HOLLYWOOD KILL

A MYSTERY THRILLER

DEAN BLACKWOOD

BOOK 6

SAM JONES

Copyright © 2024 by Sam Jones

This novel is a creation of the author’s imagination, crafted with care to deliver a unique story experience. The characters, events, and settings depicted are fictional, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to real-life incidents or locales, is purely coincidental.

Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this book, in whole or in part, by any means—physical, electronic, or otherwise—is strictly prohibited without the express written permission of the author. If you wish to quote or reference any part of this work, please reach out to the author at info@samjonesauthor.com.

Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into creating this story.

INTRODUCTION

In Hollywood, pissing off a super-cult can cost you your life.

And stealing their blackmail SD card can cost you your entire family.

As a former FBI agent, my knack for infuriating off bad guys knows no bounds.

Especially pretentious Hollywood jackasses with a passion for blackmail and murder.

So when I was hired to find a missing camera man, I should’ve known it wouldn’t be an easy case, despite the promises of the famous vlogger that hired me. 

Plastic smiles and deception lead to a cult that makes “Eyes Wide Shut” look like a children's film.

Now my old Army Ranger buddy, Mike Hollow, and I must choose who lives and who dies. 

From high-speed chases through L.A.’s streets to a final showdown at Dodger Stadium, Mike and I aren’t just fighting to expose the truth—we’re fighting to survive in a city where murder is just business as usual.

Hollywood Kill is a gritty, no-holds-barred mystery thriller packed with action, twists, and the raw danger of Tinseltown’s darkest secrets.

This is book 6 of the Dean Blackwood FBI Mystery Thriller Series. These books DO NOT have to be read in order. Perfect for fans of Lee Child and Michael Connelly.

PROLOGUE

The ear-splitting roar of 40,000 energized spectators rattled Jimmy Valenti’s ears.

He winced.

Cut a glance to his left.

Observed the stadium crowd on their feet chanting Mookie Betts’s name as his fly ball to center field sailed through the dusky mandarin skies.

Don’t stop.

Valenti continued through the Loge Level concourse, pushing and twisting past a sea of fans clad in white and Dodger blue.

You gotta get the fuck out of here.

He dabbed the sweat off his brow.

Shot a look over his shoulder.

Clocked the two stocky men in suits trailing him at 30 yards, the bulges of their sidearms swelling through the front of their jackets.

“Shit,” Valenti hissed. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Ahead of him, the path through the throng of spectators narrowed, slowing his progress. His panic surged, prompting him to escalate from gently nudging to outright shoving folks aside.

A woman shrieked.

A pair of Latino men cussed him out.

The men in suits, scanning the crowd, snapped their heads toward the source of the commotion.

Valenti met their gaze.

He swallowed hard.

Go, Jimmy.

The suits sprinted toward him.

Run!

Valenti bolted toward the stairwell on his right and hastily climbed the steps. His muscles throbbed. His chest constricted. His cigarette-scorched lungs seared as he climbed the stairs and reached the platform that opened up to the next concourse.

Valenti spun around.

Surveyed the crowd.

Ten yards behind him, chucking aside stadium fans like throw pillows on the staircase, were the pissed-off dudes in suits.

The white one pointed.

The black one scowled.

Valenti, flustered that his booze-addled mind panicked and went farther up instead of down, charged into the Reserve Level. In his mind—the proverbial, unabated cinephile that he was—he envisioned his predicament as a 90s-era thriller complete with a dramatic Michael Kamen-esque score of brass and strings to heighten the tension.

Not now, man.

This isn’t a good time.

Valenti forced his way through the dense crowd. The corridor was permeated with a pungent mix of sweat, beer, peanuts, and processed meat. The voice of Orel Hershiser percolated out of a video board display somewhere on his left.

“A decent swing by Freeman,” Hershiser commented. “He kept it low, hitting a ground ball right to the shortstop. Thankfully, he’s still in the count with one strike.”

Valenti, choking on choppy breaths, maneuvered his way toward the seats that looked out on left field. He caught a glimpse of the pitcher, Zac Gallen, on the diamond, kicking at the dirt as he eyed the player at bat, two punches away from a strikeout.

You gotta hide it away.

Valenti cut a glimpse at the suits adrift in the crowd—vigilant, frustrated, straining to spot him.

If they get their hands on it, they’ll rip your ass apart.

Valenti dug into the right pocket of his sherpa-lined jacket.

He felt around with his fingers.

His index finger scraped the SD card tucked snugly inside.

A nerve-riddled Valenti jogged right, located another stairwell, and bounded up the steps that led to the Top Deck.

He arrived at the upper level.

Looked around.

Ran toward Section 13, third base side, because he didn’t know what the hell else to do.

He found a row with three empty seats, picked the one in the middle, and sat down.

Okay.

His limbs shook.

All right.

He took a look around.

They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone.

Recovering his breath and rooting in his pocket, Valenti fixed his eyes on the Jumbotron above the center field fence.

Harrison Ford was in attendance.

So was some TikTok star.

The guy who played Lex Luthor in Smallville was mugging the camera with cocksure confidence as though he was still relevant among the Hollywood elite.

Valenti pinched the SD card in his pocket with his fingers.

Took it out.

Looked around.

Then he bent over and felt around the hard polyethylene seat.

“Damn it.” Valenti gnashed his teeth. “Come on. Come on. Come on!”

Remembering the packet of nicotine gum in his other pocket, he took out the blister pack, popped two, put them in his mouth, and chewed as he kept an eye peeled for the suits.

He spit out the gum.

Wrapped the SD card inside.

Got down on his knees and checked for onlookers. There were none. The crowd was on their feet hollering because Gallen had punched out the batter. Then Valenti stuck the twisted piece of gum to the back of the seat’s left leg.

He stood.

Ducked into the aisle that led up to the concourse and ran.

At the aisle’s summit, he noticed the suits a few paces away, their eyes boring into him as he raced out onto the landing.

The black one flared his nostrils.

The white one reached into his jacket.

Valenti turned and darted, the suits shouting after him, their cries drowned out by the cacophonous roar of the fans.

Valenti peered at the stairwell on his right, clogged by a group of eight or nine people making their way down to the next level.

He ran left.

Hustled down the first aisle.

Bounded through the seated and standing spectators, violently jabbing the fans aside as he raced down the rows toward the guard rail that overlooked the Reserve Level, a drop of 50 feet below.

Spectators pushed Valenti.

Some screamed.

A few threw fists.

At one point, a Latino guy built like a linebacker seized Valenti by his shirt, cursed at him for crashing into his wife, and then tossed him aside.

Valenti landed on his back.

Groaned and flipped onto his stomach.

Gaze turned up, he then saw the suits hustling down the aisle toward him two steps at a time.

The black one shouted for him to freeze.

The white one ripped out a SIG Sauer P365 sidearm from his jacket.

Valenti, bounding to his feet, scampered down the aisle, unsure of where he was going or what his route of escape would be.

He nudged a kid out of the way.

Did the same with a peanut vendor.

A beat after that, a woman darted into his path.

Valenti crashed into her, his vision a kaleidoscope blur as he lost his footing and careened down the aisle in a frenzied spill.

He thrust out his hands and tried to break his fall.

Scraped up his elbows, palms, arms, and face.

No.

God.

No.

Fuck.

Please!

Valenti gathered momentum.

Stood up.

Scrambled to get his footing and catapulted forward.

A moment later, he slammed into the guard rail, swayed, and then launched over it head first toward the level below.

Valenti howled.

The spectators followed suit.

A moment later, Jimmy Valenti landed neck first on the back of a polyethylene seat on the Reserve Level, broke his neck, and ended his life at a spry thirty-one years of age.

The men in the suits peered down at Jimmy Valenti’s corpse, mangled, disfigured, and sprawled across three seats.

His limbs were bent at unnatural angles.

His head was twisted 100 degrees to the right, more than the 70 degrees a person can naturally turn their head.

The umpire halted the game.

Cops flooded the scene.

The men in suits were then arrested and questioned. Once an LAPD detective looked at their IDs, they were let go without additional inquiry or delay.

Valenti's body was bagged up and sent to the medical examiner. By morning, the whole thing got written up as “some idiot kid” who got a load on and assaulted some folks before taking a tumble over a guard rail at Dodger Stadium.

1

DJ Ozzy Nelson pulled his microphone toward him, puttered his lips, and rushed through a series of vocal warmups. In the booth, his audio engineer, smoothing the wrinkles on his KPPX T-shirt, snapped his fingers, toggled the ON-AIR sign, and signaled to Ozzy with an extended thumb.

“All right, listeners,” Ozzy spoke into the mic. “It’s another beautiful day in Southern California, and we’ve got a solid lineup of hits from the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s for our Nostalgia Marathon Weekend. So for those of you stuck in the commute, savoring your day off, nursing some shattered feelings, or just looking to kill some time, Ozzy’s got all you loyal listeners covered.”

Ozzy nodded at the engineer.

The guy flicked a switch.

The intro to Tina Turner’s “Better Be Good to Me” kicked in and trickled through the speakers of over 30,000 listeners.

“It’s KPPX,” Ozzy said as the beat kicked in. “Playing…what we feel.”

On Santa Monica Boulevard, two brothers, coasting down the sidewalk on their skateboards with KPPX playing on their phones, veered out of the way of a liquor store owner hosing down the sidewalk.

On Century Boulevard, an older woman in a Benz and in hysterics hollered at a cop writing her a ticket and asked if he knew who the fuck she was.

