[David's POV]
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Thousand Oaks, California, had a overzealous, sanitary charm. They didn't build homes here. They manufactured them--a hundred of identical Mediterranean villas at a stroke. Gated subdivisions named in every combination of "bridge", "Haven", "Glen" and "lake" covered the hillsides.
    Upscale retail chains had embassies in the city center, and the service people drove in each day from vassal communities. Where the medieval city of Lyon had its lane of Tanners, Southern California had its Vale of The Baristas and its canyon if Firefighters and rescue Personnel.
   For average working folks, America was becoming a puzzle. Who was buying all these two hundred-dollar copper saucepans, anyway?
   And how was everyone paying for these GMCs? Were people shrewd or just stupefyingly irresponsible?
   But me? No I would stay up watching television all night long. Channel surfing late at night, unable to sleep, for some reason I often thought that the commercials aimed at me. Was I their demographic? Did they correctly deduce me? What did they say about me?
  One of my favorites, the history channel, seemed to think I was a Korean War veteran looking for a truly capable brush mower, or that I was desperately in the need for a career change. I had a nasty thought that it was right about one of them.
    The 101 freeway cut Thousand Oaks in two but there really was no wrong side of the freeway. It had been named the safest small city in America, and as a detective, I watched the tidy boulevards roll past my passenger window, I often recalled why Emily and I moved here thirteen years ago-back when it was affordable; Ventura county was a great place to raise children. If you fucked up raising kids here, then God himself could not have helped you.

"Migraine, David?"
  I turned to one of my good friends Kyle Hunter, who was giving me a look of concern from the drivers seat. I barely shook my head. Hunter knew better than to pursue me.
   I thought about the radio call from Burkow. It would certainly rattle a few country club gates. We cruised through the town with the strobes flashing but no siren. No need to alarm anyone.
   From my unmarked crown Victoria, I watched the unsuspecting citizenry-the tax base on power walks. They'd have something to talk about tonight at Pilates class.
   The Crown Vic descended into the undeveloped canyons just beyond the last subdivision wall. The Scene wasn't difficult to find. An ambulance, three patrol units and a few marked cars on the sandy shoulder of Potrero Road marked the location. Two deputy sheriffs stood near a charmed little house that I didn't even know was there.
  A young girl about the age of 15 or younger sat on her doorstep with her mother  behind her massaging her shoulders.
  Hunter rolled the cruiser into the driveway before the gate. I stepped from the car and turned to the nearest officer.
  "Coroner?"
"En route, Sergeant."
"Where's detective Burkow?"
The deputy thumbed in the direction of the house past the girl that looked at her feet as if her father just slapped her.
  I waited for Hunter, who was radioing in. I looked back at the deputy. "What happened here?"
   "Apparently there's been a couple of reported blackouts in this area, but every time the city appliances come to check it out, nothing is busted. Plus there was a murder inside, apparently the murderer got in during one of the blackouts."
  I stuffed my hands in my pockets with my thumbs hanging out with a nod as Hunter caught up with me.
    "The scene doesn't look so good, poor kid is burnt to a crisp...he didn't even see it coming."
  I moved toward the girl and her mother, followed by hunter.
  We marched along the dirt road winding among the chaparral on the canyon bottom.
     Once we came up to the house paramedics swung open the door and marched out in a hurry.
   The paramedics pushed pass the mother and daughter toward us.
   "Evening Gentlemen." A glance "Ladies"
   We mumbled our greetings and so did the two girls but pushed passed us toward the ambulance.
    Right afterward Detective Micheal Burkow, a corpulent man in his late 30's with ill-fitting pants stepped out of the home, pass the girls and onto the crunchy dirt road.
   "The father should come out soon....poor kid." He whispered to us wiping his forehead before rushing off to the sheriffs.
   "Mind if we take a look ma'am?" I asked looking between the two.
   The mother patted her daughter who got up and stepped aside letting us through.
   We opened the screen door letting it close behind us with a quick double slam.
    The home wasn't bad looking and it smelled of bakery goods.
    But right in the living room there was a police officer and a photographer leaned forward to get an overhead shot of the body laying on the rug.
   There wasn't even blood just a man hovering over a small black crusty object.
  I knew it was the boy, but good god at first glance you wouldn't know what or who it was.
There was another slam from the screen door followed by heavy footsteps until Burkow stepped in.
  Detective Burkow coughed the consumption cough of a life long smoker. "Well, (Race) male...about 10 years old. Apparently  during one of the unexplained blackouts someone hopped through the kitchen window  while this kid was asleep on the couch watching some television, until the intruder set a flame to his face. Making him scream and lash around...it was reported as a 10-54, but I thought I'd call you guys. This is looking more like a 163."
   Hunter and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows. Obvious homicide, but rare in Thousand Oaks. The only killings down here were made in real estate.
   The photographer nodded to Burkow and made his way back out the house.
   "Who called?"
"The girl sitting on the front step outside, she said she saw the guy but won't say anything else."
   "Well we need answers."