A hundred park visitors were standing in a loose crowd, some distance from the car, faint smoke wafting above. Easily half were taking pictures and videos.

Dance and O’Neil met with the incident supervisor from the Orange County Sheriff’s Office, Sergeant George Ralston, a tall, round African American.

O’Neil asked, “Any sightings?”

Ralston replied, “None. Hey, Herb. Whatta you know?”

Another man joined them. He was tall and solid, and Dance thought, former cop. Introductions were made. He was the head of security for the park, Herbert Southern.

“No sign yet.”

Dance asked, “Are you following him on security cameras?”

Southern said, “We were—sent our people after him. But he disappeared. Got lost in a crowd waiting for the Tornado Alley ride, named after the cartoon? One of the most popular here. Hundred people were queued up. Security went through the crowd but they couldn’t find him.”

Dance supposed they weren’t particularly aggressive. Didn’t want to spook the patrons. She imagined the key word had been subtly. Make sure the customers feel safe.

“Description?” Dance asked.

Ralston offered, “White male, over six feet. Longish blond hair, green baseball cap, unknown logo. Sunglasses. Dark pants, light shirt, beige jacket. Gym bag. It’s white.”

Blond hair. Of course he’d dyed it after Foster’s leak to the press.

“Your security get a close-up of his face?” O’Neil asked.

“No. Kept his head down.”

Dance said, “Well, he’s not wearing any of those clothes anymore. If he didn’t have a change of clothes with him in the bag, and I’ll bet he did, he’s bought a souvenir jacket and shorts and running shoes. And the gym bag is in a Global shopping bag right now. He can’t change his hair color. So he’ll have a different sort of hat. Cowboy maybe.”

One of the big hits of the studio last year was a Wild West animation that won Oscars for something.

“And some people thought he was wearing gloves. Light-colored ones.”

“He was,” O’Neil said. “For the fingerprints.”

“What’s this about?” Southern asked.

“He’s wanted in connection with a homicide in Monterey,” Dance explained.

“The roadhouse thing?” Ralston asked. “And the other one, right? On the wire. Last night.”

“That’s right,” O’Neil confirmed.

Dance added, “We came down here to look for a possible witness. The unsub beat us to it. He was at the apartment in Tustin—he killed the wit just before we got there.”

O’Neil’s face grew still. “Your deputy was wounded. Martinez. He’ll be okay, I heard, but he took a round in the arm.”

“Ricky.” Ralston nodded. “Sure. I know him.”

The security man took a call, listened. “Thanks.” He disconnected and said, “Nothing. Well, we’ve got all the exits covered. This is the only park exit but there are service entrances with gates.”

Ralston said, “I’ve got officers headed there now. He’s armed. I don’t want your boys and girls approaching,” he said to the security head.

“No. We’ll work with your folks,” the man assured the cop. “They’ll call in if they see anything. I’ve told ’em.”