Dick Stahl lay on the couch and closed his eyes to ease his headache. He had been too tense, too alert for too many hours. He had spent the time since disarming the car bomb going over all the information he could collect about the two booby-trapped sites of the past two days.

The trap at the house in Encino that killed Tim Watkins, Del Castillo, and the dozen others had not been an attempt to harm the house’s owner. It had been a way of luring as many bomb technicians as possible to one site and murdering them. The man who had called the 911 line was either the bomber or someone working for the bomber. Stahl knew a bomber called the police only if he was trying to kill the police officers who would respond.

The car bomb today had been a second attempt to wipe out cops. Chaining the car to the pumps was a sign to the gas station manager that something was going on that was beyond him, and he should call the police. The owners of the gas station in Studio City and the house in Encino had no connection and nothing in common. The two common elements were the police and the bomber.

He had listened to the recorded 911 call that had summoned the fourteen to their deaths and watched the video of the man delivering the packed car to the gas station. Both the caller and the video image were unidentifiable, but the evidence did indicate that this was probably a single man, not a group of conspirators. In his experience, terror bombings usually worked this way. There was a single person, usually male and over thirty, who conceived the idea and made the bomb. If there were a second person, he or she drove the explosive-packed car and parked it in a marketplace or in front of a government building, or wore the explosives on his body, or left the briefcase on the crowded floor of the station, or buried the IED in the middle of the dirt road. This time there was no sign of a second person, and there was no hint of why the lone man wanted to do this.

Stahl had spent years studying explosive devices. He couldn’t think of a single instance of anything resembling these two incidents. Everything was contradictory. The devices themselves were a mixture of the crude and the sophisticated, the rudimentary and the complex.

The bomber seemed to be an amateur. He had made his own mercury rocker switches, and appeared to have made his own explosive charges. To Stahl this meant the bomber had no access to ready-made materials. On the other hand, only a few professionals were able to make such powerful high explosives. Military demolition people—no matter how deep undercover—seldom had a need to learn practical chemistry well enough to produce explosives from scratch. The al-Qaeda operative who made the shoe bombs and the underwear bomb had been reduced to using peroxide explosives, which were much easier to make than military plastic, but far less safe to work with, and less effective.

Having an unknown enemy in Los Angeles able to make his own C-4 or Semtex was a disaster. This one understood methods like using shaped charges to penetrate hardened targets, and imploding buildings with dozens of small charges. Stahl had consulted the ATF’s list of recent bomb incidents and found nothing remotely like what he’d seen at the gas station, or what had killed the men in Encino.

Stahl had not been ready for this. The rescue in Mexico had been a catastrophic case of overconfidence that he’d survived only through ferocity. Before he even had time to catch his breath, there was Dave Ogden.

It actually crossed his mind that Ogden had come at the head of a squad of cops to arrest him and extradite him to Mexico for murder. Instead, Ogden had come to ask him for a favor that might, ultimately, be worse. And he could not refuse.

Ogden had been a sergeant when Stahl came out of the police academy. He had been assigned as training officer during Stahl’s probationary period. Because Stahl had enlisted in the army about the time Ogden became a cop, they were almost the same age in spite of the difference in ranks. Ogden had been fair, and Ogden had taught him about police work. Other supervisors had done those things too.

What had made the difference was one late night in the north Valley. Ogden and Stahl drove past a shipping warehouse in North-ridge, and Stahl saw a moving light under a garage door. They drove around the property and found a spot near the back where the chain-link fence had been cut and rolled up in both directions. The barbed wire at the top had been removed and tossed into a nest of coils nearby.

Ogden and Stahl went through the breach on foot and saw a dozen men taking cases of liquor out of the back of a big semi and setting them on the tarmac nearby. Rather than attempting to steal the truck, they were loading its cargo into a line of vans, SUVs, and pickups. Ogden called for backup and waited, but someone had already spotted the police car. In less than a minute, the small trucks had begun to pull out through the hole in the fence onto a side street and accelerate onto the boulevard to escape.

Three SUVs pulled up near the police car—one behind, one in front, and one to the side. They found the police car was empty, so they kept coming. They swept the area outside the fence, and then pulled in through the opened section of fence. Ogden and Stahl retreated toward the warehouse for cover, but the first shots were fired before they could reach it. Within the next three minutes, Ogden had been wounded in the leg, and Stahl was using up their supply of ammunition trying to keep the attackers’ heads down on the other side of the lot. Then, without warning, Ogden drew a .380 backup pistol from his ankle holster and fired over Stahl’s shoulder. The man who had crept up behind Stahl to kill him fell dead. Other police units arrived in another three minutes, too late to affect the outcome.

He knew that when David Ogden came to his office he’d had mostly noble motives. But there had been a little bit of self-protection too. As of this morning Ogden couldn’t be held responsible for whatever happened next. Nobody could blame him, because he had immediately brought in a former commander of the Bomb Squad, and turned the problem over to him.

