ONCE THEY DETERMINED that it was most likely Rudy’s face, they discovered that he’d frequented the place before, one time with a bald head—probably a head cap—and another time with a blond wig. The most recent visit—three weeks ago—showed him wearing a baseball cap with a bomber jacket.

“This one…” The clerk hit the photograph with the tips of his fingers. “He likes them with meat.” The clerk was Cecil Dobbins: fifty-eight, five six, two forty with a raging potbelly, white hair, and milky blue eyes.

It had been a slow night and Dobbins was in a talkative mood. He had been under Mr. Craddle’s employ for the last year and a half. The work was okay, a little boring. The hardest part was keeping a clean establishment, making sure that whatever went on was legal and lawful and between two consenting adults. “Mr. Craddle don’t want any problems. That’s why he’s cooperating with you.”

“We appreciate it,” Marge told him.

“Just keep your eye out for this guy,” Garrett said. “If you see him, don’t try to apprehend him yourself. He’s dangerous.”

Decker added, “Just don’t let on that you know who he is.”

“You need a flat face to do my work.” Dobbins spoke as he filled in a number in a Sudoku puzzle. “Nonjudgmental like, know what I mean? Lot of nervous men here. The more bored you look, the calmer they are. Besides, I play cards in Gardena every weekend. I got a good poker face.”

“You ever win?” Oliver asked.

“I win just enough for me to keep coming back. I could probably save a little more if I stopped, but what’s life without a little risk?” Dobbins went back to the numbers grid. “You don’t have to worry about me letting on. I’m one smooth guy.”

Garrett said, “You see this man, give a call.”

Diaz said, “Immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dobbins said.

Marge said, “Any time and any day. Call one of the numbers we gave you.”

Decker said, “And if you don’t have the numbers in front of you, just call 911 and ask them to patch you through to one of us.”

Dobbins said, “We ain’t talking brain surgery. I know how to deal with the customers.” He finished the puzzle. “Stop worrying.”

Diaz said, “Just don’t try to take him down—”

“I got it, I got it.”

With nothing more to add, they left Cecil Dobbins to his dreary job. He picked up the paper and began to fill in letters in the daily crossword.

MONDAY: NINE P.M.

Garrett to Decker. “We got him!”

Decker was at home in front of the TV. He couldn’t believe what the voice on the other end of his cell was telling him. “You got Rudy Banks?”