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quite a bit older and less secretive than that in front. They’d want anyone approaching the back gate to know they were being watched.
    I turned left out of the alley and parked on the street two long blocks away from the house. On foot, I went back up the alley. If the camera I had seen really was the only one back there, I would be able to approach the back gate and get a look over the fence without entering its field of view.
    The wall was eight feet high, and even though it had been a long time since I’d scaled one like it, it was still relatively easy to take hold of its top edge and pull myself up to get a look. Which I did three times as I got closer to the gate. There was a fairly large concrete area off to the side and out of view of the house, about the size of two or three average suburban driveways. There was nothing in the space at the moment, and the moonlight lit it up in bright contrast to the sliver of yard I was able to see at its far edge.
    There was just enough light to make out the passenger side of a Porsche parked in front of the garage.
    So he was probably holed up inside.
    Unless he caught a ride with someone else. The congressman had to have drivers on call 24/7, right?
    As I reached up and put my hands on the sharp edge of brickwork topping the wall to pull myself up again, the folly of what I was doing hit me.
    What did I really think I could find out here?
    Bradley might be there, and he might not.
    Had I thought I might look over the fence and see him in the act of burying the body of some as yet undiscovered victim?
    I brushed the grit and dirt off my hands and started back toward my car.
    As I approached the mouth of the alley, I heard the sound of a car moving slowly behind.
    No lights. Just the tires on the asphalt and the low growl of the engine.
    Maintaining my pace, I let my hands float out away from my hips and made sure they were open wide.
    The high beams hit me from behind, and I could see the dark emptiness in exactly my shape that they carved into the mist in front of me.
    There was only enough time to wonder if I should have drawn my gun and dove for cover before the cruiser’s candy bar lit up the alley in flashing red and blue, the tires ground to a stop, and the unit’s door opened.
    I didn’t recognize the uniform’s voice, but there was the unmistakable tone of cop in it. “Please stop where you are.”
    The drill was familiar. In my own uniform days, I’d been on the other end of it hundreds of times. I knew enough to do exactly as I was told. My adrenaline levels had peaked and were beginning to fall; his were still on the rise.
    “Turn around slowly.”
    I did, careful to keep my arms and hands in plain view.
    When he saw my face, there was a moment in which I thought he might have recognized me, but I wasn’t sure. There was no chance of my recognizing him. The high beams and flashing lights were working exactly as they were supposed to.
    “What’s your business here, sir?”
    “I’m on the job.” I gave it a moment to register with him. “Homicide. LBPD.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Beckett.”
    “ID?”
    “Right back pocket. Right underneath my gun.”
    “Sorry to do this, sir, but would you turn around and place your hands on the back of your head?”
    He believed me. It wouldn’t have been a question if he didn’t.
    “Yes, certainly.” I heard him approach and stop two feet behind me. He was looking at my gun. Raising my arms would have lifted the bottom edge of my jacket high enough for him to see the muzzle, and it was never too late for something like this to turn into a horrible mistake.
    “I’m just going to reach into your pocket for your badge, all right, Detective?”
    “Yes, go ahead.”
    He had to dig a bit to get a grip on the badge holder, but he found it, read it, and said, “I’m sorry, Detective. I just had to be sure.”
    “No worries. I would have done the same.” I wouldn’t have needed to, though. By the time I was