On the way home from the station this evening Stahl had already heard a radio news report giving him credit for outsmarting the car bomber. That was unspeakably stupid. Moving a bomb and detonating it didn’t defeat the bomber. The bomber was fine. He wasn’t in custody, nobody knew anything about him, and he was probably busy building his next bomb right now.

While Stahl had been at the scene the mayor had apparently been interviewed and given his amateur diagnosis of the bomber as “insane, mentally ill.”

In Stahl’s experience, men like this bomber never showed any sign whatever that they were mentally ill. They looked like anybody else. They exerted great self-control. They had to obtain substances and devices that were hard to find, hard to buy, and hard to use. They were patient and careful. They had to be the ones who weren’t noticed, weren’t seen, and weren’t remembered.

And this one scared Stahl. He wasn’t sending out grandiose messages or threats. He hadn’t issued demands. If he had a plan, it was hard to figure out what it was. Stahl was sure he was actively trying to kill off bomb technicians, but why? And what did he have in mind after that?

Stahl knew he couldn’t sleep. He wanted a drink to loosen his muscles, get rid of his tension headache, and make his eyelids heavy. But if the next call came tonight he would still be under the influence. He had to endure whatever his mind did to him tonight. He was in a fight.

His cell phone rang and he looked at the display. He didn’t recognize the number, but he had moved into a new environment today, so it could be anyone. “Stahl,” he said.

The voice was female. “Hi, boss. This is Diane Hines. You’re not asleep.”

“Apparently you’re not either.”

“No. I tried taking a hot bath until my fingers and toes got all wrinkled and the water got cold. I tried watching television, but they kept interrupting my sitcoms and showing us at the gas station and the riverbed. You have any ideas?”

“I’m surprised you’re asking me.”

“You’re my team supervisor. It’s your job to get your troops through.”

“What I’d normally recommend in these situations is to have a glass of single malt scotch to take away the agitation and relax the tension. But that only makes sense when the danger is over.”

“The danger is over for tonight. I don’t know if they had the rule when you were still working, but neither of us is supposed to go on another call for the next shift.”

“I doubt that applies now. We’re too short staffed.” He paused. “By the way, I don’t know if I had the presence of mind to say this earlier, but you and Elliot did a terrific job today. You’re smart, you have great self-discipline and composure, and I was proud to work with you.”

“What a nice thing to say. Thank you.”

“I’ll write it down and put it in your files tomorrow.”

“Thanks. But I was hoping the next thing you’d say was that you were inviting me over for that drink. I kind of need to talk.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m your commanding officer, at least for now. If you were with Elliot, then it could be a team meeting, but—”

“Not likely. Elliot is married, has two kids, and doesn’t drink.”

“Diane,” he said. “You know there are police regulations about conduct between us.”

“Of course. Do you think any female cop doesn’t have Police Regulation 271 memorized? But this is an exception. I’m scared shitless. I could die tomorrow. And you told us all you’re just filling in for a while. I’m not worried that your two-week second career in police work is going to be ruined by having a drink with me. Are you?”

“To be honest, no. I’m not.”

“And you have a security company that must pay really well, judging from what your condo is worth.”

“How do you know what my condo costs?”

“I have a good eye, and I know the neighborhood,” Diane said. “I’m in my car sitting outside your window. I’ve been watching you pacing in there while we’ve been talking.”

“If you’re already here, then you might as well come in.”

She walked up the steps to the high iron security gate and looked into the camera while he buzzed her in. Then she climbed the steps to the steel security door that had been shaped and colored to look like wood. She reached up to knock on his door, but Stahl opened it first.

She stepped inside and he closed the door behind her. Diane Hines didn’t look much like the woman he had seen in uniform today. She was wearing a gray skirt and black silk blouse that might have seemed plain except the fitted cut emphasized her breasts and thin waist.

“You look very nice in civilian clothes,” he said.

“Everybody looks fat in a bomb suit.” She smiled at him, reached into the oversize bag she carried, and pulled out a bottle.

“Macallan,” he said. “Very thoughtful of you.” He didn’t take the bottle. “Come in and sit.” He pointed at the couch. She walked over and sat, then watched him take two glasses from a cupboard and an identical bottle of Macallan Scotch from a cabinet. “This one’s already open. Ice? Water?”

“About an inch of ice, please.”

He prepared her drink and poured one for himself. He brought them to the couch and set hers on the coffee table in front of her where she could reach it. Then he sat in the armchair across from the couch and lifted his glass. “To the duds.”

“To the duds,” she said.

“You said you wanted to talk?”

“I think I said I needed to talk. I’m sorry to come here like this, but it was kind of inevitable after today. If you hadn’t tagged along on that call, I’d be dead. When I got home I watched that explosion in the riverbed about forty times, and it scared me even more each time.” She took a sip of her drink.

