'Chate's a deadbeat, a dropout. He did time for dope peddling a while back but was paroled early. We know he's involved in some pretty seedy dealings, but we've never been able to pin anything on him.'

'Until now?'

Fletcher was silent.

'You've clearly got some evidence against this Chate fellow in this case or you wouldn't be asking me if I know him. Alas, you seem to know much more about him than I do. I must say you seem rather pleased that his name has cropped up.'

Fletcher coughed and stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray next to the Doctor's hands. The interview rooms were supposed to be soundproof. Surely there was no way the Doctor could have heard the conversation he'd had with Lindsey?

'Maybe, Doc, maybe. You know why Chate going down makes us all laugh, don't you? His father is Captain Charles Wallis, the high pillow round here. They don't speak, of course.

Estranged or whatever. It's embarrassing for my boss, you know? The police captain with the jailbird son... sure makes us laugh.'

Fletcher scraped his chair away from the table and stood up.

'Now I've got to go and deal with some other business, so stay here until I get back...' He dropped the pleasant tone from his voice and put on his severe face. 'I haven't finished with you yet.' 'Oh indeed,' said the Doctor, 'but I was wondering if perhaps I might come with you? You are going to find this Chate chap, aren't you? I want to solve this murder as much as you do, and maybe if you share the information you have on the case, let me speak to this fellow... Well, they do say that two heads are better than one.'

Fletcher shook his head. 'If you want to speak to Chate, you can do so after the arrest.'

The Doctor's face fell. 'I'm not in town for very long and I do rather want to get this nasty business over with as quickly as possible. Please, Detective. Let me come along.'

Fletcher paused, trying to decide how much slack to give the Doctor, then realised that he ought to be as co-operative as possible. He didn't have anything to hold the man on, but he still wanted answers out of him. It went completely against orthodox procedure, but they did say the LAPD were only taught the rules so they could break them.

'Fine. Chate's a familiar face and if he's in town we'll find him in no time. I'll put out an alert to everyone in the area to look for him, let Wallis know what we're up to and if all goes to plan we'll head him off and bag him before sunrise. Be in the parking lot in ten minutes, Doctor. It's going to be one hell of a night.'

Chapter Three.

The unobtrusive sound of a violin playing a romantic melody filled the air of the Silent Gold restaurant. Candlelight flickering off the walls illuminated the happy faces of couples having dinner and gave a warm glow to what was one of Beverly Hills'

most up-and-coming eating establishments.

Robert Chate was bored before the waiter had even taken his order. As much as Revere had tried to train him into the world of high-class restaurants, he had never quite fitted in. The tuxedo was always too tight, and the bow tie was never quite straight. It was all a sham, really Just like Revere himself. All Revere's wealth and all his influence came from other people.

Stolen from other people. The man himself had done very little to earn it: instead he used proxies like Chate to gather his spoils.

Chate looked up to see Julie return from the rest room. She was a pro-skirt from Fourth, but the rumour going round was that she knew where to find Maria. She had refused to talk without payment, so Chate had decided to treat her to a meal (and a bottle of wine or two) to try to loosen her lips.

'There you go,' Julie said, handing a napkin to Chate. He looked down to see that she had scribbled an address on it in eyeliner. 'You'll find what you're looking for there.'

She gave him an expectant look. 'And my payment?'

Chate shook his head and sighed. He reached into his pocket and handed the woman a handful of bank notes.

Julie counted the money and smiled. 'That will do.' Chate wondered whether she'd be going straight to one of his rivals after the meal to spend her earnings.

Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the address on the napkin and smiled. If this turned out to be a solid lead, then this might have been one of the most useful dinner dates of his life.

The Silent Gold was a classy place and almost everyone dressed up before visiting it, so when a group of heavy-coated men barged straight past the maitre d' without waiting to be seated it was obvious something was wrong. 'Over there,' Chate heard a fellow customer say to the men. It took him a moment to realise what was going on, but by the time he had it was too late. He stood up as an athletically built man with closely cropped dark brown hair flashed a badge in front of his eyes.

'Stand still!' the man barked. They were undercover cops, and he was the person they were here to see.

'Glad to see our sources are as reliable as ever,' the cop said, a grin on his face. 'Robert Chate, I'm Detective Fletcher, LAPD.

You're under arrest for the murder of Harold Reitman. Resist arrest and things won't be pretty.'

Murder? Chate wondered what the hell was going on. 'Did you say... murder? What? I haven't killed anyone!'

'What's going on?' Julie asked.

Just when things couldn't get any worse for Chate, one of the men at the back of the group stepped forward and lifted his hat, revealing a weary lined face.

'Hello, Robert. How are you?'

