Conner didn't want to think about it, wanted to run from the room, to retreat to the safety and isolation of his apartment, but he could not stop the jumble of thoughts swirling inside his head. His brain was beyond conscious control, operating instinctively, guided by too many years of experience. Questions arose in rapid-fire fashion, new ones starting before the old ones were complete, billiard balls ricocheting off each other on a crowded pool table. The whole thing made no sense. Weber was their best, their only suspect. And yet Weber was dead, which did a pretty good job of eliminating him as a suspect. But his car was used in at least two of the murders. That was the one hard fact they had—that and a slew of dead bodies. What did it mean? Had someone borrowed the car? Twice? A roommate, a friend? Could that explain why the killer was less careful about letting the car be seen this time? But why be less careful, and why kill Weber? Had Weber unwittingly stumbled onto som

CONNER PRESSED THE GLOWING orange doorbell button just before seven o’clock. A triple chime echoed faintly from inside the house. While he waited, he breathed deeply of the cool evening air, relishing the fresh scent of trees and grass not often experienced in the valley below. He had found the house in the hills above Beverly Hills without trouble, in a quiet neighborhood Conner thought of as “almost there.” The homes were of moderate size, comfortable and well kept, secluded enough to provide privacy and security from the dangers of the urban jungle below. What Alexa’s neighborhood lacked, what kept it from being filled with lavish mansions peopled by those who had truly “arrived,” was favorable topography. Nestled in a small valley whose hillsides folded back upon one another, the lots provided no views, no wide-open vistas of sparkling city lights or mesmerizing blue ocean to double or triple the price of the real estate. Driving up, Conner ha

Just before nine o'clock on Sunday morning, Conner swung into the parking garage at Parker Center and followed the ramp up to the rooftop level. He pulled into an open spot near the stairway and climbed out of his car into the bright sunshine. The air was warmer than he expected for this time of year, and he wondered if the heat signaled the beginnings of a Santa Ana, when hot, dry air from the desert rushed toward the coast, compressing and heating up still more as it flowed down over the mountains into the basin. The gusty winds usually carried temperatures of ninety or one hundred degrees, and could reach forty or fifty miles per hour in L.A., much more in the outlying communities. Along with the heat, the winds carried a heightened risk of terrifying fires, which seemed to have increased in number and ferocity in recent years. Many people swore the Santa Ana winds also brought a rash of aberrant behavior with them, even more than a full moon, but the only aberrant behavior that

Less than two minutes later, the door swung open. The first person through was a man Conner didn’t recognize. He was short, perhaps five-nine, with a chunky build. By his face, Conner judged him to be in his early thirties, though his balding head made him look older. The top of his skull was nearly completely bald, with only a few wisps of dark brown hair lying flat against his white skin. To compensate, he’d grown the hair on the sides and back long, and gathered it into a short ponytail in the back.Behind him, Keith Stennie swept into the room, though it took Conner half a moment to recognize him. The Zorro outfit was gone. This time, Stennie had outfitted himself in a pirate costume—white shirt with billowing sleeves, loose-fitting black trousers tucked into knee-high black leather boots, a red sash around his waist, with a matching red bandanna tied like a cap around the top of his head. A rough stubble of whiskers covered the young scriptwriter’

Conner sagged against the bag of his couch, his gaze fixed on the glowing green digits of the clock on his DVR. Only minutes remained until the start of Vice Squad, and the numbers seemed to change with agonizing slowness. Though switched on, the television was silent. Annoyed by the sound and impatient with the commercials, Conner had pushed the mute button moments after turning the thing on. Through the thin walls of his living room, he heard the muffled sounds from a television in the next apartment. He glanced at his own TV—the voices from the other side of the wall seemed to match the images of the car commercial filling his screen. He shook his head grimly at the reminder of the morbid fascination sweeping the city. Like everybody else in Los Angeles, Conner’s neighbors were getting ready to watch Vice Squad.His entire day had seemed to drag by at the same pace as the last few minutes, each hour creeping by in slow motion, only to be replaced by an hour eve