On Hollywood Boulevard, a novelty store owner shooed away a homeless man in the throes of urinating on his window.

On Melrose Avenue, two twenty-somethings playing hooky from work—under the pretense of having COVID—laughed their way into Urth Caffé a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard for a morning vanilla latte.

The sun crested on the horizon.

A breeze was blowing.

Traffic on the 134 was packed.

Nestled among the congestion near the Cypress Avenue exit was a raven-colored Plymouth Road Runner. Behind the wheel was Dean Blackwood, fresh out of a funeral and contending with a hangover of sizable proportions.

2

Dean Blackwood, running his palm over his three-going-on-four-day stubble, sensed the pangs of a headache accumulating in the back of his skull as he nosed his Plymouth forward in the traffic.

I’m not moving.

He sized up the traffic—a complete and utter standstill.

…At all.

Dean chugged, swirled, and gargled a mouthful of his bottled water to rinse away the whiskey afterbite, positive that the guy standing beside him at the funeral had caught a whiff an hour before as the priest was muttering a final prayer.

He recalled the polished onyx casket.

The mourners at the gravesite suffocated their whimpers with their fists as the casket was lowered into the ground.

His boss, Kent Wilson, was lying inside the thing with his arms draped over his chest.

“Yo!” Freddy Bazz said, his voice pumping through the speaker on Dean’s phone. “You still there?”

“Still here.” Dean assessed the ocean of red taillights ahead of him through his dusty windshield. “Unfortunately.”

“You gonna be long?”

“Not sure.”

“I pet a cat with a Russian guy today.”

“Say again?”

“When I was shipping that box of stuff to Layla in Seattle, the Russian dude who managed the shipping place had a cat. Thing had a chunk of its ear missing.”

“Fascinating.”

“I thought so.”

“You got everything shipped off?” Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “All of it?”

“Yeah, all of it,” Freddy said. “Six boxes. Used the company card to pay for it.”

“Thanks for taking care of it.”

“You talk to her?”

“Layla?”

“Yeah,” Freddy said. “Well, her and Grace, I guess.”

“No,” Dean said. “She asked for some space, so I’m giving it to her.”

“You should call her.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I mean it, boss. Maybe if you⁠—”

“Freddy,” Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “She’s not coming back.”

“Sorry, boss.” Freddy paused. “What about Jeremy?”

“What about him?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Last week. It was quick.” Dean thought of his son, how tall he was, and the legwork it would take to book a ticket to visit him in the UK. “He’s nineteen hours ahead of me. Gotta pick my spots.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s good,” Dean said. “Still getting settled. Claire says he’s digging his new school.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Some elitist, tea-sippin’ private academy near the Thames.”

“The what?”

“It’s a river.” Dean’s foot, resting on the brake, cramped up. “It was in a few of the James Bond movies.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah.” Dean examined his phone, toying with the idea of thumbing through some pictures of his kid, but he abstained. “Very neat.”

“Anyway,” Freddy said, snapping Dean out of his train of thought. “How’d the funeral go?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“It was a funeral, not a kegger.”

“Clearly you’ve never been to New Orleans.”

Dean perked up, thinking he saw the traffic ease up, but his thrill evaporated when it only moved a couple of feet. “I did meet Wilson’s kids though.”

“Didn’t know he had kids.”

Didn’t know he had cancer either.

Dean shook his head.

Dead a month after he made the call.

Reducing the radio volume, Dean replayed the brief visit he had with Kent Wilson a pair of days before he died. Like every memory, he recalled it with crystal-clear clarity.

A torrential downpour had battered the windows of Wilson’s room at Adventist Health Glendale. The lack of natural sunlight left the room murky and streaked with tones of ash.

Same went for Wilson.

At one time he was robust. Strapping. Agile. Now he was pale and rakish, tethered to a series of machines. The beep, whirr, and clatter of the devices masked his shallow breaths.

Dean sat with Wilson for two hours.

Not a word was exchanged.

Wilson was too weak to speak.

At one point, the boss man did manage to pry open his eyelids and look at Dean. During the minute that followed, Dean and his old mentor stared and exchanged silent apologies and remembrances of a friendship that had clocked close to twenty years.

Dean whispered that he’d come back in a day or two.

Forty-eight hours later, Dean got the call from a former colleague at the Bureau that Wilson had passed away peacefully in his sleep.

Four days later, buzzing from the shots of whiskey he had thrown back before showing up at the funeral, Dean scanned the faces of 200 people in attendance at Forest Lawn. Chances were high that more than a handful of folks knew who he was and the type of relationship he had with Wilson, so he understood why everyone opted to give him a wide berth.

“Boss,” Freddy said over the phone. “Did I lose you again?”

“I’m here.” Dean eyed the traffic, his neck muscles tense from being at a total impasse. “Still waiting.”

“You said something about Wilson’s kids being there.”

“Two of them. From his first marriage.” Dean shook his head, astounded that he knew so little about Willy until after the guy cashed in his chips. “Technically he had three, but one of them passed away from a car wreck way back when.”

“Damn.”

“Willy never told me about them. Didn’t know about his son passing until the priest said something during his reflection of life speech.”

A boy.

A son.

Nicholas.

The only son Wilson ever had.

“Dude went to the mat for me,” Dean said. “A lot.” His whiskey-induced headache magnified. “Freddy, I’m gonna roll over to my place for a minute. Need to sleep this off.”

“Sleep what off?”

“My head’s pounding.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You're as visible as a streetlight, kid.” Dean probed the roof of his mouth with his tongue, the whiskey residue triggering him to squirm. “Look, I’ll be back in the office in a couple hours.” He checked the G-Shock strapped to his wrist—it was just past noon. “I just need to pop a Tylenol and lie down for a second.”

“I’ve got you covered.” In the background, Dean could hear Freddy clacking away on a keyboard in his PI office. “I’m still working on that skip-trace that bondsman dude contracted out to us,” Freddy explained.

“You make any headway?”

“Pretty sure the guy we’re looking for bounced over to his old lady’s house in Phoenix.”

“Old lady?” Dean rolled the Plymouth forward another couple of inches. “You sound like my old man.”

“Your dad’s dope,” Freddy said. “Dude and I kicked back last week and watched a couple Tony Scott flicks.”

“Why were you hanging out with my dad?”

“’Cause he’s fly as hell. Guy’s got this killer collection of laser discs we’ve been ripping through. I texted you last week. Remember? I asked if you wanted to come over and watch Face/Off with us.”

Last week.

Dean rifled through his mental vault, peeved that lately it was taking longer than usual to evoke a memory.

Shit.

He recalled where he had been.

You were at the Beanery.

Got the “get fucked” look from the bartender for tipping less than 10 percent.

“I got held up,” Dean told Freddy, “sorting some stuff out.”

“What stuff?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not my parole officer. And stop hanging out with my dad.”

“No way, dude. Your pops is a riot.” Freddy chortled. “Next week we’re gonna start cranking through Cheers. Love that show, man. That bit when Henri shows up and keeps telling Woody he’s gonna steal his girlfriend cracks me up.”

“For the love of God.” Dean boosted the volume on “I’ve Been Lonely Too Long” playing on the radio. “You’re giving me the runs here, kid.”

“Whatever,” Freddy said. “I’ll keep you updated on that skip trace. By the way, I had to ship something to your house. Packages keep getting stolen from my complex’s mailroom.”

“What did you send?”

“A shirt.”

“What kind of shirt?”

“I picked up this killer graphic tee from this place called MoistJunk.com. It’s got Pee Wee Herman doing the tequila dance printed on the front of it.”

“For the love of fuck’s sake.” Dean ended the call. “Goddamn idiot.”

For a lengthy stretch of time, he waited for the traffic to let up.

It didn’t. It remained stalled, so his mind wandered, and as a result, his hangover intensified.

“Rough couple of months. Right, lad?” an Irish voice beckoned. “One shitstorm after another.”

Dean, glimpsing at his rearview mirror, ogled the four-foot-tall disheveled leprechaun in the back seat. The figment of his imagination—Woody, who had ridden shotgun with him most of his adult life—was fiddling with the door locks, flicking the back of Dean’s headrest, and blowing hot air on the windows.

“Shame about Willy though,” Woody said. “He’s a good man.”

Dean said nothing.

“Well, was,” Woody clarified. “Not anymore.” He produced a Gold Leaf cigarette from under his mint-hued top. “Pancreatic cancer is one of those sneaky ones.” He lit it. “Just pulls the rug out from under you,” he snapped his fingers, “like that.”

Dean, right hand trembling, reached over toward the glove compartment.

“Don’t ignore me, lad,” Woody said, leaning forward, whispering directly into Dean’s ear. “We’ve got lots to talk about—Layla, Grace, Jeremy, Willy.” He flashed a crooked set of tobacco-stained teeth. “Loads of things we got to unpack.”

A crimson-faced Dean flung open the glove compartment, snagged the airline-sized bottle of vodka inside, and downed it.

He tossed the bottle on the floor.

Felt the liquor coat his throat.

When he put his focus back on his rearview mirror, Woody was no longer there, the little Irish prick seemingly having bounced away with Dean’s nerves and headache.

“Good,” Dean grumbled, dabbing the droplets off his mouth with his sleeve. “Grand.”

He grabbed his old CD case from the back seat.

Rifled through it.

Selected the Audioslave album.

After popping it into the player—an aftermarket modification from the early 2000s that his old man had made—Dean hit play, leaned back, and turned up the volume on “Show Me How to Live.”

The punchy guitar riffs shook the Plymouth.

