"Sir, if you could keep your voice down amp; She's in the next room."

Hammond grunted. "Fucking mess. Makes me wish I wasn't involved."

"Do you have to be, sir?"

Hammond exchanged a glance with his adjutant, and Wolper could practically hear him saying to Lewinsky, You see the kind of insubordination and stupidity I have to put up with?

"It's my bureau. I'm handling it. I asked for the responsibility."

It was true enough that Operations-Central Bureau had jurisdiction. Central, the busiest of the four geographical bureaus of the LAPD, comprised four territorial areas, including Rampart, where Robin Cameron's office was located. Because the crime had occurred on his turf, Hammond, as commanding officer, bore ultimate responsibility for the investigation.

Still, he could have palmed off the job of running the manhunt on the bureau's assistant CO or someone lower in the chain of command. The fact that Hammond was here meant that the deputy chief genuinely wanted to be part of the action. Wolper figured he knew why.

"Has the media got wind of this yet?" he asked innocently.

"Not to my knowledge," the PR man-cum-traffic cop said.

That had to be a lie. It would take a division of Army Rangers to keep Deputy Chief Hammond away from the TV cameras on a case like this.

"So Dr. Cameron is in there?" Hammond said quietly. "Coherent? Lucid? I need to get a statement from her."

"She just found out her kid is missing. I think she's all talked out for the moment."

"We don't exactly have the luxury of time."

"Let me take her downtown, get her settled in an interview room, and then I'll talk to her."

Hammond regarded Wolper with suspicion. "Are you under the impression you have an official role to play in this investigation, Lieutenant?"

"She knows me, sir. She trusts me. She'll be open with me."

Hammond hesitated for a long moment. "Get her downtown; then we'll decide how to handle the interview."

"I really think it's best if I"

"You know, I really think it's best if you follow orders, Lieutenant. Now how about you? Don't you think that's best?"

Lewinsky was smirking. Wolper wanted to clock him. "Yes, sir."

"Glad we understand each other." Hammond drifted away to speak with the Rampart patrol personnel.

Lewinsky and Banner lingered. "You're in over your head, Wolper," Lewinsky said, his voice low and nasty. "Go back to running a station house."

Wolper smiled. "Better watch that mouth of yours, Monica. It could get you in trouble someday."

If the adjutant had an answer to that, Wolper didn't hear it. He was already pulling Banner aside.

"What's the story, Phil? Why'd the DC involve himself in a sensitive case like this?"

Banner frowned. "Fuck if I know. It was against my recommendations. But the chief's a difficult man to dissuade."

"Guess that doesn't make your job any easier."

"Goddamn right." He forced a shrug. "Hell, it'll work out."

"If it doesn't, you can always spin it so it did."

Banner looked past him. "Some things," he said softly, "you just can't spin."

Wolper followed Banner's gaze. "I hear that."

Through the office doorway, Robin Cameron was visible, seated on the sofa in a tight, huddled ball of pain.

Gray knew he had to ditch the Saab and the stolen clothes if he wanted to keep a low profile. And right now, going lo-pro was the only way to go. He was a big dog, a major violator, armed and dangerous, and the local lawmen would be getting their shit hot over him in a major way. Every swinging dick in a blue uniform would be gunning for his ass.

In the mid-Wilshire district he found a thrift shop, a ratty little place that looked like it had been going out of business for the past twenty years. He browsed the store, picking out tan pants, a brown shirt, and a denim jacket that fit him, paying with cash he'd taken from the doc's purse. The local news was airing on a black-and-white TV set behind the counter, but there was no mention of his escape.

In an alley he changed clothes, discarding the deputy's pants and the doc's jacket in a trash bin, along with his yellow jumpsuit.

So far, so good. He'd gotten his mojo back. Now for a new beast to thrash around in.

He cruised the streets, staying within the speed limit, stopping at yellow lights. The last thing he needed was a traffic citation. Ordinarily he wouldn't give a shit about the patrol fairies who worked traffic detail, doing drunk stops and cutting tickets, but today he had to play it smart.

Not far from the thrift shop, he found a parking garage, where he abandoned the Saab in favor of a Firebird owned by some weak motherfucker who was stupid enough to leave the passenger door unlocked. The car was an old bucket, nothing special, but that was okay, because the newer ones were harder to steal.

He slipped into the car and checked to see if the owner had left the keys under the floor mat or behind the visor. No such luck. Didn't matter. It was all good.

He shoved the two front seats farther backwhoever drove this dune buggy was a midgetthen slid into the passenger seat and braced his shoes against the driver's door. He wrested the steering wheel toward him as hard as possible and heard the crack of the steering lock.

Back in the driver's seat, he used his screwdriver to pry off the plastic cowling around the ignition keyhole. Inside the exposed hole were a half dozen multicolored wires. He pressed them together at random. The battery and ignition feeds connected, turning on the dashboard ignition lights. He touched the remaining wires to the two feeds until the engine turned over, then put the Firebird in gear and rolled.

In the glove compartment he found the parking stub. Nice of the dude to leave it for him. Gray paid the fee on his way out. The attendant never even looked at him. Real good security they had here.

The car had 92,000 miles on the odometer, but it handled fine, and nobody would be looking for him behind the wheel of a Firebird. There was only a tape player, not a CD deck, but the owner's taste in tunes was a lot better than Dr. Robin's. The cassette in the slot was Eminem. Gray cranked the volume.

He motored aimlessly, favoring side streets, watching the parked cars. On the outskirts of Inglewood he caught sight of another Firebird, blue like the one he'd boosted. The car sat at a curb in a neighborhood so empty of life that it might have been the set of one of those post-Armageddon movies where people were always getting into brawls over the last drum of gasoline or the last tin of pork 'n' beans. Gray parked behind the other car and got out. Using the screwdriver, he quickly swapped plates, then drove off, whistling.

Now even if the stolen Firebird was linked to him, the cops would be on the lookout for a car with a different license number. And if some patrol faggots happened to give the car he was driving the evil eye, the plates would run clean.

He'd got his swerve on, all right. He was staying cool, handling everything nice and smooth.

Now he needed to quarterback his next moves.

First things first. He needed more benjamins. There wasn't much cash in the doc's wallet, and he'd already spent some of it. He couldn't use her plastictoo easy to trace-so he'd have to jack some asshole at an ATM. Once he got paid, find a crib.

After that amp; well, shit, he'd been in stir a year. Had himself a major love jones. It was time to knock off a piece of ass. Find himself a booty house or some boulevard gash and do some serious pipe cleaning.

Wouldn't hurt to change his appearance, too. Dye his hair or shave himself bald or maybe grow one of those pussy goatees. Wear long-sleeved shirts to cover the tats on his arms.