I liked it. Gus followed my gaze.

"It's a moon goddess dance mask," he offered. "Probably from Upper Volta."

"Moon goddess?" There were several carved circles and white paint around brown-and-black saucer eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me, Joan. I know. Maybe you should go to a museum sometime."

"You mean one of those world culture digs you frequent?"

"Couldn't hurt. I'll invite you next time I go."

He gestured toward the living room as if he were the host in his own home.

My eyes took in a clean hardwood floor and came up the side of a maroon velvet couch and settled on the pale flesh of a young woman. The short skirt of her green cocktail dress was hiked up around her hips. She wore no underpants. The position of her body was sensual, one arm above her, beckoning. Her long red hair triggered a reaction in me. I almost hesitated to approach. It was as though I might disturb and awaken her.

Gus was right behind me.

"'He saw therein a maiden of the greatest beauty. She lay as if asleep, and was wrapped in her long hair as in a precious mantle.'"

"Brothers Grimm," I said. "Never known you to quote fairy tales."

"I still have a few in me."