Chate stared into the eyes of the man he hated more than anyone else on the planet. The man who had left him to rot in jail, led him to believe he was an unwanted, unloved failure.

Charles Wallis. The man who had adopted Chate after his real parents had died in a gas explosion. The man who had taken the young boy in like a lost dog, then tossed him aside after marrying a woman with no interest in his excess baggage.

Wallis's wife's views had soon become her husband's, and it wasn't long before they both decided the responsibility of raising a child was too much to bear, forcing Chate to leave home and sever contact with them.

'Haven't you retired yet?' Chate growled.

Wallis smiled. 'You have been a bad boy, son. Killing poor Mr Reitman like that.'

'What?' Chate yelled. 'I didn't kill anyone!'

'You know Harold Reitman,' Wallis sneered, 'don't you, Robert?'

Harold Reitman. A hophead movie producer and a major client of Revere's. Chate had been involved in several dealings with the man, but they had never been close.

Chate had been near the Reitman household last night. He had got very, very drunk in Old Joe's then staggered through Beverly, searching for a cab to take him home. He recalled seeing lights on in the Reitman place, had peered through the fence to see if he could spot anyone famous, but was sure that was all. After that... Oh shit. He realised that he couldn't remember a damn thing about the rest of the night. Surely he couldn't have killed someone? Even when that drunk he'd never go that far. But the police must have found something that pointed to him. What evidence could they have?

Stupid and suicidal as it was, Chate's emotions got the better of him and he ran. Seeing that the entrance was blocked by hostile parties, he dodged out of the way of the cops then ran towards the back of the restaurant.

'Get him!' Wallis yelled.

Chate rounded a corner and hurried through a door that led to the kitchen. A door on the other side of the room had the words FIRE EXIT emblazoned over its top in large red letters.

In a corner of the kitchen a chef was busy preparing food, and when he saw Chate he began to gibber angrily in Spanish.

Ignoring the man, Chate tried the fire exit but the door just wouldn't open. It was a sign of the times when even fire exits had to be locked.

He moved to the door he had come through and listened.

The footsteps of the police were getting nearer. He knew he had nowhere to run. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. There was one last thing to try.

'Freeze!' he shouted, pointing the gun at the chef. The man raised his hands in the air and pleaded with Chate not to kill him. He began to tell Chate about his wife and kids, or some other heart-wrenching story.

Chate ran behind the chef and held the gun to his head. This guy could be his ticket out of here. Hopefully the police wouldn't be stupid enough to kill an innocent person.

After several seconds the cops burst through the door and pointed their guns in Chate's direction.

'Let me go or this guy's on the night rattler,' Chate shouted.

He didn't mean a word of it, but prayed the bluff would be enough to fool the cops into not shooting him. He couldn't bear the thought of dying in agony on the restaurant floor. Part of him was too scared to move, but the rest of him knew he had to fight his fear. He had to find a way to survive.

'Let him go go, Robert,' Wallis said, emerging from the shadows of the corridor outside the kitchen. 'He hasn't done anything, he's innocent.'

'I won't shoot him if you let me me go,' Chate shouted. ' go,' Chate shouted. ' I I haven't done anything! I didn't kill anyone!' haven't done anything! I didn't kill anyone!'

Wallis smiled. 'Then put the gun away, kid. Let's deal with this calmly.'

Chate caught the scared-witless expression on the chef's face in a reflective surface, and realised that holding the poor guy at gunpoint whilst proclaiming he wasn't a killer probably wasn't the best way to convince the police of his innocence.

He was about to give up when a new voice started to speak.

'I believe you.'

Chate thought it was one of the cops until the man stepped forward from behind the other officers. Dressed in a dishevelled suit with a shirt that was about three sizes too big for him, was a small, dark-haired man.

'Who's this?' Chate yelled at the other cops.

'My name's the Doctor,' the man said in an English accent.

'Mr Chate, I promise I'm here to help.'

'Fletcher!' Wallis called. 'Get that deadbeat out of here!'

'Come on, Doctor,' said Fletcher, his gun still pointed at Chate. 'Leave this to us. Unless you want to be arrested too.'

'Listen to me, Mr Chate,' the Doctor continued, ignoring the internecine arguing. 'Robert... no one will harm you. They just want to ask you a few questions, that's all.'

The weariness on the man's face and the compassion in his eyes indicated that he was total y genuine.

A brief moment of silence followed, during which Chate could hear nothing except his rapidly beating heart and heavy breathing.

'Come with us,' the Doctor said finally. 'Everything will be all right, I'm sure. We know you didn't kill anyone, so you have nothing to fear. Let the man go, Robert. Let the man go.'