“It was a big charge,” he said. “You must have known it would be at the start. Nobody needs a car to deliver a pipe bomb.”

“It’s that retroactive feeling that got to me tonight,” she said. “You can do what you have to do at the time. Some combination of training and focus and caution gets you through. But later you start to shiver and feel weird and feel panicky, and you look for ways to get back to normal. As I was thinking about that a few hours ago I noticed I had developed an interest in seeing you.”

“So you came over for a drink. It was probably the right thing to do. A drink and a talk will probably help us both work through what happened today and yesterday.”

“I think so,” she said. “You’re a reassuring presence.”

“I cultivate that for my business,” he said. “I make faces in front of the mirror until I hit on one that will make people think I’m the guy who can solve their problems. It makes them pay my outrageous fees.”

Diane laughed and they both sipped their drinks and set them down at the same time. Diane took a deep breath and then started again. “Here’s my problem. When I was working with you today, I was doing things—cutting steel, disconnecting circuits, moving explosives, searching for signs of tampering or components that didn’t belong. But I was just an extra set of hands for you. I wasn’t doing the thinking. You were. I could see right away that you knew things Elliot and I didn’t. I need to know those things. I could tell today that my life depends on it. This guy has hit two days in a row. I don’t think he’s going away.”

Stahl shrugged. “I think I know what you’re feeling. You haven’t seen anything quite like the one today. And yesterday was pure horror—friends and teammates killed for no apparent reason. We lost people who were part of our lives. If I tell somebody a funny story, there’s a good chance one of those fourteen guys made it up. Whenever I remember the years I spent on the force, some of those faces will be part of the picture in my mind. And today you did what you were supposed to, but it cost you. It might take you a little while to get past the shock and the loss. If you need a couple of extra days to recover, I’ll do my best to get them for you.”

“That’s a lot to ask of you, and it’s not what I want.”

“I’m trying to be a reassuring presence,” he said. “How do I do that?”

“I think you’ve figured out some things about this bomber. Tell me.”

He took another sip. “Judging from the surveillance tapes, he works alone. He wasn’t sent by some foreign government that supplies him with factory-made explosives or sophisticated gear. The house in Encino was initiated by a photographer’s intervalometer he could have bought at a good camera store, and the car was full of homemade switches and explosives. The devices at the Encino house made me realize that what he intended was to kill bomb technicians. That was all his complicated trap was good for. So today I guessed that the next device I saw was going to be an attempt to get rid of a few more of us. That meant each component would be designed to mislead and deceive a technician.”

“So what are we supposed to do with that information?” she said.

“Don’t think in terms of devices made to kill some guy’s enemy as he checks his mailbox one morning. This is not about civilian victims. It’s about predicting what a trained bomb technician will do to render the device safe, and turn that action into a trigger. You have to think about the logical procedure you would usually follow with his device, and then dismiss that option and think of some other way around the triggers he might have built in.”

“That explains something,” she said. “Part of what shook me today was that sometimes I thought I knew what to do, and you kept choosing the opposite, and each time that turned out to be right. I guess what I want you to say next is that it’s going to be okay, and we’re going to be able to handle whatever this guy is dreaming up right now, arrest him, and walk away.”

“I’m going to try,” he said. “I’m confident you will too.” He shrugged. “It’s a great advantage to have somebody on the team who’s got small hands, thin arms, flexible joints, and a quick brain.”

They talked for a long time about the events of the day, going over each component they had found in the car and the decision Stahl had made about how to circumvent or neutralize it, and what other choices there had been.

Later their talk turned to fighting back—the various items they had found and saved, the images that had been preserved on surveillance video, and all of the other paths that could lead to the identification of the bomb maker. Stahl said, “At the Encino house everything got destroyed. But we bought ourselves some chances today. At the gas station nothing got destroyed except the explosives. We have everything else he brought to the scene.”

At midnight he said, “It’s getting kind of late. Are you okay to drive home? If you’re not, I have a guest room.”

“I could drive, but I don’t want to.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m not sleepy. I’ll even make you breakfast before I take off.”

He went back to the kitchen counter, brought back the bottle, refilled their glasses, and set the bottle on the coffee table. Then he sat down in the armchair again.

“Why over there?” she said. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“What?”

“You know. Getting you interested.”

“I was interested as soon as I met you, but I figured I could wait until only one of us was still a cop. I sat here so I could see you better. I like watching your eyes. They’re beautiful.”

She sipped her drink. “I know. I have a really cute body, too. I think it’s from the stuff they make you do in the academy. I’ve been doing the workouts ever since.” She held him with her eyes. “You know, I think I’ve talked enough for now. Have you?”

“For now. Would you like to finish your drink in the bedroom?” he said.

“At last. An invitation that came from you.”