Cornell’s throbby vocals vibrated the windows.

Dean nodded subtly to the rhythm.

Maybe I should call Jeremy.

I mean, I could throw down right now for a ticket to Berkshire.

Maybe I could call Layla, too, and⁠—

“Stop.” Dean squeezed his eyelids shut. “Enough.”

A heartbeat later, shouting erupted 20 or so yards ahead of him in the traffic.

Dean snapped his eyelids open.

Through the windshield, he observed two men, both with his same build and hair color, standing in the road, verbally assaulting each other. From what he could make out, the prick with the Porsche had allegedly clipped the clown with the Harley.

The shouting intensified.

Curious onlookers poked their heads out their car windows.

After the two men exchanged a few more profanities, they started bumping, shoving, and cocking their fists.

Dean thought about walking up there.

Pulling his PI badge.

Brandishing his SIG Sauer 1911-XFULL.

Squashing the thing right then and there, but he didn’t.

He just turned the volume up on his radio, rested back his head, and did nothing.

3

Nikki Caimi feverishly paced the hardwood floors of her two-bedroom on the corner of Melrose and San Vicente. Through the panoramic living room window, she watched traffic filter steadily down Melrose, trees swaying lazily in the breeze beneath the coral-tinted skies.

Strolling past her kitchen, Nikki checked her phone. Of the ten calls and twenty texts she had sent to her cameraman, she saw that he had answered none of them during the fourteen hours since she first reached out.

“Damn it.” She tossed her phone on her three-seater Togo brand sofa, her rage boiling as she walked over to the oval-shaped mirror on the wall and flipped her shoulder-length flaxen hair.

Where the hell are you?

Nikki dabbed at the corners of her frown lines, the swelling from the botox injections a week before still in the process of diminishing.

I swear, J.

If you did something stupid, I’ll tell the cops you hit me.

I’ll do it.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

After finishing the touchups of her appearance in the mirror, Nikki smoothed her cap-sleeve blouse dotted with images of red grapes to make sure it was void of wrinkles.

She pursed her filler-injected lips.

Picked her phone back up.

Padded her bare feet down the hall toward the bedroom across from the master.

The 160-square-foot room housed portable lights, a rolled-up backdrop, and a tripod outfitted with a shotgun mic—a top-of-the-line self-tape emporium. In front of the camera setup was a curvy, oval-shaped glamor desk. Behind it, mounted on the wall, was a custom pink neon sign that read, “The Hollyweird Buzz.”

Nikki mounted her phone to the tripod.

Pulled out the dazzle seat behind the desk.

Then she implemented a breathing technique she picked up from a yogi over in Santa Monica before realizing that her cameraman wasn’t there to hit record.

Nikki hissed.

Walked over to the tripod and hit the red button.

Swore to chuck a blunt object at her cameraman as soon as she tracked him down.

Seated back down at the glamor desk, Nikki took a beat, stared directly into the lens of her phone, and flashed an insincere visage of confidence that had taken her months to refine.

“Oh. My. God!” Nikki’s feigned Valley Girl accent filled the room. “It’s Nikki Caimi here at The Hollyweird Buzz, and I’ve got some more delicious news for my subscribers. As I mentioned during my last video, I have the hottest, craziest, and most juicy gossip about Reckless Endangerment actor Robbie Aimes.”

Nikki told her 600k followers—and potential followers—to “smash the like button.”

Subscribe to her page.

Follow her on a series of social media platforms.

Buy her book, 90 Men in 90 Days.

After plugging her products, she circled back to her opening bit.

“Once again,” Nikki’s tone was pleading, “please be on the lookout this Friday for a video that will reveal some serious truths about actor Robbie Aimes. Here at The Hollyweird Buzz, I am the only one with access to this jaw-dropping information, so be sure to tune in.” Her face darkened. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.” She kissed her fingers, flashed her teeth, and held her fingers up like a boy scout making an oath. “Slay!”

She held her smile.

Dropped it.

Cursed under her breath as she shut off the camera and the lights and collected her phone.

“God damn it,” Nikki mumbled, her cameraman’s face whirling in her head. “If you weaseled out on me, fucker, I’m gonna kill you.”

After going through the motions of airdropping the video to her computer, chopping it up, and making tweaks to the color and sound, Nikki uploaded it to her YouTube channel.

She checked her phone—no calls, no texts.

Her rage started to swell.

She changed into sweatpants.

Grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge.

Looked around her apartment that her father was paying for through the nose, and for a fleeting second took note of how quiet it was. She did a rough count of just how many hours she spends in the unit all by herself.

Shaking off her cognitive flow, Nikki stepped into the bathroom and used moist towelettes to scrub off the eyeliner, lipstick, and foundation. Staring at her reflection, she momentarily contemplated how long it would take before people noticed she was older than she claimed to be.

They won’t.

There's a way to fix it.

Examining the wrinkles near her mouth, she tamped down the urge to cry.

There’s a way to fix everything.

She thought about her camera guy.

Checked her phone.

Rang him up.

As before, the call went straight to voicemail.

“God damn it!” Nikki slipped down on her couch, worried that her cameraman would never return her calls.

She called him again—nothing.

She sent another text—the same.

Where are you?

Where the fuck did you run off to?

A thought struck Nikki.

Shit.

Her pulse quickened.

Did he sell the thing to someone else?

She unlocked her phone.

Find him.

Right now.

Here.

Now.

Today.

She went to dial 911 but hesitated.

No.

No, babe.

Shit.

No.

You can’t.

Cops ask weird questions.

They can arrest people.

Things get weird.

If they find out what’s up, they’ll make you come in, just like they did the last time.

Thinking outside the box, Nikki pulled up the Google app on her phone and did a search for private detectives.

She checked who was local.

Picked the first one she found, a place called Blackwood Private Investigations located in Hollywood.

She dialed the number.

Heard a kid answer.

Told him she needed someone to locate a man named Jimmy Valenti.

4

Robbie Aimes was sure half the residents on Mulholland had heard him shout at full volume. But he didn’t care. He knew he could be gurgling out his death throes, and no calls would go out.

No one here phones the cops.

He strode angrily around the edge of his infinity pool, the sweeping downtown vista visible off in the distance.

People got too much weird shit going on behind closed doors.

Gazing down at his phone, Robbie thumbed the replay button on the YouTube video, his stomach churning like a machine washing as he watched Nikki Caimi tease a video about him and some “juicy gossip” she planned to release on Friday.

She knows something.

He squeezed his phone until he heard a crack.

But what the hell could it be?

Passing through the sliding glass door, his bathrobe billowing in the wind, Robbie strode into his sleek, steel-and-etched-glass home. He terminated his stride and appraised one of twelve full-length mirrors inside.

His toned, sun-licked physique was sterling.

His tousled sandy-blond hair was orderly.

His chiseled jawline—the one a TikToker described as “the look for men”—appeared to be blemish-free.

Little pale though.

Need to exfoliate.

Robbie ran his fingers across his jawline, once softer and less defined before he had the money to—in his publicist’s words—make it “more pronounced.”

Am I puffy?

Dread washed over Robbie.

Shit.

He did a more thorough assessment of his facial contours, anxiety mounting as he pulled and pinched at his skin.

Fists pounded on the front door.

Robbie shuddered.

He tied his bathrobe and collected himself.

“Coming!” he shouted, walking barefoot through the foyer, certain it was Sydney, two doors down, acting like her A/C didn’t work again so she could have an excuse to pound on his door and flash the pair of assets that were landing her one goddamn role in the industry after another.

Not interested.

Robbie unfastened the locks, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

And that sultry voice bullshit of hers is so goddamn⁠—

A fist broke through the door gap.

Struck Robbie in the nose.

On his ass, blood seeping out of his nostrils, Robbie saw two guys in suits—one of them with a gun in his hand—stepping over the threshold.

5

“Idon’t get it,” Robbie heard the suit on the left say, his accent polished off with a dense Southern finish. “All these action movies you’ve been in,” he kicked the door shut behind him, “and you can’t see a sucker punch coming?”

Robbie got to his feet.

Dashed toward the living room.

Spotted the other suit over his shoulder, a bearded thug with no neck and hands the size of cantaloupes. The guy grabbed a barstool from the kitchen and chucked it one-handed into the small of Robbie’s back.

Mid-stride, Robbie felt a searing pain spread across his lower back.

He hollered.

His legs gave out.

He collapsed on his face, groaning as he riled around.

“Pick him up,” Robbie heard the Southern one mumble. As Robbie was pushing himself up off the floor, he felt a hand secure a grip around his neck and thrust him to his feet.

“Listen!” Robbie said, his body violently angling around before focusing on the man with no neck. “I’ve got twenty grand and a Teen Choice award in the study⁠—”

The meaty brute thrust a fist into Robbie’s gut.

Doubled him over.

Stood aside as the Southern guy, lighting a cigarette, moved casually through the living room, his tan and thin yet sinewy frame moving like water trickling through a tributary.

“Nice digs,” the Southern guy said as he positioned himself by the window, bathing in the warm amber glow as he took in the sights. “Helluva goddamn view.”

“Okay,” Robbie grumbled, now on his knees, stammering. “Take it easy! Don’t hit me in the face. I’ve gotta be on set in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Hot diggity. Whatcha shootin’?”

“A remake.”

“A remake?” The Southern guy made his way over to Robbie. “Of what?”

