The moon sagged above the murky Los Angeles skyline like a pendulous goiter. Somewhere far below, disgraced detective Ted Thraxton power-stumbled in the general direction of the 24-hour laundromat, tripping over a seemingly endless cavalcade of trash cans and discarded heroin needles. It had been 3 months since his latest ex-partner, Rick Piston, had been gunned down by the Ukrainian mob during a routine bar brawl and Ted had last seen anything even remotely resembling sobriety.
