Rage erupted through Jenkins's entire body at once. He turned and backhanded a loose IV pole. The force of his swat sent it flying back into a supplies cabinet, where it cracked the thick glass. One of the nurses emitted a little yelp, and the other dropped her saline bottle, which rolled back and forth on the floor in an oscillating arc.

Just as quickly as it had come, Jenkins's rage dissipated. He stood slightly hunched, shoulders rolled forward, breath hammering through his nostrils.

Diane caught David's eye and mouthed, Security? He shook his head.

Jenkins's breathing evened out. "I'm sorry," he said, to no one in particular.

David calmly walked over, picked up the dropped saline bottle, and handed it back to the nurse with a reassuring nod. Cautiously, the nurses went back to work on Nancy.

"Alkali," Jenkins said. "That's the same as lye, isn't it?"

"Yes," David said.

"I don't understand. I've spilled that stuff on my hand before. Burns a little, but it doesn't… " His voice trailed off as he regarded his sister.

"If it's washed off quickly, the damage can be dramatically reduced. But if it's left on, it's terribly corrosive. It's especially harsh on the soft tissue of the throat and eyes." David stepped around into Jenkins's line of sight. "We'll continue to do all that we can."

"Thank you." Jenkins touched a fist to his mouth. "Who's working the case?"

"Two UCLA PD detectives," David said.

"We'll see about that," Jenkins muttered. Lips pursed, he looked down at his younger sister's face, blistered and swollen. A pulse beat in his temple. "Is the fucker in custody?"

"Have they confirmed it was an assault rather than an accident?"

Jenkins's laugh stabbed the air. "I don't think she tripped and fell face first into a vat of Drano." The skin under his eyes was puffy, as though he'd been crying. His hair was mussed up in one spot in the back; it looked all the more sloppy, given the neatness of the rest of his appearance. "Nancy wasn't the kind of girl to have enemies."

"Isn't," David said. "She isn't the kind of girl to have enemies."

"That's right," Jenkins said. "No enemies at all." He smoothed the front of his uniform shirt with his hands. "Just an ex-husband."

"Look," David said. "We don't know-"

"Guess what he does?" Jenkins said, with a crisp little smile.

Diane shook her head.

"A plumber. Fucker totes Drano for a living." He glanced back down at the gelatinous lesions pocking his sister's face, and his grin vanished. "Thank you for your help." He walked so briskly from the room that David felt the breeze across his cheeks.

He and Diane exhaled audibly. One of the nurses shook her head. "He can sure give off some heat," she said.

Diane glanced over at David. "Do you think it was an assault?" she asked.

"I know one thing," David said. He pulled his stethoscope from across his shoulders and repositioned it around his neck. "I'd hate to be her ex-husband right now."

Chapter 3

THE black-and-white idled up to the front of Tavin's Tavern, a shady bar off Pico in the West Side. Hugh Dalton, a gruff heavyset man with wrinkled, sallow skin that resembled a paper bag, hunched over the wheel, squeezing it with two thick hands. He stared at the cheap signage-backlit plastic letters mounted on the cracked stucco next to the door. The second T was flickering.

"Witty name," he grumbled.

"You call your guy at the Times?" Jenkins asked.

"Not yet." Dalton's eyes shifted along the dash. "UCLA's been pushing to keep this under wraps."

Jenkins glowered at him. "We both know that if we don't get a media storm going, this case'll get triaged in an evidence locker along with every other garden-variety assault."

"I doubt it. It's throwing heat on its own. Press is already running." He held up his hands in calming fashion. "Relax. I'll call the Times anyways. Stoke the fire."

Jenkins snapped the casing off his hefty Saber radio. Hair and clots of dried blood clogged the mouthpiece beneath. He rolled down his window and blew into the unit, clearing it, then clipped it back onto his belt. He pushed open the passenger door and started to step out of the vehicle, but Dalton grabbed his arm.

"You sure you want to do this?" Dalton asked.

Jenkins leaned back into his seat. Dalton kept his bulldog head steady, studying Jenkins's face. He was more than ten years Jenkins's senior; his experience and three years of partnership made him one of the few people who could question Jenkins directly.

"Her eyes were opaque," Jenkins said. "Looked like soggy hard-boiled eggs." He shook his head. "Opaque."

He got out of the car and, after a moment, Dalton followed suit, grunting as he shifted his weight. "If it's his regular hangout," Dalton said, "we'd better keep an eye out for buddies steeled with liquid courage."