“A TV show,” Robbie said. “From the ’80s. Something about these two cops who⁠—”

“Oh, for chrissakes.” The Southern guy nudged the actor with his boot. “Y’all are running out of ideas around this town. It’s all rehashed ideas thrown into a blender or protracted action scenes lacking anything in the way of plot or character development. Hand to Jesus, I haven’t seen a good action flick in a while. I’m a big fan of your Reckless films, but even those are starting to become tiresome.” He stared yearningly out the panoramic window. “I’m starting to wonder if a solid action movie can even be done anymore.”

“Please, man.” Robbie held up his hands. “Don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“We’re not here to rob or kill ya, Rob. Just need to ask you some questions.” The Southern guy wagged a finger. “The punch and the stool to your back will be the extent of your whoopin’ if you answer them directly. No games.” He walked over to Robbie, took a drag of his cigarette, and towered over him. “No lies.”

“Who are you?”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. Where the hell are my manners? That tall drink of sun tea over there is Billy.” The Southern guy motioned with his cigarette to the bigger guy before flattening his palm across his sternum. “And I’m Tucker.” His lips pulled back to reveal a bleached white, maniacally large set of chompers. “But I go by Tuck, T-Man, Sir, or Friend. Whichever you prefer.”

“Is this about Fuji?” Robbie whimpered.

“You want some water?” the Southern guy asked.

“That’s Fiji,” Billy clarified. “Fuji’s a Jap name, I think.”

“And who, pray tell,” Tucker said, “is Fuji?”

“My WeHo guy.” Robbie hung his head. “Shit, I told him I would hit him back next week. Look, tell him I’ll⁠—”

“Forget all that, Robbie.” Tucker unfastened the top button of his blazer. “This ain’t about no drugs or Fuji or Yoko or even Ono.”

“Yoko Ono is one person,” Billy said. “She’s John Lennon’s widow.”

“I’m aware, blockhead.”

“Just making sure.”

Tucker, teeth gnashed, flashed his partner a contentious look before putting his attention back on Robbie. “Need you to answer a handful of questions for me here, Mr. Teen Choice Award. Unless I caught you in the middle of somethin’.”

“Questions?”

“Probes. Queries. Points of clarification.”

“Just don’t hurt me, okay? Please, don’t⁠—”

“Oh, come now,” Tucker said. “We can’t go killin’ off Hollywood’s big box office earner without someone getting suspicious.”

“You’re…” Robbie ping-ponged his focus between Tucker and Billy. “You’re not gonna kill me?”

“No, sir.” Tucker shrugged. “Might tune you up a bit, but only if you don’t comply. All that looks like is me askin’ questions,” he gestured to himself and then to Robbie, “and you answerin’ them. Simple as that.”

“Okay.” Robbie took a breath. “Yeah, man. For sure.” He dabbed at his bloodied nose with his sleeve. “Whatever you say.”

“Good man.” Tucker dropped his cigarette onto the Persian carpet before crushing it out with his heel. “Let’s get to it then.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You know a guy named Jimmy Valenti?”

“Valenti…” Robbie scoured through his cerebral hard drives. “I mean, I don’t really⁠—”

“What did I say about lyin’?”

“I’m not!” A bead of sweat rolled down Robbie’s face. “Dude, I’m trying to be forthright here.”

“Tryin’ ain’t the same as doin’.”

“I’m doing. I swear.” Robbie reached behind to his tender back, gingerly grazed it with his fingers, and tensed. “Crissakes, you already knocked something loose. I’m not looking to be a paraplegic for fuck’s sake.”

“’Cause you got movies to make, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then unless you wanna do a remake of that flick where Tom Hanks was in a wheelchair,” Tucker said, “I’d advise you to think long and hard about your answers before you start blurting them out.”

“That was Tom Cruise in the wheelchair,” Billy specified. “Born on the Fourth of July. He got an Oscar nom, I think.”

“Billy…” Tucker pinched the bridge of his nose. “When you undermine me like that⁠—”

“I’m sorry.”

“It looks bad.”

“I know.”

“It’s like when one parent contradicts the other in front of the kids.”

“Understood.” Billy, standing at attention, mime-sealed his lips shut and clasped his hands in front of him. “Not another word.”

Tucker shook his head.

Lit a cigarette.

Crouched down beside Robbie.

“Last night,” he said, “a guy died at the ball game. You catch wind of that by chance?”

“Yeah, I heard about it.” Robbie nodded. “Saw something about it on X this morning.”

“Well, he’s the same guy I mentioned before.” Tucker took out his nickel-plated cigarette case. “Jimmy Valenti.”

“I mean, I meet a lot of people. I probably heard his name before.” Robbie pressed his hands together like he was praying to a saint instead of an enforcer. “But I swear to God and my mother and my father and every other person I know that I’m not sure who he is.”

“You positive about that?”

“I am.”

“Absolutely, 100 percent, no bull, no confusion, no doubt in your mind?”

“Yes,” Robbie insisted. “Dude, if I knew him, I’d tell you!”

“All right.” Tucker, examining Robbie’s expression, appeared convinced that the actor’s statement held water. “You know anything about a video?”

“The one online?” Robbie, realizing he still had his cell clutched in his hand, held it up. “The one that Caimi bitch uploaded?”

“Who?”

“Nikki Caimi.”

“And the video?”

Robbie presented his phone.

Tucker streamed the Hollyweird Buzz video.

The Southern goon then linked up with his fact-checking counterpart, whispered something, and walked back over to Robbie.

“This gossip shit she’s rambling on about,” Tucker said. “You know what that’s all about?”

“I’m not sure,” Robbie said. “Could be anything.”

“Nothin’ specific comes to mind?”

“Dude, I’m an actor.” Robbie threw up his hands. “I do blow, go to parties, and fuck everything that moves. For all I know, that bitch has a picture of me fondling someone I shouldn’t have.”

“Post Weinstein era my ass.” Tucker cut a glance at his partner. “The more shit changes. You know what I mean?”

“Look, just tell me what this is about,” Robbie said, pressing his hands together again like he was praying. “You wanna know something specific, then ask me. I won’t lie to you.”

“So, you don’t know Jimmy Valenti?”

“No.”

“Or anything about a video?”

“Only the one that this chick Nikki is talking about.” Robbie nodded to his phone that Tucker was still holding. “Other than that, I swear I don’t know what you want or why you’re here.” His lips quivered. His body trembled. “Please don’t kill me, man.” His shoulders dropped. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Just to be clear,” Tucker said, “you don’t know Jimmy?”

“No.”

“Or anything about this video? Other than the one you just showed me?”

“Yes, dude,” Robbie shouted. “I swear!”

Tucker nodded.

Took a pause.

Conferred with his partner.

“All right, Roberto.” Tucker gently pulled Robbie to his feet and patted his shoulders. “Now, you’ve acted in a few movies with hitmen and mob goon characters before, so that means you’re well-versed in the kind of rapport those scenes entail. That being said, I’m sure you can probably anticipate what I’m going to say next.”

“Yeah.” Robbie avoided looking Tucker in the eye. “You want me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Very good.” Tucker tightened his grip on the actor’s shoulders. “Anything else?”

“You…” Robbie exhaled a sharp, tinny breath. “You would probably also say that you’re going to keep in touch with me. That you’ll keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”

“Look at that.” Tucker released his grip and stood back, clapping like he had just witnessed the actor’s best performance to date. “No wonder everyone buys tickets to your movies.” He nodded at Billy. “We’re gonna head out now. It was good talking to you, kid. Glad I finally got to meet you in person. Bit shorter than and not as buff as I thought you’d be, but hey,” he winked, “movie magic, right?”

Tucker and Billy moved to the door.

Opened it.

Halfway through it, Tucker turned back around. “I forgot something,” he said. “Can’t believe I let it slip my mind.”

“Yeah?” Robbie backed away. “What?”

Tucker slowly walked over to the actor. “This is by far the most important question you need to answer. And if you lie to me, I swear I’m going to rescind my promise of not killin’ ya.”

Robbie swallowed hard.

Tucker inched closer, his nose pressing against the agonized thespian’s cheek. “Is there gonna be a fourth Reckless Endangerment movie? I mean, after that cliffhanger on three when we didn’t know if your parachute was gonna open after you literally fell off that cliff…” He laughed. “I just can’t wait to know. Please tell me Jack Craven is comin’ back for another installment.”

Robbie, a dumbfounded look on his face, took a few deep breaths to process the question before he answered. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, they’re doing the script rewrites now.”

“Son of a bitch.” A toothy Tucker slapped Robbie hard on the back, doubling him over. “I can’t wait.” He moved briskly back to the door. “Love those goddamn movies. You keep me in mind once that premiere rolls around.” He ducked out the door, his voice trailing after him. “I gotta be there.”

Robbie shut the door.

Walked over to the couch and braced himself.

As soon as he heard what sounded like a car pulling out of his driveway, he raced toward the back of the house, turned left, and moved down a cramped hallway adorned with framed posters of Reckless Endangerment 1, 2, and 3.

He stepped into his study.

Slammed the door shut.

Wiped the blood from his nose.

Pat will fix it.

Robbie plopped down behind the replica of Don Corleone’s desk.

He will.

He collected himself.

Dialed a number.

Waited impatiently for a Tier One advisor at the Awakening Center to, as always, make his problems fade away.

6

The speaker above Pat Wozniak’s head softly churned out an elevator-music rendition of the Bee Gees’ “Too Much Heaven.” Flossing his teeth, Wozniak ignored the chirping of his desk phone on the edge of his executive desk.

Marble.

Sixty-five inches.

