California Department of Corrections, Parole Division, Region III, was located on South Broadway near First, in the heart of downtown. We got onto the 110, left the freeway at Fourth Street, drove south and got stuck in gridlock near Second. Milo had me call the parole office and ask for Bennett Hacker.

“Can you sound like a con?”

“Hey,” I said, deepening my voice. “Don’t crowd me, man.”

He laughed. I maneuvered voice mail structured to make me give up, finally ended up talking to a brusque, hurried woman. How many felons would have the patience?

She barked, “You one of his assignments?”

“That’s what they tell me,” I said.

“Got an appointment?”

“No, but I-”

“You need an appointment. He’s not here.”

“Oh, man,” I said. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“He left,” she said. “Like a minute ago.”

I gave up.

Milo cursed. “Three o’clock, and the guy takes off.”

“She said a minute ago,” I said. “If he parks outside the building, maybe we can spot him leaving.”

Traffic wasn’t moving. Then it crawled. And stopped. Four cars in front of us. Downtown shadows turned the sidewalk charcoal.

“What the hell,” said Milo, slamming the station wagon into PARK. He got out and looked up and down Broadway. The right lane was closed, blocked by groupings of orange cones. The cones demarcated oblong excavations. The air smelled of asphalt, but no work crew was in sight.

Milo flashed his badge at four startled drivers, got back in, watched them veer to the right, perilously close to the cones. He drove through the parting.

“Power,” he said, waving his thanks. “Intoxicating.” He coasted another ten feet, found an illegal parking spot next to a cone-surrounded hydrant. Right across from the parole building. The sidewalks were crowded, and no one paid attention.

Seconds later, a husky female parking officer approached, pad in hand. When she reached his window, out came the badge. He talked fast, gave her no chance to speak. She left glowering.

He said, “I’d cast her in a prison movie. The ruthless matron with no heart of gold.”

We waited. No sign of Bennett Hacker.

“A minute ago, huh?”

“Maybe there’s a rear exit,” I said.

“Wouldn’t that be sad.”

Five more minutes. Big, gray government building, lots of people coming and going.

Three minutes later, Bennett Hacker was disgorged through the front door, in a crush of other civil servants.

He was easy to miss, stepping away from the crowd to light up a cigarette.

But when the view cleared, he was still puffing. Wearing an ill-fitting gray sport coat over navy chinos, a dark blue shirt, a silver and aqua striped tie. Still smoking, he walked up the block to a hot dog stand.

Milo cruised forward, and I took Hacker’s picture. Mouth full of chili dog.

Hacker walked another block, eating and smoking. Unhurried. Not a care in the world.

Following slowly enough so as not to be noticed was a challenge. Traffic either sat still or spurted ahead. Milo broke lots of traffic laws, managed to pull it off. I took Polaroids when I had a clear shot. The prints revealed the ultimate forgettable man: tall, lanky, unremarkably featured and colored. One noticeable trait: slightly pigeon-toed. It made him seem unsteady, almost drunk.

At the next corner, Hacker finished the chili dog, tossed the greasy paper wrapping at a wastebasket, and missed. He turned without stopping to pick it up.

“There you go,” I said. “You can bust him for littering.”

“I’m keeping score.” Milo edged up to the corner.

Hacker entered an outdoor municipal parking lot.

Milo said, “We stay here and wait till he comes out. We’re looking for a ’99 Explorer. The reg says black, but that coulda changed.”

“He has two addresses, but just one car?”

“Yup.”

“He doesn’t spend on fancier wheels,” I said. “Or clothing. The place in the Marina is his prize.”

“Got to be. His crib on Franklin’s a dump. One-bedroom walk-up in an old three-story building. I drove by last night, figuring to catch a glimpse of him, maybe with Degussa. No luck. His mailbox is full. Now I know why. He prefers the sea breeze.”

The Explorer was black turned to gray by weeks of dirt. Bird shit speckled the top and the hood.

Bennett Hacker avoided the freeway and took side streets west: through the downtown crush to Figueroa, then south to Olympic, past Staples Center, all the way to Robertson. Then a right on Pico, to Motor, southward to Washington, where the avenue dead-ended at the Sony studio lot. Another right turn, and we were heading for the Marina.

A circuitous route; it took nearly an hour. Hacker made no attempts at shortcuts or slick maneuvers. He drove the way he walked. Slow, easy, not even a lane change unless it was essential. He smoked constantly, rolled the window down and flicked butts.

Milo stayed three cars behind him, and there was no sign Hacker noticed. At Palms, Milo phoned Sean Binchy and told him to forget about joining the tail, it wasn’t looking complicated. Binchy was mired in bureaucracy and enjoying it: airline records, the border patrol, querying the IRS for Jerome Quick’s tax records.

Milo told him, “Glad it’s fun for you, Sean.”

At Washington, just east of Palawan Way, Bennett Hacker stopped at a 7-Eleven and bought himself a Slurpee, and I took a picture of him sipping through two straws. Still drinking, he got back in the Explorer, turned onto Via Marina and drove right past his apartment. Tossed the empty cup out the window where it bounced along the median.

He continued through the Marina- past Bobby J’s and a spate of other harborside restaurants- and pulled into a strip mall on the south end.

Coin Laundromat, liquor store, window grate company, boat outfitters.

HOG TRAIL MOTORCYLE SHOP.

Fat-lettered, Day-Glo banners above the garage entrance said a big sale was going on. Big shiny bikes, many of them chopped and customized, were arranged in a tilting chorus line out in front.

“Here we go,” said Milo. “A new toy for our civil servant.”

I photographed Hacker entering the shop and kept clicking away when he came out a few moments later talking with another man.

His companion bummed a cigarette. Big, solid guy in a white T-shirt and tight blue jeans. Work boots. His hands and arms and the shirt were grease-stained.

Multiple tattoos, slicked-back dark hair. Raymond Degussa looked heavier and older than his most recent mug shot. He’d grown back his mustache, now graying, and added a soul patch that emphasized a heavy lower lip.

“Well, well,” said Milo. “Mr. Ray does have a day job. Probably another cozy cash situation, like the club. No papers filed, no tax returns.”

“Look what’s on the floor to his right,” I said.

Three rolls of black tarpaulin. Neoprene; a shred had been found at Flora Newsome’s crime scene.

Milo’s jaw set.

“I don’t want to push good fortune,” I said, “but that window grate company over there has got to keep iron bars in stock. Talk about one-stop shopping.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Milo. “How about some more pictures?”

Click click click.

Degussa found a rag and wiped his hands. Bennett Hacker talked, and both of them blew smoke that vanished in the beach air. No expression on Degussa’s long, hard face.

Then he nodded and grinned and snapped the rag and flicked it ten feet away into a white bucket just past the Neoprene rolls. Two points. This one could shoot.