She had found his eyes and met them like she understood. Still, he had felt uneasy about leaving her alone because he wasn’t sure. In the end he’d called her neighbor, a woman Laura told him she liked and was becoming a friend.

Matt made the turn onto Pacific Avenue, gunning it down the hill toward the 134 Freeway. He spotted a cop hiding in the lot at the Jack in the Box, so he slowed down until he passed the next traffic light, then clicked through the six-speed manual transmission and rocketed up the ramp. The transition to the Golden State Freeway was just ahead. At 4:00 a.m. traffic would be light and he could circle Griffith Park and reach the Hollywood station in less than fifteen minutes. He was driving a metallic gray Honda coupe. The car was fast but light, and at ninety miles an hour he could feel the wind beating against the windshield and trying to crash through.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, settling into the seat and wondering why Cabrera and Grace were waiting for him. Over the five hours that Matt had remained at the crime scene, no one had come forward. Not even the parking attendant could shed any light on what had happened. It was a cold night, the old man had told them. He went inside the restaurant for a cup of coffee and was away from his booth for ten to fifteen minutes.

But maybe something had turned up when the patrol units canvassed the neighborhood. The Las Palmas Hotel cut into the north end of the parking lot. Across the street on the next block stood a new apartment building, and Matt had counted twenty-five units with windows and balconies.

Before Matt left to give Laura the news, he and Cabrera had received word that a man fitting the description of the three-piece bandit had botched a holdup five blocks away about an hour before Hughes was killed. It didn’t feel like much of a long shot that the robber had become frustrated and moved to the lot behind Musso & Frank. When he spotted Hughes in the SUV, he tried again.

Matt glided off the freeway and blew through the first red light on Los Feliz Boulevard. As he raced up the hill, rain began pelting the windshield, and he could feel his tires slipping on the asphalt. He glanced at the speedometer—a cool fifty—then looked back at the road. Water was already beginning to stream along the curb. He tightened his grip on the wheel and eased into the left lane instead of slowing down.

Matt had transferred from the Pacific Division but was well aware of the string of holdups that had been occurring in Hollywood and along the Strip. The flyer that patrol units were passing out tonight had been posted at every station in Los Angeles County for the last six months. With each new holdup, victims were interviewed and reinterviewed, the flyer updated, and the composite sketch refined.

A white male in his midtwenties, average in height and build, wearing shades and a hooded sweatshirt was too common to make an impression on anyone in LA. But the shirt and tie underneath, the gray flannel slacks, and the gun he was holding did. Even more, one of his first victims happened to be a gun enthusiast and was able to identify the pistol as a Glock 20. In spite of the heavy firepower, the young man’s demeanor hadn’t appeared overly threatening. According to most witnesses, he was soft-spoken and polite, the holdups conducted quickly, oftentimes while victims were distracted and just getting out of their cars. Months earlier, when the LAPD began passing out flyers in concert with the Sheriff’s Department in West Hollywood, a reporter from the Los Angeles Times read the description of what sounded like a young urban professional and gave the robber a nickname that stuck: the three-piece bandit.

Matt didn’t like the nickname because he thought it softened the blow. No one who conducted their business at gunpoint could be considered soft-spoken or polite.

The rain picked up in a hard wave and sounded like stones hammering the roof of the car. Matt slowed some as he hit the light at Franklin, then floored it down Western.