The size was intentional, though it dwarfed Wozniak and made him appear even more diminutive than he already was. The same went for his office, which measured an excessive 3,000 square feet.

“Fear,” Wozniak recalled his old mentor, J. Randolph Lewis, once saying,

“is an excellent motivator for the masses. It is a profound and powerful emotion—it’s a heightened sensation, so always be sure the methods you use to provoke that fear are as grandiose as the emotion itself.”

“Jackson.” Wozniak spoke into his intercom, glaring at his desk phone. “Could you come in here, please?”

The massive pair of golden double doors to his left swung open.

Wozniak’s rake-thin, pale-skinned assistant entered, shuffled across the crimson carpet, and stood at attention.

“Yes, Mr. Wozniak?”

“I said no calls until noon.” Wozniak took a brief look at his schedule displayed on his computer monitor. “I have a Zoom meeting with the Enlightenment Board in ten minutes.”

“It’s Robbie Aimes, sir.” Jackson swallowed hard, his fear palpable. “He said it’s urgent.”

Wozniak glared at his assistant.

A pearl of sweat slid down Jackson’s face.

Wozniak waved him away, fiddling with his gold cufflinks as he angled his body toward the 6’ x 8’ oil portrait behind him—his golden-throned mentor and founder of the Awakening Center, J. Randolph Lewis.

Wozniak waited until Jackson was out of the room.

Cleared his throat.

Reached over and thumbed the speaker button on his phone.

“Robbie,” Wozniak greeted. “Magnificent evolution.”

“Yeah,” Robbie said, flat and devoid of enthusiasm. “Magnificent evolution.”

“How are you today?”

“I’m terrible, Pat.”

“Perhaps we should bring you in for an Assessment Exam.”

“I should, but…” Robbie huffed. “Look, I have a problem.”

“Law enforcement related?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“It’s not a pharmaceutical problem, is it?” Wozniak said. “I thought we were over that period of your life, Robbie. You’re about to start shooting that remake of⁠—”

“Pat,” Robbie cut in. “Listen to me.”

Under typical circumstances, Wozniak would have chided his Tier Four celebrity client for his abruptness, for speaking over him. But Wozniak sensed that the action star’s tone indicated a problem—one that was concerning, pressing, and real.

“All right.” Wozniak leaned back. “The floor is yours.”

“Two guys came to my house.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. They were asking questions about videos and some guy named Jimmy Valenti.”

“Valenti.” Wozniak thought for a moment. “I’m drawing a blank.”

“Pat…” Robbie paused. “It’s possible we might need some muscle on this one.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because these guys just stormed into my house, fucked me up, and asked me all kinds of questions about this guy Jimmy and some video.”

“They assaulted you?”

“They kicked my goddamn ass is what they did. One of them threw a goddamn stool at me!”

“Easy,” Wozniak said calmly. Coming to terms with the severity of the situation, he slipped into crisis management mode. “Just tell me who these men were.”

“They said their names were Billy,” Robbie said, “and Tucker.”

“Did you happen to get their last names?”

“No, I didn’t get their friggin’ last names!”

“Relax.” Wozniak held the line. “What did they want? What were they asking you?”

“They were asking me about some guy named Jimmy Valenti. Something about a video. I told them the only video I knew about was one this chick uploaded, this bitch named Nikki Caimi.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s this gossip-mongering, see-you-next-Tuesday who’s got this show on YouTube. She posted a video about me on her page.”

“What video?”

“Something about having some juicy gossip or something, and these guys got super curious when I showed it to them.”

Seconds later, Wozniak executed a quick search of Nikki Caimi and pulled up The Hollyweird Buzz on YouTube.

He scrolled through her content.

Located her most recent upload—a video titled “The BRUTAL Truth About Actor Robbie Aimes.”

Wozniak instructed Robbie to wait.

Viewed the video.

Had a sneaking suspicion that whatever Nikki claimed to have—all her bad acting aside—was legitimate.

“Okay, Robbie.” Wozniak closed his laptop and perched forward in his chair. “What we’re looking at here is a Tier Two Oppressive Individual. We’re equipped to handle that. As for this video she’s teasing, what do you believe the content may entail? If there’s any validity to its existence, that is.”

“I don’t know, Pat,” Robbie said. “But it’s gotta be real. I know this bitch.”

“In what way?”

“We had the same acquaintances. We hung out a few times before the first Reckless movie came out. She interviewed me when she worked for People, right before she got shitcanned for writing some hit piece on that producer for Neighborhood Spaces. She was…” Robbie held the line. “She attended the same party I did in the Hills a few weeks ago. I saw her. Maybe she caught me doing something there and filmed it on her phone. I don’t know. The night’s kind of a blur. Nikki’s a blowhard. She lies through her teeth about the goddamn weather half the time⁠—”

“Caimi,” Wozniak said, sneering as he muttered the name. “We had run-ins with her before, a problem with a few of our writers on that very same show. Yes, I remember now.”

“So, you think it’s real?” Robbie asked. “This video or whatever?”

“Possibly.”

“Then you’ll deal with it?”

“Sure.” Wozniak nodded.

Shouldn’t be a problem.

We can simply flag her page, get it shut down.

Perhaps a good talk with her will also help with any future reprisals.

Wozniak stroked his chin with his index finger and thumb.

These other men, though, might require more of a thorough examination.

“Pat,” Robbie blew out a deflated breath, “you’ve gotta trust me. If this video is real, if these guys who came around are serious, you gotta⁠—”

“I will assign a member of the staff to get right on it.”

“So it’s handled?”

“Yes, Robbie,” Wozniak said. “It’s handled. We’ll look into the video and these men who paid you a visit. It’s out of your hands. Consider it taken care of.”

“Thank you, Pat.” Robbie exhaled deeply. “You’re a goddamn lifesaver.”

“It’s my pleasure. In the meantime, I’d like you to come in this evening for an Assessment Examination.” The chairman of the Awakening Center stood and moved around his desk. “We should take a reading to see your stress levels.”

“I will.”

“Mandatory donation for an Assessment is $2,000, as you know.”

“Of course,” Robbie said. “I’ll be sure to pay in full when I arrive.”

“Take care, Robbie.”

“Faith in the system.”

“Yes.” Wozniak hovered his stubby index finger above the end call button. “Faith in the system.”

The call terminated. Wozniak, seated on the edge of his desk, took a moment to think on how best to handle the dilemma.

Stress Management Staff could handle it.

They can talk to this Tier Two OI and assess the validity of her claims.

Same for these men who assaulted Robbie.

If it’s worthy, forward their results to the stable of lawyers to litigate accordingly.

Wozniak winced.

That’s a waste of time.

Of money.

He pressed the intercom button.

Someone from the phone book is better suited to do this.

And cheaper.

“Jackson,” Wozniak said. “I need you to contact our people at Morton and Ellis. We may need to have a YouTube page flagged for a Tier 2 OI.”

“Understood.”

“I also need you to pull up our binder of associates you have out there. I need to see if Jasper is available for a freelance contract.”

“One moment, sir.” A long moment passed on Jackson’s end. “Unfortunately, Jasper is not in town. He will be shortly, however. He’s scheduled to have an Assessment Examination with you next week.”

A shame.

Wozniak’s shoulders slumped.

Jasper procures wonderful results, but we need someone on this now.

“All right,” Wozniak said. “Who else is available?”

“Let me see.”

Wozniak heard Jackson typing away on his keyboard.

“I have another man here. Former Army Ranger. Highly skilled. He has done private security details for us in the past. He appears to be in town. He’s working a job on behalf of another one of our congregation members, Lou Boyle.”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael Holloway, sir.”

“Very good.” Wozniak sat down on his chair. “I’m going to forward you a task I want to assign to this man Holloway in a moment, as soon as I finish with the Enlightenment Board.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Ten grand for the job. Ten more if Holloway has to quiet her or these other men permanently.”

He yawned into his fist.

We’ll write it off as a catering expense for the end-of-year filings.

7

Dean Blackwood stepped into the foyer of his house and greeted his furry four-footer, Willy, with a wry smile.

“Look at you.” Dean closed the door, locked it, and got on one knee. “You’ve been standing guard here the whole time?”

Willy barked confirmation.

“Good man. Better than the dudes at Buckingham.”

The blue heeler yelped, jumped up on his owner, and licked his face. After the pair finished their welcome back home greetings, Dean snaked his way through the foyer and into the kitchen, cracked open the fridge, palmed a PBR, and snapped the top.

He took a swig.

Leaned against the kitchen island.

After a few more sips, Dean tossed his keys on the counter, stuffed his Sig into his hip holster, and wandered over to the sliding glass door that led out back. He slid the door open. Chilled air grazed his skin as Willy slipped between his legs and went about sniffing the lawn, a process that always took two minutes exactly.

Dean felt a pleasant blankness overcome him as he pinned his focus on the steep hillside of the Verdugo Mountains that rose behind his house. He thought back to his conversation with Woody, one that—while it was all inside his head—perturbed him nevertheless.

“We’ve got lots to talk about,” Dean recalled the pint-sized bastard mutter. “Loads of things we got to unpack.”

Dean flared his nostrils.

Gulped down his beer.

Called Willy back in.

Decided not to give the voice in his head a single minute of his day.

Meandering down the hallway, Dean looked up and inspected the patched-over bullet holes stitched into the ceiling, remnants of the shootout he had with a CIA stooge inside his house a couple years back. He ripped his focus off of them, his eyes wandering before they settled on the framed photos adorning the hallway walls.

Snapshots of his father.

