Danny braced his notepad against the wall. “Go.”

“DB 6841 is Donald Willis Wachtel, 1638 Franklin Street, Santa Monica. GX 1167 is Timothy James Costigan, 11692 Saticoy Street, Van Nuys. On QS 3334, we’ve got Alan Brian Marks with a K-S, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and TR 4191 is Augie Luis—that’s L-U-I-S—Duarte, 1890 North Vendome, Los Angeles. That’s it.” No sparks on the names—except the “Duarte” seemed vaguely familiar. Danny hung up just as the light in the window went off; he ran back to his car, got in behind the wheel and waited.

Felix Gordean walked out the door a few moments later. He checked the lock and flipped a switch that doused the carport lights, backed the Rolls out and hung a U-turn, then headed west on Sunset. Danny counted to five and pursued.

The Rolls was easy to track—Gordean drove cautiously and stuck to the middle lane. Danny let a car get in front of him and fixed on Gordean’s radio aerial, a long strip of metal with an ornamental Union Jack at the top, oncoming headlight glare making it stand out like a marker.

They cruised west, out of the Strip and into Beverly Hills. At Linden the middle car hung a right turn and headed north; Danny closed the gap on Gordean, touching the Rolls’ bumper with his headlights, then idling back. Beverly Hills became Holmby Hills and Westwood; traffic thinned out to almost nothing. Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, looming greenery dotted with Spanish houses and vacant lots—Sunset Boulevard winding through blackish green darkness. Danny caught the reflection of highbeams in back of him.

He let the throttle up; the beams came on that much stronger, then disappeared. He looked in the rear-view, saw low headlights three car lengths back and no one else on the road; he hit the gas and jammed forward until Gordean’s Rolls was less than a short stone’s throw from the snout of his Chevy. Another check of the rear-view; the back car right on his ass.

Tail.

Moving surveillance on him.

Three-car rolling stakeout.

Danny swallowed and glimpsed a string of vacant lots, dirt shouldered, off the right side of the street. He downshifted, swung a hard right turn, hit the shoulder and fishtailed across rockstrewn dirt, wracking the Chevy’s undercarriage. He saw the tail car on Sunset, lights off and zooming; he cut hard left, went down to first gear, back off dirt onto good hard blacktop. High beams on; second and third, the gas pedal floored. A brown postwar sedan losing ground as he gained on it; him right on the car’s ass, mud smeared across its rear plate, the driver probably near blinded by his lights.

Just then the sedan turned hard right and hauled up a barely lit side street. Danny downshifted, hit the brakes and skidded into a full turnaround brody, stalling the car facing the flow of traffic. Headlights were coming straight at him; he sparked the ignition, popped the clutch and gas, banged over the curb and up the street, horns blasting down on Sunset.

Bungalows lined both sides of the street; a sign designated it “La Paloma Dr, 1900 N.” Danny speeded up, the blacktop getting steeper, no other moving cars in sight. Bungalow lights gave him some illumination; La Paloma Drive became a summit and leveled off—and there was his brown sedan on the roadside, the driver’s door open.

Danny pulled up behind it, hit his brights, unholstered his piece. He got out and walked over, gun arm first. He looked in the front seat and saw nothing but neat velveteen upholstery; he stepped back and saw a ‘48 Pontiac Super Chief, abandoned on a half-developed street surrounded by totally dark hills.

His heart was booming; his throat was dry; his legs were butter and his gun hand twitched. He listened and heard nothing but himself; he scanned for escape routes and saw a dozen driveways leading into back yards and the entire rear of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Danny thought: think procedure, go slow, you’re interagency Homicide brass. The “brass” calmed him; he tucked his .45 into his waistband, knelt and checked out the front seat.

Nothing on the seat covers; the registration strapped to the steering column—right where it should be. Danny undid the plastic strip without touching flat surfaces, held it up to the light of his highbeams and read:

Wardell John Hascomb, 9816 1/4 South Iola, Los Angeles. Registration number Cal 416893-H; license number Cal JO 1338.

LA South Central, darktown, the area where the killer stole the Marty Goines transport car.

HIM.

Danny got fresh shakes, drove back to Sunset and headed west until he spotted a filling station with a pay phone. With shaky hands, he slipped a nickel in the slot and dialed DMV Police Information.

“Yeah? Who’s requesting?”

“D-Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood Squad.”

“The guy from half an hour or so ago?”

“Goddamn—yes, and check the Hot Sheet for this: 1948 Pontiac Super Chief Sedan, Cal JO 1338. If it’s hot, I want the address it was stolen from.”

“Gotcha,” silence. Danny stood in the phone booth, warm one second, chilled the next. He took out his pad and pen, ready to write down what the operator gave him; he saw “Augie Luis Duarte” and snapped why it seemed familiar: there was a Juan Duarte in the UAES info he studied—meaning nothing—Duarte was as common a Mex name as Garcia or Hernandez.

The operator came back. “She’s hot, clouted outside 9945 South Normandie this afternoon. The owner is one Wardell J. Hascomb, male Negro, 9816 South—”

“I’ve got that.”

“You know, Deputy, your partner was a whole lot nicer.”

“What?”

The operator sounded exasperated, like he was talking to a cretin. “Deputy Jones from your squad. He called in for a repeat on those four names I gave you, said you lost your notes.”

Now the booth went freezing. No such deputy existed; someone—probably HIM—had been watching him stake Gordean’s office, close enough to overhear his conversation with the clerk and glom the gist—that he was requesting vehicle registrations. Danny shivered and said, “Describe his voice.”

“Your partner’s? Too cultured for a County plainclothes dick, I’ll—”

Danny slammed the receiver down, gave the phone his last coin and dialed the direct squadroom line at Hollywood Station. A voice answered, “Hollywood Detectives”; Danny said, “Sergeant Shortell. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Okay,” a soft click, the old-timer cop yawning, “Yes? Who’s this?”

“Upshaw. Jack, the killer was tailing me in a hot roller.”

“What the—”

“Just listen. I spotted him, and he rabbited and abandoned the car. Write this down: ‘48 Pontiac Super, brown, La Paloma Drive off Sunset in the Palisades, where it flattens out at the hill. Print man to dust it, you to canvass. He took off on foot and it’s all hills there, so I’m pretty sure he’s gone, but do it anyway. And fast—I won’t be there to watchdog.”

“Holy fuck.”

“In spades, and get me this—records checks on these four men—Donald Wachtel, 1638 Franklin, Santa Monica. Timothy Costigan, 11692 Saticoy, Van Nuys. Alan Marks, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and Augie Duarte, 1890 Vendome, LA. Got it?”

Shortell said, “You’ve got it”; Danny hung up and trawled for HIM. He cruised back to La Paloma and found the car exactly the way he left it; he hung his flashlight out the window and shone it at bungalows, alleyways, back yards and foothills. Squarejohn husbands and wives taking out the trash; dogs, cats and a spooked coyote transfixed by the glare in its eyes. No tall, middleaged man with lovely silver hair calmly making his getaway from a count of Grand Theft Auto. Danny drove back to Sunset and took it slowly out to the beach, scanning both sides of the street; at Pacific Coast Highway, he dug in his memory for Felix Gordean’s address, came up with 16822 PCH and rolled there.

It was on the beach side of the road, a white wood Colonial built on pilings sunk into the sand, “Felix Gordean, Esq,” in deco by the mailbox. Danny parked directly in front and rang the bell; chimes like the ones at the Marmont sounded; a pretty boy in a kimono answered. Danny badged him. “Sheriff’s. I’m here to see Felix Gordean.”