Shane Scully's Canal House

The people who now lived on the canals were an even more interesting mix. Young doctors who smoked dope lived next to disapproving retirees. New Age musicians and mimes competed for hat tips on the boardwalk, while four blocks inland, on Fifteenth Street, gangbangers and unaware tourists fought and died over wallets and watches. Jammed in with all of this confusion, next to a longhaired surfboard shaper, was LAPD Sergeant Shane Scully. There was something about the canal blocks of Venice, California, that suited him; something offbeat and sad. Venice seemed as misplaced as her residents.

Parker Center

The building was known as “the Glass House” to everybody on the job because of the excessive amount of plate glass that draped its huge boxy shape. The otherwise nondescript building had been designed in the fifties, which had proved to be a decade of architecture blight. The parking garage next door went down nine stories underground. The detectives found a spot on U-3, and led Shane out of the parking complex, through a security door, and into the third basement of police headquarters.

Harvard Westlake School

Even with the break in traffic, Shane arrived at Harvard Westlake fifteen minutes late. He pulled past the Zanuck Swimming Stadium and the Amelia and Mark Taper Athletic Pavilion. He let Chooch off at the Feldman Horn Fine Arts Building, where his first period had already convened. The unintended image-enhancing uncuffing ceremony passed without an audience. “I’ll pick you up at three-thirty,” Shane said, putting his handcuffs away. “Whatever,” Chooch growled. Then with his book bag over his shoulder, he did a gangsta lean into the building.

Shutters Hotel

Their “spot” the outdoor restaurant at Shutters Hotel on the beach in Santa Monica. Once or twice, when they’d been dating, they‘d taken a room there. The place was picturesque, and most of the units overlooked the water. Back then they’d both been in their early twenties and single. Having lunch together on an open patio before going up to a rented love nest had been fine. Now, after shooting Ray, the last thing he needed was to be seen hunched over the table, in whispered conversation with his widow. Still, Shane was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t describe.

Barbara's House

When they got to Barbara’s house on Shell Avenue, the front door was ajar. Shane pulled up to the curb as Barbara pulled into her driveway. They both got out of their cars and looked at the half-open door with concern. Shane pulled his gun and handed Barbara his cell phone. “Call nine-one-one if I’m not out in two minutes,” he said.

Bradbury Building

The Bradbury Building never failed to amaze Shane. He felt that it was the most magnificent building in Los Angeles. Only five stories high, it had been designed in the late 1800s by Gregory Wyman, a draftsman with no architecture degree. It sat bravely on the corner of Broadway and Third while slovenly men leaned forward to piss against her or curled up to sleep, rubbing the grime from their clothes on her magnificent yellow bricks.

Records Division

Shane drove to the Records Division and parked in the big asphalt lot on Spring Street. He locked the Acura and moved around the front, trying hard not to look at the bashed-in fender. He walked through the door of the large three-story brick building and climbed the stairs to the criminal division, where he sat at a table and filled out a records release request.

Sandy's Apartment

Sandy lived at the Barrington Plaza in Brentwood, in one of two gorgeous penthouse suites. Shane got there in thirty minutes. He pulled up to the overhanging porte cochere and handed the keys for the busted-up Acura to a doorman who had enough braid hanging off his uniform shoulders to lead a Latin American country or the University of Michigan marching band.

Marina Del Rey

They walked quietly along the concrete path and down onto the dock, light-footing it. They had already decided how they would do it, and as they got to the stern of the boat, Shane found some cover one boat away as Alexa moved up to the cockpit. “Hello, anybody there?” she called out. “Anybody home? Chief Mayweather? Request permission to come aboard.” The back cabin door opened, and Deputy Chief Thomas Mayweather stuck his gleaming black head out. “Yes?” he said. “What is it?” He had on a striped polo shirt and white pants. “You alone, sir? It’s Sergeant Hamilton, IAD. I need to talk to you.”