His sister.

His late brother.

His son.

His ex-wife.

His former cohort and mother of his second child.

All of them either dead or living many, many miles away.

Let it go.

Dean’s headache grew sharper.

Go do something productive.

He jinked farther down the hallway, headed into the second bedroom on his right, and stood over his desk. After downing the last splashes of the PBR, he crumpled the can, chucked it into the trash can, and started sifting through his tax returns.

His mind drifted again.

He fixated on his family.

The ones who didn’t stick around, either by choice or by fate.

Dean shook his head and groaned, wanting to focus on anything else, but he couldn’t. Between the beer he drank and the forlorn look Willy was giving him from the hallway, he couldn’t help himself.

He took out his cell.

Plugged in Layla’s number.

Felt his heart race at the prospect of hearing her voice, but his hopes were dashed as soon as he heard the call go straight to voicemail.

Dean thumbed the button and ended the call.

Looked over at Willy.

Heard the mutt whimper.

“I know.” Dean nodded at his phone. “It’s a bit much, bubbaloo.”

The bleary-eyed pup shot a look toward the bedroom that Dean once shared with Layla, staring at the doorway longingly as though she and their daughter Grace would materialize if he stared at it long enough and hard enough.

“We’ll get there, bud.” Dean squeezed his eyelids shut and rubbed his temples. “Just need something to change here.”

A beat later, his phone rang.

It was Freddy, and the kid quickly informed Dean that some lady named Nikki was looking to procure their services.

8

Dean put his phone on speaker. In the corner of his eye, he caught Willy ducking down the hallway.

“Okay.” Dean placed the phone on his desk. “What’s she looking for?”

“Not sure,” Freddy said. “She’s on the other line now.”

“Add her to the call.”

“How do I do that?”

“Click the Add Call button on the phone.”

“Add Call?”

“Yeah.” Dean hardened his jaw. “‘Add Call.’”

“Okay,” Freddy said. “Hang on.”

The call was cut off.

Dean held his palm to his forehead, waiting impatiently for a few moments before Freddy called back.

“Sorry,” Freddy said. “I lost the call.”

“I saw that.”

“What button is it?”

“Add Call, Freddy.” Dean kneaded his temple. “I believe in you.”

“Wait one...”

The call ended again.

Dean raised his fist, prepared to strike his desk, but refrained.

A second later, his phone buzzed again.

“Freddy,” Dean answered, “if you drop the call again, I’ll beat you to death with your own shoe.”

“My bad, bro.”

“Just add the call.”

“Adding.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

A few seconds ticked by.

Dean waited.

A feminine voice then came on the line.

“Mister Blackwood?”

“Yes?”

“Dean Blackwood?”

“You got him. How can I help you?”

“I’m, uh…” The woman paused. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“Anywhere you’d like.”

“Okay, great. Umm… Well, first off, my name is Nikki Caimi.” The woman let out a sharp, brief, high-pitched chuckle that pierced Dean’s eardrums. “You might know me from my show, The Hollyweird Buzz.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Nikki’s voice flattened. “Well, anyway, I have a bit of an issue. I guess we can call it a missing person case or whatever. I’m trying to find someone.”

“Name?”

“Jimmy Valenti.”

“Friend? Boyfriend?”

“More of the first one.” Nikki paused. “Well, maybe the second. Maybe neither, now that I think about it.”

Please.

Dean rolled his head in circles to loosen up his neck.

Pick one and move on.

“More importantly, Jimmy’s my cameraman,” Nikki continued. “We were supposed to film a segment of my show this morning, and he did not show up or call me to check in. It’s made me very concerned.”

She spoke that last part, Dean furrowed his brow, with perfect diction.

Rehearsed-like.

Practiced in advance.

“I see.” Dean leaned back. “Well, if it’s been over twenty-four hours, you should call the police, but even then⁠—”

“There are a variety of factors involved that would warrant them looking for him,” Nikki butted in. “Yes, I know.”

She looked this all up on the Internet beforehand.

Dean braced the desk and stared down at the phone.

Very interesting.

“I’m curious,” Dean crossed his arms, “why you haven’t called the police.”

“I have.”

“What did they say?”

“That they’d look into it.”

“So we can assume that they are.”

“Jimmy needs to be found now,” Nikki insisted. “He’s had some trouble with drinking and drugs, and I’m worried that his safety is at risk.”

Oh yeah?

Dean stroked his upper lip contemplatively with his index finger.

Bullshit.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Nikki said. “I need to find out where my friend is. He’s not answering calls or texts.”

“Have you stopped by his place?”

“He wasn’t there.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Look, I need to see his face. Hear his voice. I just need to know he’s okay. That nothing bad happened.”

No sweat off your butt, Dean.

Find this dude, forward his location, and then charge this lady out the rear.

Okay, she’s lying, but so what?

Easy money is easy money.

“Sure thing.” Dean reclined farther back in his chair. “First, I’ll need you to forward me some details so I can get started. I’ll need Jimmy’s full name, his address, his phone number. I may call back with a request for some more information at some point.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I’ll put you on with my assistant to square away the details. Standard rate is a fourth of the payment now and the rest upon locating Jimmy.”

After Dean got the info he needed from Nikki, he transferred her, waited, and then heard back from Freddy.

“Okay,” Dean said, checking his phone screen to make sure Nikki had hopped off the call. “Did you get all that?”

“Yeah, man.” Freddy chuckled. “The middle name of this dude she’s looking for is Sue.”

“That part isn’t that amusing to me.”

“Which part is?”

“All of it.” Dean said. “Because the woman was lying through her goddamn teeth.”

9

“Iget this sense that Nikki Caimi is being dishonest about what’s really going on,” Dean said as he snaked his way into the kitchen.

“So…” Freddy hesitated. “The whole thing is bullshit, you think?”

“Not the whole thing.”

“What parts are true?”

“She definitely wants to find this guy Jimmy.” Dean peeled open the fridge. “But I feel like the reasons motivating our client aren’t as simple as tracking down a friend out of a straightforward concern for their well-being.” He grabbed a beer and strolled into the living room. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t go to the cops either.”

“How do you know?”

“If she really wanted to find him just for the sake of making sure he was all right, she would have gone straight to the police. She wants this done quietly. Without police interference.”

“So what does she want?” Freddy asked. “And more importantly, how much will we be charging her for the effort?”

“Not sure what she wants with this guy.” Dean crouched beside Willy who was lying near the couch and ruffled his scruff. “But we’ll charge her $200 over our standard day rate for the legwork.”

“Got it.”

“Did you look her up while I was talking to her?” Dean asked, hoping Freddy was operating by the standard procedure he had taught him. “Like we talked about?”

“Basic background check, yeah. She lives off Melrose and San Vicente. Two-bedroom. Market rent for that place is $3,500 a month.”

“What about this YouTube channel she mentioned?”

“She’s got a decent following—600k subscribers. Content-wise, her stuff’s a little droll.”

“Good word use.”

“It’s all celebrity gossip crap,” Freddy said. “Nothing that really contributes to the greater good in terms of the culture, but who am I to judge?”

Dean cracked open his beer. “It contributes fuck-all.”

“It’s all subjective.”

“Freddy…”

“Back to what I was saying,” Freddy continued, “I don’t think our friend Nikki is pulling much in terms of revenue from her YouTube page.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m Gen Z, man.” Freddy huffed. “I know this world. Based on her subscriber numbers, views, clicks, all that stuff, she’s probably only making roughly $1,200 a month.”

“So it’s not noteworthy.”

“No, not really.”

“Pivot back to Jimmy Valenti,” Dean said. “I want you to scour the databases for him. Pull up everything you can on the guy.”

“Copy that.”

“I’ll head over to his place here in a few minutes.” Dean recalled Valenti’s Koreatown address that Nikki provided. “Schedule is wide open, so I’ve got the time. Plus, a thousand bucks a day for something that’ll take two, maybe three days at the most, is a nice round figure to cash at the bank.” Dean flinched. “Let’s just hope there aren’t any additional parties involved in this thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s clear that Nikki Caimi is lying. And when people lie, things get weird.” Dean walked over to his Sig 1911, picked it up, and press-checked the rounds. “And when things get weird, all kinds of weirdos tend to materialize.”

10

Mike Holloway, staring at the bar through the windshield of his Charger, surfed the channels on his radio and landed on an oldies station.

He nodded approval.

Sat back.

Twisted up the volume on “Come See About Me” by the Supremes.

Fishing a pair of Lucky Strikes out of his jacket pocket, he cranked down the window with his free hand, lit up, and brushed the ashes off his cream-colored suit, sans tie.

He blew out the smoke.

Stared at the door that led into the bar, Ireland’s 32.

Figured he’d give it another five minutes before he made his way inside.

“All right,” Holloway grunted, an East Coast accent glazing his deep, gravelly tone.

Let’s see what’s up on the home front.

He turned off the radio.

Pulled out his cell.

Dialed Becky and hit speaker.

“Hey, babe!” Becky greeted. “Where are ya?”

“Workin’.”

“How’s chauffeuring those pint-sized celebrities around going?”

“Not bad. Lots of sunshine.” Holloway eyed the seemingly perpetual tangerine glow coating the streets outside his windshield. “It’s weird, actually. It feels like the sun hasn’t set here in a few days.”

“California.”

“California.”

“You good?”

“Just stopping off to grab some lunch.” Holloway took a drag of his cigarette. “You?”

