CHAPTER 1
It was raining again. This was going to be a wet winter in south-
ern California. Since the official begionlng of the rainy season
two months ago in September they had had four heavy storms.
In the big， square， communal detective otfice on the second floor
of Glendale Police headquarters， the tall windows streamed
grayly， and all the strip fluorescent lighting was on.
At his desk next to Delia s， :Varallo was reading a report. Leo
Boswell was typing one a couple of desks away， cussing now
and then at the typewriter. Evoucbody else was out somewhere.
Delia was listening to Mrs. Grace Phillips.
\"I tell you， Miss--what did you say-- Riordan， that poor girl
never had a chance. See， she opened up to me， I heard the
whole story. She never had a damned chance. Raised on a farm
some place in Kansas， for God s sake， and never seen a town
bigger than the wide place in the road she went to school runs
away to Hollywood on the bus with the idea she d get the swell
modeling job next day， people always said she was pretty
enough to be a movie starpmy God!\" Grace Phillips was a
hard-faced blonde by request somewhere in her fifties; she
looked as if life had used her hard， but she had her head
screwed on the fight way and had kept a sense of humor and a
warm heart. \"Haven t we all heard the story before!\"
\"Yes，\" said Delia. \"Did she tell you anything about Jerry
Rubio?\"
\"Oh， you know his name. Maybe I m not telling you nothing
you don t know? Well， the cops are smart these days.\" Grace
Phillips stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on Delia s desk.
Her expression was brooding. \"These poor damned silly kids.
Yeah， she told me the whole story， she needed a shoulder to cry
on-- I told you she d just got hired at the place I work， Chris s
Night Owl Care on San Fernando， and middle of the evening it s
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