The last stop on our list was a street-front shop called Data Imaging Answers on Pico, two blocks from the Westwood Pavilion shopping center. After pulling to the curb in a no-parking zone out front, Thorson smiled and said, "This is it. This is the one."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Walk-in store on a busy street. The other two were more like mail-order offices, not storefronts. Gladden would have wanted the storefront. More visual stimulation. People passing outside, people coming in and out, more distractions. It would be better for him. He doesn't want to be remembered."

It was a small store with two desks in the showroom and several unopened boxes stacked about. There were two circular counters with computer terminals and video equipment on display along with stacks of computer equipment catalogs. A balding man wearing thick glasses with black frames was sitting at one of the desks and looked up as we entered. There was no one at the other desk and it looked unused.

"Are you the manager?" Thorson inquired.

"Not only that, I'm the owner." The man stood up with proprietary pride and smiled as we approached his desk. "Not only that, I am the number one employee."

When we didn't join in his guffaw he asked what he could do for us.

Thorson showed him the inside of his badge wallet.

"FBI?"

It seemed incomprehensible to him.

"Yes. You sell the digiShot 200, correct?"

"Yes, we do. Top-of-the-line digital camera. But I'm out of stock at the moment. Sold my last one last week."

I felt my guts seize. We were too late.

"I can have one in three or four days. In fact, seein' that it's the FBI I might get them to ship two-day. No charge extra, of course."

He smiled and nodded but his eyes had a quizzical look behind the thick glasses. He was nervous dealing with the FBI, especially not knowing what it was all about.

"And your name is?"

"Olin Coombs. I'm the owner."

"Yes, you said that. Okay, Mr. Coombs, I'm not interested in buying anything. Do you have the name of the person who bought your last digiShot?"

"Uh…" He creased his brow, probably wondering if he should ask if it was legal for the FBI to ask for such information. "Of course I keep records. I can get that for you."

Coombs sat down and opened a drawer in his desk. He looked through a hanging file until he found what he was looking for, pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it flat on the desk. He then turned it around so Thorson didn't have to read it upside down. Thorson leaned over, studied the document and I saw his head make a slight turn to the right and then back. Looking at the receipt, it looked to me as if numerous pieces of equipment had been purchased along with the digiShot camera.

"This isn't what I'm looking for," Thorson said. "I'm looking for a man that we believe wanted to purchase a digiShot camera only. This is the only one you've sold in the last week?"

"Yes-uh, no. It's the only one with delivery. We've sold two others but they had to be ordered."

"And they haven't been delivered yet?"

"No. Tomorrow. I'm expecting a truck in the morning."

"Either of those two just order the camera?"

"The camera?"

"You know, none of the other stuff. The software, the cable, the whole kit."

"Oh, yes. Uh, as a matter of fact, there is…"

His words trailed off as he opened the drawer again and pulled out a clipboard with several pink forms on it. He started peeling them back and reading.

"I have a Mr. Childs. Just wanted the camera, nothing else. Paid cash in advance. Nine ninety-five plus California sales tax. Came to-"

"Did he leave a number or address?"

I stopped breathing. We had him. This had to be Gladden. The irony of the name he had given was not lost on me. I felt a chill roll across my back.

"No, no number or address," Coombs said. "I wrote a note to myself. It says Mr. Wilton Childs will call to check on the equipment's arrival. I told him to call tomorrow."

"Then he'll come pick it up?"

"Yes, if it's here by then he'll come pick it up. Like I said, we don't have an address so we can't deliver it."

"Do you remember what he looked like, Mr. Coombs?"

"Looked like? Uh, well, yes I suppose so."

"Can you describe him?"

"He was a white fellow, I remember that. He…"

"Blond hair?"

"Uh, no. It was dark. And he was growing a beard, I remember that."

"How old?"

"About twenty-five or perhaps thirty."

That was good enough for Thorson. It was in the ballpark and the rest of the information fit. He pointed at the empty desk.

"Anybody using that desk?"

"Not at the moment. Business is not so good."

"Then is it all right if we do?"

39

There was a discernible electric buzz in the air as everyone gathered around a table in the conference room with the million-dollar view. After being brought up to speed by a phone call from Thorson, Backus had decided to move his operation command post from the Wilcox Hotel to the FBI offices in Westwood. We gathered on the seventeenth floor of the federal building in a conference room with a panoramic view of the city. I could see Catalina Island floating out in a golden ocean reflecting the spectacular burnt-orange-and-red start of another sunset.

It was four-thirty Pacific time and the meeting had been scheduled late to give Rachel as much time as possible to obtain and execute a search warrant for records of Gladden's bank account in Jacksonville.

In the conference room, Backus was joined by Thorson, Carter, Thompson, six agents I hadn't been introduced to but who I assumed were locals, and me. Quantico and all the field offices involved in the investigation were also on the conference line. And even these unseen people seemed excited. Brass Doran kept saying over the speaker, "Are we ready to start yet?"

Finally, Backus, sitting at the center of the table, closest to the speakerphone, called everyone to order. Behind him, on an easel, was a crude top-view diagram of the Data Imaging Answers store and the block of Pico Boulevard where it was located.

"Okay, people, things are happening," he said. "This is what we worked for. So let's talk about it and then let's do it and let's do it right."

He stood up. Maybe the moment was getting to him as well.

"We have a priority one lead we're working and we want to hear from Rachel and Brass. First, though, I'm going to have Gordon give the rundown on what we've got set up for tomorrow."

As Thorson told the captive audience about our day's work and discoveries, my mind wandered. I thought of Rachel somewhere in Jacksonville, twenty-five hundred miles from her investigation and listening to a man she didn't like and probably even despised talk about the major break he had made. I wanted to talk to her and try in some way to console her, but not with twenty-five people listening. I wanted to ask Backus where she was so I could call afterward but knew I couldn't do that, either. Then I remembered the pager. I would do that later.

"We are shifting our critical incident team off Thomas," Thorson said. "The LAPD surveillance team is doubling up and will stay with Thomas. We are redirecting our people to be used in a twofold plan to facilitate the arrest of this offender. First off, we now have caller ID on the phones at Data Imaging. We will have a mobile receiver and LED read-out to monitor incoming calls on both lines and the field office is providing all available hands for response teams. We're going to trace this subject's call when he checks in to see if his product is in and try to hold him at the phone until our people can get there. If they do, standard felony arrest procedures will follow. Any questions so far?"

"Air support?" an agent asked.