“Taking Holly to Orange Coast Memorial in a couple minutes.” Becky’s voice ticked up an octave. Holloway sensed that his wife was disciplining their daughter who was loitering somewhere nearby. “Holly, honey, don’t touch that.”

“She okay?” Holloway asked.

“You’d think she’d be more tired, but she’s buzzin’ like a bee right now.”

Holloway rattled off his signature rugged laugh through his teeth. “What about the copay for today? You got that covered?”

“Yeah, I got enough.” Pans and pots clanged in the background. “Honestly, I just need someone to help me load her wheelchair into the van.”

“Don home?”

“Yeah, I saw him watering his lawn a second ago.”

“Have him give you a hand. Tell him he owes me a favor.” Holloway puffed on his Lucky Strike. “Damn near tore my ACL helpin’ him haul those garbage cans the other day.”

“I will.” Becky’s voice was weary yet charged. “When are you comin’ back?”

“In the morning.”

Holloway caught the door to the bar opening on his left.

Shot a look toward it.

Saw some dude half-in-the-bag stumbling onto the sidewalk at 2:00 in the afternoon.

“Hon,” Becky said. “You there?”

“I’m here.”

“When you comin’ home?”

“Soon, I told ya.”

“You’ve been gone a week, babe.”

“I know,” Holloway said. “I’ve got three more people to drive around, and then I’m back.”

“Just be quick,” Becky said. “We gotta cover the lumbar puncture stuff Holly had last week. Kaiser keeps sending these goddamn notices.”

“We’ll work it out.” Holloway flicked his cigarette out his open window. “I’m walking away with five grand after I sort this thing out.” He cracked a smile. “Put Holly on the phone for me. I wanna talk to her.”

He waited a beat.

Heard the phone change hands.

His daughter’s voice saluted him a moment later.

“Daddy!”

“Hi, baby.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, pumpkin.”

“I see you soon?”

“Yep.” Holloway lit up, amazed that his daughter’s condition hadn’t affected her speech as badly as the doctors said it might. “I’ll see you soon. Put your momma back on.”

“Love you bunches.”

“Love you bunches.”

Another beat.

Holloway took the time to study the bar.

Becky then rejoined him on the call.

“I gotta go,” she said. “Need her to eat before we head out.”

“Get Don to help you out with the chair. Tell him I’ll owe him a beer.” Holloway checked his G-Shock and saw it was time to move. “Call me when you guys are all done, yeah?”

“I will.”

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

Holloway examined the wallpaper on his phone—his wife and daughter smiling, laughing, and cradling each other near the shores of Point Pleasant.

Doin’ good.

Hangin’ in there.

Holloway crossed himself—north, south, west, east.

Keep workin’.

He locked the phone and stuffed the device in his pocket.

Popped the glove box.

Grabbed the stainless-steel, 3-inch full lug barrel Astra Terminator inside, appraised the six rounds in the cylinder, and then snapped it back in place.

“Okay.” Holloway nudged open the driver’s door, got out, and stuffed the six-shooter into the back of his pants. “Let’s get a drink.”

11

Arancid bouquet of draft beer, budget spirits, and cigarette haze hit Holloway like a wall as he stepped into the bar. He surveyed the establishment, illuminated by the multi-colored, phosphorescent haze of more than a dozen beer signs.

Holloway spotted the bar counter on his left and then the row of wooden tables paired with red upholstered booths to his right. A mid-bar counter ran just off-center through the pub.

“Hey,” the bartender behind the counter called out, waving lazily at Holloway, her crooked front teeth angled toward each other. “How’s it going?”

Holloway offered her a grin and looked to his right. Seated at the mid-bar counter were a man and a woman hunched over their drinks. The touchscreen music system beside them, set to “Good Day Sunshine,” spilled its melody from unseen speakers scattered throughout the bar.

“I’ll take seltzer water if you got it,” Holloway said, displaying a $20 bill to the bartender to reassure her. “Splash of lime, if you got it.”

The bartender got to work.

Fetched the drink.

Had it on the counter in just under ten seconds—a pro.

“Seltzer with lime.” The bartender pushed the glass toward Holloway. “Cheers.”

“Cheers to you.”

“How’s your day going?”

“Decent.” Holloway propped his elbows on the counter. “How’s business?”

“It’s good when it’s quiet.” Debbie peeked at the couple at the other bar. Holloway shifted on his stool to see what she was looking at. “Once you get your usual ensemble of oddities filing through the door, it goes from pleasant to contentious in five seconds.”

“Any regulars worth mentioning?”

“David Koechner’s been here. That guy from Mad TV too. Can’t remember his name. Actually, now that I think about it, Carlos Mencia stopped by a couple nights ago. Someone started talking shit to his face when they saw him roll in. Turned into a whole thing.”

“You guys kick him?”

“I did, yeah.”

“Where was the bouncer?”

Holloway scoped out the exits.

The corners.

No security on site.

“We can’t really afford a full-time door guy,” Debbie said. “Only on weekends. Weekdays I gotta rely on just shouting at people to get them to leave.”

“How’s that workin’ out?”

“I’m batting .300.”

“Bully for you, Deb.” Holloway eyed the couple again and then gestured to the television above the bar that was tuned to a recap of the Dodger game the night before. “Hey, you catch all that? Heard somethin’ on the news about an accident.”

“Yeah.” Debbie motioned to the TV. “Some dipshit apparently got drunk and plummeted off the top level.”

“Jesus.”

“Hopefully they won’t cancel any games because of it.” Debbie shot out her chin. “You a Dodger fan?”

“The Mets.” Holloway pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Just don’t advertise that to the guys bleeding Dodger blue that roll in during happy hour.”

“I’m not plannin’ on sticking around that long.” Holloway once again flicked a look toward the couple. “Just makin’ a pit stop.”

“You workin’?”

“I am.”

“What do you do?”

“Entertainment lawyer,” Holloway lied. “I mostly represent comedians.”

“You ever meet anyone worthwhile?”

Holloway straightened his back. “Norm Macdonald.” He fiddled with the ice in his glass. “Really put a damper on my day when I heard that he passed.”

“Him and Greg Giraldo.” Debbie braced the counter and leaned over. “You ever heard of Giraldo?”

“Most definitely. I lived for Tough Crowd and the Roasts back in my twenties,” Holloway said. “Giraldo never really got his dues. Same with Patrice O’Neal. I can only imagine the flak Patrice would give Joe Rogan if he were still around.”

“You don’t like Rogan?”

“I feel like he’s been operating in a bit of an echo chamber recently—too many yes men and capos in his operation just nodding their heads and paying tribute. The way I see it, three-quarters of these guys—Hinchcliffe, Kreicher, a few others—hit it big too quick. Rogan threw them a bone and,” Holloway snapped his fingers, “they were set for life.”

“That’s interesting.”

“At the same time,” Holloway said, “I wasn’t that big a fan of that interview Rogan did with Lou Boyle a couple weeks ago.”

The young woman at the other bar stiffened, her gaze locking on Holloway like he had just insulted a member of her family.

“Lou Boyle.” Debbie winced. “He had that show, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it called?”

“Boyle.”

“That’s it.”

“It was all right. Good for a laugh.” Holloway smiled. “His whole stand-up act was a bit hacky, though, in my opinion.”

The young woman half slid off her barstool. Her mouth hung open, her breath poised to release whatever words were brewing, but the guy beside her gripped her arm and squeezed.

“I’m sorry.” Holloway, feigning confusion, flattened his palm against his chest. “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No.” The woman turned her back to him. “My bad.”

“You sure?” Holloway swirled the ice in his glass. “For a second there, I you were gettin’ worked up about me calling Lou Boyle a hack.”

“Oh-kay.” The woman turned back around, threw up her hands, and glared. “The fuck?”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“You, dude.”

“You a big Lou Boyle fan or somethin’?”

The woman was standing now, her face lit up by the St. Pauli Girl sign above her head. The more her face came into the light, the more Holloway was able to make out a fresh makeup-blemish-free appearance that indicated she was much younger than what her outward appearance suggested.

“Just keep your stupid comments to yourself,” the young woman said as the young man beside her, sporting a look of leather and denim, gripped her arm again and reeled her back around. “Seriously.”

“My apologies.” Holloway took a pause and fixated on the ice in his glass. “Didn’t mean to rile you up there, Cherry.”

“What did you say?”

“I called you Cherry,” Holloway said, swirling the ice in his glass. “As in the pitted fruit. In this case, it just so happens to be your Christian name.”

“Who are…?” The young woman, her skin paling, looked at Debbie and the man beside her, and then put her focus back on Holloway. “How did you⁠—?”

“Your full name is Cherimoya,” Holloway said, his beam vacating. “But you go by Cherry.” He saw a perplexed look on Debbie’s face but didn’t acknowledge it. “Your mother gave it to you. Bit of a prototypical, Hollywood-elite, nepo-baby-league name, but I’m not here to pass judgment.” He stood and took a step closer to Cherry. “I’m just here to take you home.”

12

The girl—Cherry—whispered in the ear of the man beside her.

The guy stood.

Sucked air through his teeth.

Puffed his chest and lumbered his way over to Holloway.

“Hey, man,” he said, his long hair and Seattle grunge rock motif triggering memories of Holloway’s youth. “What’s up?”

“The Dow Jones,” Holloway replied, sipping his drink. “Bullish trends in tech stocks are driving it higher. Should’ve gotten in on crypto back before the bubble started to burst.”

“The fu—?” The dude’s brow wrinkled. “Yo, you fucking with me?”

