Pryce thought of Frank Sherman’s glass-fronted office and the lack of privacy afforded to him each day. Throw into the mix nosy coworkers and computer glitches and IT departments, and there weren’t many guys dumb enough to risk using a computer at work to arrange hookups with hookers. Home computers and email accounts were just as off-limits for guys with wives and kids. The kind of guys with a lot to lose who might need to silence a prostitute with a big mouth.

He would speak to Kasey Taylor again. Find out if Amy Ong had mentioned any details about any of her other regulars. First names, occupations, if they were married, bars or motels where they regularly met. Anything at all. And he would push her on anyone Amy Ong might have had a problem with. Maybe someone she’d tried to blackmail for extra cash or a john she had refused to see again. Kasey Taylor had held out on them once already, and Pryce wouldn’t be surprised if she was still holding something back. He trashed the coffee cup and returned to his workstation.

He checked his emails again. There was a new message. More surveillance footage to trawl through, this time from the LAPD’s own cameras. Many of them were mounted on top of traffic signals and light poles around the city, the feeds monitored by reserve officers and volunteers in tiny, windowless control rooms. The email was from one of those reserve officers, responding to Pryce’s request for feeds from cameras situated in the vicinity of the Dreamz Motel. There were links to footage from two cameras. One south of Hollywood Boulevard on La Brea, the other on the corner of La Brea and Hawthorn.

He let the footage from the first camera run from 10:30 p.m. onward. He saw families making their way home after dinner, young folks heading out to bars and clubs, and a handful of tourists wandering around, identifiable by the expensive cameras hanging around their necks and street maps purchased from gas stations clutched in their hands.

Then, after about ten minutes, a figure dressed in black strode into the shot. Hood up, carrying a duffel bag, back to the camera, head down. About five ten, with broad shoulders. Walking with purpose on La Brea. There was something slightly off about the way he walked, but Pryce couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The figure in black quickly disappeared from the shot.

Pryce turned to the feed from the second camera and sped through the tape until 10:40 p.m. showed on the date stamp. He held his breath until the perp appeared in shot. Breathed out slowly as the figure in black immediately turned down Hawthorn.