“That’s it?”

“No. Pull over—I want to show you something.”

Sebastian saw a couple of curbside spots in front of the Delta Cinema, Brentwood’s only movie theater and the oldest in the city. He parked in front of the big art deco neon sign, which was turned off, and had flashes of memories of bringing Paul and Trixie here, the three of them sitting in the balconies and loges that had been built back in the 1930s. The kid who had sat next to him watching superhero and Disney movies had grown up into a man who had tried to kill him.

Ron dipped his fingers into his shirt pocket. He came back with a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Sebastian.

It was a color-printed photo of a lean, muscular guy dressed in a bathing suit and standing, tanned and smiling, on the beach. He looked to be around Paul’s age, early to mid-twenties, and had a blond crew cut and 0 percent body fat or close to it, skinny but shredded. He wasn’t big in the height department—five foot six, max eight, Sebastian guessed.

“You ever seen him before?” Ron asked.

Sebastian was pretty good with remembering faces. He shook his head. “Who is he?”

“Your sniper, I’m pretty sure.”

Sebastian held the picture closer to his face, as if it contained some hidden clue. He hadn’t seen the sniper, just the glint of sun off the scope before he got shot. The guy in the photo had a plain but wholesome face, like one he’d seen on those old “Milk. It does a body good” ads that were now popping up again on billboards all over the city.

“Guy’s name is Bradley Guidry,” Ron said. “He’s thirty-three, born and raised in New Orleans, no criminal record, never married, no kids. Entered the Marines at nineteen, left at twenty-six as a Force Recon sniper. After he left the service, he did contract work all over the Middle East. That’s where he met Paul. They did contract work together over there—you know, personal security shit.”

Sebastian got jittery when he stayed parked in one place for too long; he couldn’t get rid of the idea that that sniper was still out there, watching him through a scope. Not that the round would penetrate the windshield. It had been replaced with bulletproof glass. Still, he put the car in gear and slid back into the light morning traffic.

“About eight months ago,” Ron said, “Guidry flew into LAX on an open-ended ticket and stayed at a hotel downtown for thirteen days. Normal shit on his credit cards—food and booze, some clothing purchases. Day he checked out was the same day he found a local branch for his bank and closed his checking and savings accounts to the tune of thirty grand.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s in the wind.”

“With Paul.”

“That’s my operating theory. I think we should assume Guidry’s involved. Keep an eye out for him. I’ll forward Frank this picture.”