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out.”
    “Sure.” Moore had already dismissed Squire from her mind. “Who’s last?”
    “John Edward Dance. L.A. No violent crimes on his rap sheet, just three arrests for fraud.”
    “What kind of fraud?”
    “Telemarketing, some kind of home-equity con, and a bank-examiner scam. He did time for the last one. Beat the rap on the other two. He—”
    Moore shut her eyes, drew a sharp breath, felt the sudden violent trembling of her body.
    “That’s him,” she whispered.
    “Do you think so?” Lovejoy frowned at his notes. “I don’t know. There’s no sexual assault, no indication of homicidal tendencies.”
    He was missing the point. Good Lord, how could he be so close to it and not see?
    “Peter, the man is a con artist.” She rushed the words out, impatient to give form to her thoughts. “Don’t you get it? He’s a smooth talker. A manipulator. A Don Juan. The kind of guy who’d be good at picking up women in bars.”
    “A lady-killer,” Lovejoy said thoughtfully. “Perhaps ... literally.”
    “No perhaps. No doubt about it.” Moore paced the narrow office, tremors shaking her thin shoulders. “He cons women the same way he cons the marks in his bunco games. Charm and phony self-confidence. A pose that a girl like Ronni Tyler would fall for. He sells himself. He’s good at it. That’s how he gets people to empty their bank accounts for him. And it’s how he gets beautiful blonds to take him home.”
    “You’re awfully certain about this.”
    “Damn straight I am.” She heard herself laughing, a wild, ecstatic sound. “Come on, Peter! Get pumped, will you? Mister Twister is history. We got him. We nailed the son of a bitch!”

 
     
     
    4
     
    The morning sun splashed wide bands of orange light across Wilshire Boulevard, fifteen stories below Jack Dance’s feet.
    Standing at the corner windows of his high-rise apartment, he surveyed the glittering tide of traffic flowing past Westwood Village toward the on-ramp of the 405. Beyond the distant marquees of the Bruin and Village theaters rose the Santa Monica Mountains, pasted on the sky like billows of frozen smoke, purple and gently rounded.
    Jack loved Los Angeles. Yes, loved it, despite the grit and ugliness now visible nearly everywhere, despite the muttering legions of shopping-cart people who’d turned the city into a vast open-air mental ward, despite the gang graffiti on alley walls and the taggers’ slogans defacing every other billboard, despite the traffic snarls and freeway closures and unpatched potholes pockmarking the streets. Hell, despite everything.
    He loved L.A. because it was his type of place: phony, crass, and exploitative; selfish, often cruel, otherwise indifferent; obsessed with flesh and money; a city that preyed on vain hopes and foolish delusions and the desperate yearnings of the unfulfilled.
    He checked his watch—time to go—and drew the curtains, shutting out the sun.
    Before leaving, he went into the bedroom. Sheila was still asleep, naturally. She had kicked the covers off, exposing her long, suntanned legs and tight white buns.
    Jack approached the bed and leaned close. Her brown hair, prematurely accented with streaks of gray, lay across her bronzed back in a luxuriant mess. He poked her shoulder, not gently.
    “Hey.”
    She stirred, eyelashes fluttering, then rolled on her side and blinked at him. Her eyes were gray-green, very lovely and very safe.
    “Fuck ...” The word slid out of her like a groan.
    Jack grinned. “Hello, sleepyhead. I’m off to work. Figured it was time for you to rise and shine.”
    “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Oh, Christ, I hate mornings.”
    “Hey, hey, that’s not the right attitude. You’ve got places to go, people to see.” Jack enjoyed baiting her, contrasting her inertia with his leaping energy, his caffeine-and-adrenaline rush. “Up and at ’em. There’s a great big world out there, and it’s waiting for you.”
    “Eat shit.” She dragged the back