“I think so. Actually, I didn’t find him. I was reviewing the tape when Petra Conner came in to help me. Do you know Petra?”

“I met her at your wedding. She’s from Homicide. You two are in a bowling league together.”

“Exactly. Petra ’s also an artist. Her eye is particularly well trained to notice nuances in faces. I don’t know why we didn’t think of her before.”

“I’m calling Oliver and we’ll be right over.”

“Good…I’m getting a call. I think it’s Dad. I’ll see you later.”

ONCE THEY DETERMINED that it was most likely Rudy’s face, they discovered that he’d frequented the place before, one time with a bald head-probably a head cap-and another time with a blond wig. The most recent visit-three weeks ago-showed him wearing a baseball cap with a bomber jacket.

“This one…” The clerk hit the photograph with the tips of his fingers. “He likes them with meat.” The clerk was Cecil Dobbins: fifty-eight, five six, two forty with a raging potbelly, white hair, and milky blue eyes.

It had been a slow night and Dobbins was in a talkative mood. He had been under Mr. Craddle’s employ for the last year and a half. The work was okay, a little boring. The hardest part was keeping a clean establishment, making sure that whatever went on was legal and lawful and between two consenting adults. “Mr. Craddle don’t want any problems. That’s why he’s cooperating with you.”

“We appreciate it,” Marge told him.

“Just keep your eye out for this guy,” Garrett said. “If you see him, don’t try to apprehend him yourself. He’s dangerous.”

Decker added, “Just don’t let on that you know who he is.”

“You need a flat face to do my work.” Dobbins spoke as he filled in a number in a Sudoku puzzle. “Nonjudgmental like, know what I mean? Lot of nervous men here. The more bored you look, the calmer they are. Besides, I play cards in Gardena every weekend. I got a good poker face.”

“You ever win?” Oliver asked.

“I win just enough for me to keep coming back. I could probably save a little more if I stopped, but what’s life without a little risk?” Dobbins went back to the numbers grid. “You don’t have to worry about me letting on. I’m one smooth guy.”

Garrett said, “You see this man, give a call.”

Diaz said, “Immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dobbins said.

Marge said, “Any time and any day. Call one of the numbers we gave you.”

Decker said, “And if you don’t have the numbers in front of you, just call 911 and ask them to patch you through to one of us.”

Dobbins said, “We ain’t talking brain surgery. I know how to deal with the customers.” He finished the puzzle. “Stop worrying.”

Diaz said, “Just don’t try to take him down-”

“I got it, I got it.”

With nothing more to add, they left Cecil Dobbins to his dreary job. He picked up the paper and began to fill in letters in the daily crossword.

MONDAY: NINE P.M.

Garrett to Decker. “We got him!”

Decker was at home in front of the TV. He couldn’t believe what the voice on the other end of his cell was telling him. “You got Rudy Banks?”

“He’s in our sights. Came into the Sand Dune about ten minutes ago. I’m about twenty minutes away: Tito’s bogged down in traffic and is about thirty minutes away.”

Decker gathered his keys and his wallet, then went over to his gun safe, spinning the combination dial, trying to steady his hands enough to align the correct numbers with the wheel notch. “Who’s watching the place?”

“I’ve called up Santa Monica and asked them to send some unmarked units. They’re starting to block off the perimeter area with cruisers, but I emphasized to make sure that nothing was visible. I don’t know how many people are in the motel, but it’s not empty.”

“The last thing we need is a hostage situation,” Decker said.

“Agreed. Last time I checked, there were two plainclothes units in the vicinity.”

“That’s good. Where should we meet?”

Garrett gave him an address. “He ain’t gonna slip away this time.”

The safe door popped open, and Decker slipped his Beretta into his shoulder harness. “I’ll be there in a half hour to forty minutes.”

“Let’s hope it’s all over by then.”

AS HE PULLED out of the driveway, he called Marge and brought her up to date. “I’m on my way. Call Oliver and tell him what’s going on.”

The traffic gods weren’t with him. It took over an hour just to get off the freeway, and as soon as he exited, Decker knew there was trouble. All lanes were at a standstill. He punched in a news channel and when he heard the headlines, he hit the dashboard. “SHIT!”

Click, click, click, click…

“No one knows how many people are in the Sand Dune or how many, if any, have been taken hostage. There have been several unsubstantiated reports of at least one gunman-”

Decker turned off the radio and tried Garrett’s cell phone. When no one answered, he tried Diaz’s cell phone. Still no answer.

He turned on the news station a second time.

“…reports of the gunman keeping at least three women hostage.”

His cell rang. It was Garrett. “How far away are you?”

“Five minutes.”

“You heard?”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“So we’re meeting in front of the Sand Dune. See you in a few.”

Decker took out the top dome light and ran the siren. Even with the bells and whistles, it took another fifteen minutes to weave through snarled lanes and pissed-off drivers. When he finally reached the destination, he flashed his badge to Santa Monica Police and was allowed to proceed.

Ocean Avenue had become a stagnant pool of chrome: SMPD patrol units in white and light blue, LAPD’s cruisers in black and white, unmarked cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and acres of news vans. Decker parked wherever he could and slowly inched his way closer to the hot spot, walking behind the protection of steel that the cars afforded. He darted his way over to Tito Diaz and Rip Garrett. Garrett had dressed in a suit and tie, but Diaz was still in jeans.

Decker said, “What the hell happened?”

Garrett was seething. “I asked for unmarkeds to the scene. When I got here, I saw cruisers. I thought at first that SMPD fucked up, but then I found out that they were responding to a 911 call from someone inside who was shot-”

“Holy moly-”

“Tito and I have just spent the last twenty minutes bringing SMPD up to date. They’re not happy with us right now.”

“We conferred with them every step of the way,” Decker said.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they believed that we were on to anything. That’s why they gave us permission to operate in their vicinity.”

“Who made the 911 call?” Decker asked.

“I haven’t heard the voice, but it was a man.”

Diaz added that he had heard it was Cecil Dobbins.

“How bad is it?”

Tito shrugged. Decker looked at the dilapidated building in front of them. It was probably a beautiful private home in the 1920s-a three-storied, white-wood-sided Greene and Greene bungalow style with a wraparound porch. Decker could imagine a family lolling about on a summer’s eve like tonight, enjoying the cool sea breezes.

That hadn’t happened for a very long time.

The place hadn’t seen a paintbrush in decades. Even with the minimal outside lighting, he could make out peeling paint flaking off like snow. Historically, it was great that the building retained many of its original leaded windowpanes. For their purposes, the cut glass hindered sharpshooters’ visibility.

Garrett said, “SMPD has sent out for a hostage negotiator.”

“What about a back door?” Decker asked. “He can’t guard two portals at once.”

Garrett said, “SMPD managed to get a few people out through the rear, but then he started shooting.”

“Didn’t hit anyone,” Diaz said.

“And it’s definitely Rudy Banks?”