Prologue
* * * *

Rain was in the air.

Kolb had never given much thought to the weather in Los Angeles. Most days were seventy-five degrees and sunny. But in January came drenching rains that flooded the streets, causing traffic snarls and fender benders and, sometimes, fatal accidents.

The rains could kill.

Kolb was counting on that.

He sat behind the wheel of his gray secondhand Oldsmobile. The car was parked in a public lot near downtown. He'd chosen the lot because it was used primarily by workers in the surrounding office complexes, which meant that at two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon it would be crowded with cars but nearly empty of people.

He had been waiting for a half hour. A pair of women had parked nearby, but he knew he couldn't handle two of them together. A solitary man had sauntered past, but Kolb wanted a female victim. A woman would be easier to control. There was a reason they were known as the weaker sex, even if that knowledge had been suppressed in today's dandified world, a world dedicated to expunging the masculine principle from society.

Besides, it would be more fun with a woman. A man ought to enjoy his work.

He checked his disguise in the rearview mirror. False mustache. Mirrored sunglasses, unnecessary on this overcast day, hiding his pale blue eyes. A baseball cap over his crew cut, which had been pure blond but now was littered with gray hairs, like a scattering of iron filings in straw. He shouldn't be graying so young--he was only thirty-one--but spending nearly a year in a state prison had a way of aging a man.

The key to a disguise was not to get too creative. Make just a few simple changes that added up to an easily readable story. Put a man in a neutral-toned jumpsuit, give him a toolbox and a cap, and he was a repairman. Give him a suit and a briefcase, and he was a businessman. People didn't see or remember someone who raised no questions in their minds.

Today, Kolb was a deliveryman. He wore a nylon windbreaker two sizes too big, helpful in concealing his wide-shouldered, prison-buffed physique. Hand-stitched to the back of the jacket was the name of a pizza chain. The cap matched the uniform's colors.

After he was finished, he would dispose of the jacket and cap. He wouldn't be needing them again. His plan was never to use the same ruse twice. Although he was no master of disguise, he would not make any obvious mistakes. He had known plenty of criminals, both on the street and in stir, and most of them were stupid. That was why they got caught.

Under the windbreaker he wore a navy blue pullover, matching his denim jeans. Night would have fallen by the time he left the tunnels, and deep blue fabric blended into the darkness better than jet black. If something went wrong and he had to run and hide, he was prepared.

But nothing would go wrong. He'd worked out all the angles. He wasn't even scared. He had thought he might be--opening-night jitters and all. But he was enjoying himself. He liked risk. He liked dancing on the edge.

And he liked what he saw coming toward him.

She was young and slender, a brunette in her twenties. No briefcase, only a handbag. Too young to be an executive. Somebody's secretary, probably. From a distance he couldn't tell if she was pretty. He hoped she was.

"'Many an innocent flower,'" Kolb whispered.

She passed the row where he was parked. He got out, careful not to shut the door. Old cop trick--the slam of a car door would alert his prey.

A quick scan of the parking lot confirmed that he and the woman were alone amid the arrays of windshields and chrome. Anyone might be watching from the surrounding office buildings, but he would do nothing to attract attention.

He caught up with her as she reached her Toyota. She was unaware of his presence, and that made it easy for him to wait until she slipped into the car, then interpose himself between her and the door. She sucked in a shallow, strained breath.

"Don't scream." He had rehearsed the words. Everything would be ruined if she screamed.

She didn't scream. Didn't even exhale. Just stared at him, her glance flicking to the gun in his gloved hand, then to his face. "Oh, God."

"Stay calm."

"Oh, God." Her gaze returned to the gun.

He read her thoughts. "Yes," he said, "it's real and it's loaded, and I will use it if I have to." He didn't add that the gun was untraceable, the serial number filed off.

"Please," she whispered.

"Just cooperate and you'll get through this."

She nodded. She had wide brown eyes and smooth, pale skin.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice curling into a whine.

From his pocket he took out a writing pad and a pen. The pen was a felt-tip marker, chosen because it would be useless as a weapon. He handed both items to her. "Write what I say."

"Write?" She echoed the word as if it were in a foreign language.

"That's what I said. You can write, can't you?"

"Yes."

"Then here goes. First, write 'My name is...' and fill in the blank."

"Angie. I mean, Angela. Angela Morris."

"Don't tell me. Write it down."

She wrote slowly, her hand fisted over the marker. He dictated the message to her. She seemed to be focusing her full attention on putting it down on paper with a minimum of mistakes. She misspelled some words anyway.

When she was finished, she stared at the message as if taking it in for the first time. "Oh, God," she said again.

He was tired of hearing her say that. "Give it back to me. Your wallet, too."

"I only got thirty dollars in there."

"Just give me the fucking wallet." She did. He glanced around the car and saw a small plastic box on the floorboard. "What's that?"

"Video. A rental. I was gonna return it today."

"What movie is it?"

"The one with Tom Cruise and, uh, that Hoffman guy. Rain Man."

It was so perfect, it gave him an idea. "Take it with you."

"What?"

"Take it." He smiled behind his store-bought mustache. "You don't want to be charged a late fee, do you?"

She retrieved the video, holding it tight, her fingertips squeezed bloodless.

"Now, out."

"Where are we going?"

"My car."

"Let me go, okay? Just let me go."

He clamped a hand on her arm. "Shut the fuck up and get out of the goddamn car right now."

She obeyed.

This was the most dangerous part. If she squirmed free and took off running, he wouldn't be able to chase her without being noticed. He was betting he'd established sufficient control that she would engage in no heroics. That was why he'd made her write the message before moving her. He'd wanted to show her who had the power.

It worked. She made no effort to escape. She walked at his side, shaking all over and blinking back tears, the gun wedged under her armpit. To keep her distracted, he asked if she had any plans for the evening.

"Nothing, really. Order some takeout. Watch TV..."

"You play this smart, you'll be home in time for the ten-o'clock news. You can watch yourself on TV."

"Uh-huh."

"That'll be fun, right? You'll be a star. In this town everybody wants to be a star." He regretted the comment. It was trite, unworthy of him.

He led her to his Olds. Before coming here, he'd replaced the license plates with stolen tags. Later, he would toss the tags and reinstall his own.

He pushed Angela Morris into the car on the driver's side, then made her climb across to the passenger seat. He kept the gun on her as he got behind the wheel.

"I don't have money," she said. "My folks neither."

"I'm not interested in your money." He cranked the ignition. "Don't you remember? I said city revenues. City."

"Yeah, you did, you said that. City money. You want LA to cough it up."

"Damn straight."

"They won't pay money for me," she whispered.

"Sure they will." Or if not you, he added silently, then the one who comes after you.

"Why would they?"

"They'll have no choice. I'm going to squeeze it out of them. I'm going to bring this goddamn city to its knees."

She shrank low in her seat, staring at him. "Why?"

"Because they owe me." Kolb shifted into drive. "And payback is a bitch."