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tonight on Sunset Boulevard. I didn't think there was anything unusual about her until she gave me this.” Nichelle held up the witness identification form and pointed at Line 2.
“So, she lives on Hollywood Boulevard? What's strange about that?” Elizabet asked.
“I wouldn't have thought anything was weird about it, except that when I was in high school, I worked in a particular movie theater for a few months. This girl gave me the address of Mann's Chinese Theater.” Nichelle smiled. “I ran her name through the runaway database, and it came up cherries. Kayla Smith, state ward. She's been in Juvie twice for shoplifting and is currently ­reported missing from a foster home in Orange County. She ran away two months ago. God knows what she's been doing since.” The homicide detective dropped the form on Elizabet's desk. “She's all yours, Elizabet.”
“Thanks,” Elizabet said with a wry smile. “Anything else I should know about this child?”
“She's bright and obviously thinks fast on her feet. Doesn't look like she does drugs, though she's wearing a half‑trashed denim jacket that would cover any tracks. No terminal case of the sniffles or jitters, anyhow, so I doubt she's a crackhead. Maybe you can do something for this one.”
“Maybe.” Elizabet stuffed the case folder in her briefcase. “Is she in a holding room or one of the offices?”
“Simmons' office. There's still some fresh coffee in there, if you need it.” Nichelle yawned and stretched, smiling tiredly. “I'm calling it a night. You might want to buzz Collins and get him ready to process this kid. I doubt anyone would want to drive her over to Juvie at this hour.”
“You're probably