'I told you to get back!' Wallis shouted at the Doctor. He made a hand gesture towards one of his men, who stepped forward and pulled the Doctor away from the front of the group.

The cops' concentration had been momentarily broken by the Doctor and Chate decided to make the most of the opportunity. He threw the chef to the floor, away from the path of his gun, then fired two shots at the kitchen lights which smashed into a hundred pieces, plunging the room into darkness. Chate raced past the cops out into the main part of the restaurant, firing a few more shots behind him. A barrage of gunfire erupted as the police emerged from the darkened kitchen to pursue their prey, spraying bullets across the restaurant in a desperate bid to halt the suspect's escape.

Gunshots filled the air and Chate's world became a blur. He fired back in the direction of the police, feeling a burning pain rip into the back of his shoulder as he ran. He'd been hit, but he had to keep on moving. He looked round and saw bodies falling, heard people screaming. Police, customers and restaurant staff all panicking in the chaos. Yet still he ran, never looking back.

He ran round the restaurant until he got to the exit. Another cop was guarding the door, gun raised.

The cop seemed to be about to fire when he suddenly screamed and fell to the floor, clutching his eyes.

Chate turned round to see a bright, white light spilling from the body of someone who'd been wounded where there should have been blood. It wasn't one of the police, it was a customer. It was as if the sun itself flowed through the body, a dazzling, golden molten liquid that spilled out on to the restaurant floor, almost blinding in its brightness.

Chate didn't know what was going on, and he didn't want to stay around to find out. With difficulty, he managed to look away from the astounding spectacle and fled out of the restaurant, straight past the dazzled cop and out into the cold, rain-soaked night.

As he ran, trying desperately to ignore the pain in his shoulder, he glanced back at the restaurant and saw figures moving about inside, panicking as they tried to deal with the devastation and chaos. At that moment, Robert Chate knew his life had been changed for ever. He had to escape from this world of nightmares. He had to get away.

The next day, the LA Times LA Times would report the news of the incident at the would report the news of the incident at the Silent Gold restaurant and would call it one of the biggest police blunders of Silent Gold restaurant and would call it one of the biggest police blunders of 1947. Three members of the LAPD suffered gunshot wounds. One 1947. Three members of the LAPD suffered gunshot wounds. One customer was killed in the carnage and several more were severely injured customer was killed in the carnage and several more were severely injured including, it later transpired, Caleb Rochefort, one of Hollywood's brightest including, it later transpired, Caleb Rochefort, one of Hollywood's brightest up-and-coming stars, who had been enjoying an incognito meal with his up-and-coming stars, who had been enjoying an incognito meal with his latest bride. Those wounded in the shooting were rushed to Queen of Angels latest bride. Those wounded in the shooting were rushed to Queen of Angels Hospital, where a barrage of journalists heard a statement from the district Hospital, where a barrage of journalists heard a statement from the district attorney on the night's events. He told them how a mad gunman had held attorney on the night's events. He told them how a mad gunman had held up the restaurant, how the police had been called and had moved in, and up the restaurant, how the police had been called and had moved in, and how the man had gone on a shooting rampage before being shot himself by how the man had gone on a shooting rampage before being shot himself by Detective William Fletcher. The shooter was dead, and the case was now Detective William Fletcher. The shooter was dead, and the case was now closed. The incident was a great tragedy, however you looked at it, but closed. The incident was a great tragedy, however you looked at it, but thanks to the power of journalism those members of the LAPD who had thanks to the power of journalism those members of the LAPD who had been involved could sleep soundly knowing that the public would never know been involved could sleep soundly knowing that the public would never know the truth about what had occurred. the truth about what had occurred.

Chapter Four.

Chate had been running for over fifteen minutes. Running through the floods, the wind, the traffic and the neon-lit streets.

By 8.25 p.m. he had slowed his run to a walk, knowing that the cops couldn't be on his trail any more and that if he didn't slow down he'd soon collapse. His shoulder still hurt where he'd been shot, but the bullet had only grazed him so he'd been able to rip off a section of his undershirt and use it to bind the wound. He would have to seek medical attention soon, but he knew he'd be OK for a while and felt relief that he hadn't been more severely injured.

He thanked the God he didn't believe in that he'd been targeted during this kind of weather, as on a day when the roads were clear and visibility was good he wouldn't have stood a chance.

Chate wiped the rain from his eyes and began to get his bearings. He hadn't been concentrating too hard on where he was going, simply heading east and figuring that the closer he could get to downtown, the closer he could get to obscurity.

Without a car he hadn't been getting anywhere fast. He needed a break. Needed time to catch his breath and decide where to go next.