Valley of Lights

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I was within two blocks' drive of Paradise when the call came over the air. It was a 927, a general code meaning to investigate unknown trouble. The dispatch girl was offering it to Travis and Leonard, both of whom were checking IDs for warrants in the scrubby little park around the Adult Center on Jefferson; knowing that I could have them as backup in three minutes or less if the 'unknown trouble' turned out to be something bigger than anticipated, I cut in and took the call. Squad Sergeant responding, one minute or less.

The Paradise Motor Court was one of those places that could make a weekend break at the Bates Motel look halfway attractive. It was on the fringe of that section of Phoenix known as The Deuce, an area of old warehouses and railyards which they reckon got its name during the war from the two-dollar tricks on offer around the streets. I'd first been thrown in there some twelve years before, fresh out of the Academy with my Police Officer 1 grade, and I'd found it to be shabby and scary and inexplicably exciting. As Skid Rows went it hadn't grown any prettier, but my main thought as I pulled onto the Paradise forecourt was to wonder whether the 927 was going to bring me any surprises. I could usually count on a couple of surprises on a good day, even now; some were welcome, some less so.

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