Six men ran in tandem toward the house like a small contingent of Marines just landing on shore. A KMRA-12 news helicopter was approaching in the distance, its spotlight trained on the ground below.

Jennings looked up at the approaching chopper. The radio. They heard it over the damned police radio.

Seaver and his two men arrived at the massive five-car garage and blasted open the side door with their shoulders. Against the wall was a large, midnight blue Mercedes S600.

“Engine’s still a little warm,” Seaver said, his left hand hovering in front of the grille.

The other men swarmed around the car. “Left headlight’s busted and there’s a dent on the front fender.” He craned his neck under the car and pointed his flashlight. “There’s some blood, I think…hard to tell.”

Seaver walked over to view the front end of the vehicle and saw the license plate: 2CUTWEL. He smiled. “Looks like we got our man.”

At the house, Jennings was pounding on the door; he had already rung the bell five times in frantic succession. The front porch light snapped on. An eye could be seen peering through the lens in the middle of the large, ornately carved wooden door. It opened six inches and a powerfully large black Labrador poked his snout through, growling, fighting against his owner’s knee to get out.

“Phillip Madison?” Bill Jennings asked.

Their suspect was a shade over six-foot-two with dark, slicked-back hair and broad shoulders. He was dressed in jeans and a UCLA alumni T-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“Police,” Jennings said. “Please get hold of your dog and move aside, sir. We’ve got a warrant to search your premises.”

“A warrant?” Madison slipped his hand under the Labrador’s collar and moved back a step. Jennings entered and Officer Connor, wearing thick leather gloves, grabbed the dog by the nape of the neck and strapped a muzzle on him. The animal bucked and swung his head wildly, slamming into Madison and throwing him against the wall.