“Not yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don’t make threats.” Holloway downed the last of his seltzer, put the glass down, and then wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. “I simply follow through on my commitments. In this instance,” he nodded at Cherry, “my current obligation is to take her home.”

“Bro…” The denim-clad dude took a moment, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. “Who⁠—?”

“Regarding your responsibilities,” Holloway cut in, “it’s limited to two. First, you’re going to scrub your phone of all of Cherry’s information. Second, and I should really underscore this one, I’d suggest that you skip town for a while. You do that, you don’t have to worry about anything in the way of ramifications.” Holloway wagged a finger at Cherry. “That girl’s parents are intent on keeping this whole affair on the DL. Cherry’s mother and father also made it very clear to me that if you darken their doorstep again, Luke, they’re going to file jailbait charges against you.” Holloway casually leaned against the bar. “Take it from me. With the heavy hitters they’ve got in their corner, it’ll stick.”

The dude—Luke—turned an ashen shade.

He swallowed hard.

A tick later, he chuckled, found a second wind of confidence, and held his head high.

“You know my name,” he shrugged. “So what?”

“I know a lot more than that.” Holloway picked at the callous on his palms. “I know your home address in Simi. I also know you’re driving your roommate’s Civic while he’s in Lisbon getting faded on the cheap while he finishes the second draft of his piece-of-shit techno-thriller book. But that’s all outside the scope of this conversation.” He jabbed his finger with intent at Luke. “And then there’s you cartin’ around the fifteen-year-old offspring of a Hollywood heavyweight with a lot of pull and very little patience.”

Luke’s nostrils flared.

Cherry trembled.

Debbie backed away from the counter.

Then “Left Hand Free” by alt-J cued up over the bar’s speakers.

“We done here?” Holloway said, unfastening the top button of his blazer. “’Cause I gotta get a move on. Need to fill up my ride before I take Cherry all the way back to Malibu.”

Luke snickered.

Shot his cuffs.

Took a step closer to Holloway.

“She’s not going anywhere,” he said. “Cherry wants to be with me. She hates her parents, and she doesn’t want⁠—”

“Kid,” Holloway held up his hand. “Are you really trying to haggle with me right now?”

“I’m just telling you how it is.”

“You think that’s gonna work?”

“Yeah.” Luke made fists with his hands. “It will.”

Holloway breathed deeply.

Shook his head.

Pouted his lower lip and nodded.

“Okay.” Holloway said smoothly. “Plead your case. If it sounds good, I’ll leave this whole thing alone. I’m not one to stand in the way of true love.”

Luke cut a glance at Cherry.

She whimpered and nodded in reply.

“All right,” Luke said, edging his way to the barstool next to Holloway. “It’s pretty simple, man.” The chorus to the song playing over the speaker started as he sat down on the barstool. “Cherry and I⁠—”

Holloway swept his leg to the right, cracking the leg of the stool and knocking it out from under Luke.

Luke flew into the air before his head thwacked against the bar.

His body went limp.

He crumpled to the dirty floor and slipped into a slumber.

Holloway blinked once.

He apologized to Debbie.

Then he stepped over Luke’s body and walked toward Cherry, his blazer pulled back part way so she could catch a glimpse of his revolver, the chamber of the weapon glimmering underneath the track lighting above her head.

“Cherry, hon,” Holloway said, his tone lacquered with a warm parental affection. “I need to take you home.”

“No…” Cherry wiped away the single tear rolling down her cheek. “I can’t.”

Holloway held up his hand.

He reached out and gently grabbed Cherry’s arm.

When he pulled back her sleeve and saw the injection marks dotting her arm, it confirmed the story Lou and Julia Boyle had told him two days before.

“We’re gonna get you some help,” Holloway assured her. “Everything’s⁠—”

“It’s not going to be okay.”

“It is.”

“How do you know?”

Holloway, his reaction a study of concern, leaned in closer. “Because I’m promising you,” he said. “And my word counts.”

Cherry stared at Luke’s unconscious body.

She sniffled.

Moments later, Holloway helped her get into his Charger, drove off, and made the hour-and-fifteen-minute trek to Lou Boyle’s estate in Point Dume.

Former prime time star Lou Boyle and his wife embraced their daughter and took her inside.

Holloway was paid—as he preferred—in cash.

After shaking hands and receiving a pat on the back for a job well done, Holloway, threading his Charger down Pacific Coast Highway, lit a cigarette, rolled down his window, and took in the sprawling ocean view on his right.

California.

Holloway’s signature laugh slipped through his teeth.

Fun while it⁠—

His cell rang.

Holloway took out the device, examined the display—UNKNOWN—and answered.

“Mike Holloway.”

“Mister Holloway,” a timid and shrill voice replied. “My name is Jackson Branson.”

“Jackson Branson.”

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“Your folks were all about cadence, weren’t they?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I, uh…” Jackson cleared his throat, “represent Patrick Wozniak over at the Awakening Center. You did some security detail work for us a little over a year ago in Hollywood—the premier for⁠—”

“Right, yeah.” Holloway flicked his cigarette out his window. “That Kirstie Lewis movie.”

“Yes, that was the one.” Jackson giggled, prompting Holloway to flinch. “Good memory.”

“How can I help you, Jackson Branson?”

“We have a job for you, if you are interested, of course.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” Holloway looked at his watch and figured he’d make it to the airport in a little over an hour. “I’m on my way to LAX. Still gotta drop off my rental before I get there, so I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

“So you’re in town.”

“Not for long, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps I can persuade you to stay.” Jackson’s tone exuded confidence. “We have a job we’d like to offer you. It’s a $10,000 freelance contract with an option of $10,000 more should certain specifications of said contract need to be carried out.”

Holloway swelled with optimism, a second wind of energy surging through him as he thought about how far he could make cash like that stretch.

“Ten grand, huh?”

“Yes,” Jackson replied. “With the possibility of ten more being tacked onto the principal.”

“All right,” Holloway responded as he searched for the next exit. He took the first one and pulled off. “Tell me how I can help.”

13

The first dusky shades of twilight filtered in through the soiled windshield of Dean Blackwood’s Pontiac as he cruised the 134 freeway. Over the car’s speakers, tuned to KPPX, the DJ relayed to his listeners that the trivia hour they were having for Pearl Jam tickets would be postponed to the following day.

Damn.

Dean rolled down his window and propped up his elbow.

Kinda want to get my hands on those.

“Lucky Man” by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer filled up the car as Dean navigated his way toward Jimmy Valenti’s place in Koreatown. The cool breeze chilled his skin and ruffled the wrinkled suit he was still wearing from Willy’s funeral.

“You good, Deano?” Dean uttered, creating his best impersonation of his late mentor.

Not sure.

The amber glow of the freeway’s sodium lamps flooded in through the windows and cascaded over him.

I just don’t know.

Moments later, Dean’s phone chirped and vibrated in his jacket pocket. He took it out. Saw Freddy’s name on the display, accompanied by a caller ID photo of the kid dressed as Officer Doofy from Scary Movie from last Halloween.

“Freddy,” Dean answered. “What’s up?”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to go to Valenti’s place.”

“Why?”

“Because I found him,” Dean’s assistant said. “The dude took a dive off the Top Deck of Dodger Stadium last night.”

14

Back in his house, Dean shooed away Willy and nudged his front door shut with his foot. He made his way to the kitchen, tossed his keys on the counter, and set his cell—still on speaker—on the kitchen island.

“You’re sure it was Jimmy Valenti?” Dean said, reaching for his laptop on the round wooden kitchen table beside him. “The same guy we’re looking for?”

“He’s dead, dude,” Freddy replied, launching into a Robert DeNiro impersonation. “D-E-A–”

“Knock it off.” Dean flipped open his laptop and clicked on a Google page. “Just get me definitive confirmation that it’s our boy Valenti.”

“It’s him, bruh. Took me like five minutes to find out that this dude dove over the top level at the stadium. Cops are saying he was blitzed and tripped over himself or something.”

“Forward me what you have so I can see it myself.” Dean straightened his back. “And I swear to God, if you’re still using that FreddyBoy69@gmail address, I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s unprofessional. Why would you even have it?”

“Because it’s funny.”

“Just send me what you’ve got.”

Over the course of several minutes, Dean sifted through a series of documents Freddy emailed him—from his FreddyBoy69 address—along with local online news articles from ABC7, KTLA5, and FOX11 covering the death of a man at the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game the prior evening.

“Tragedy Strikes Dodger Stadium,” one headline read. “Attendee Killed during Game,” “Fatal Incident at Dodgers Game,” “Man Dies after Fall” read others.

In three of the articles Dean browsed, the name of the deceased stood out in bold black letters: James Valenti.

He continued browsing.

Saw the name again.

Scrolled some more and noted that the LAPD had confirmed that Jimmy Valenti resided in Koreatown, that he had a blood alcohol level of .09 along with trace amounts of, as the articles phrased it, “an illicit substance.”

“It’s him, man,” Freddy said. “I took everything I found and cross-referenced it with the information Nikki Caimi gave us. Our guy is pushing daisies, dude.”

“Pushing daisies?”

“You don’t like it?”

“You’re watching too many movies with my dad. And yeah,” Dean closed his laptop, “I think our boy Jimmy is toast.”

“So what now?”

“Nikki still has to pay off her bar tab.”

“We only worked for like two hours.”

“We’ll call it a full day.” Dean paced around the kitchen, recalling his prior conversation with Nikki, his brain processing what they had said along with the news about Jimmy Valenti’s demise.

She didn’t paint a complete picture.

Something’s missing.

Some key components and elements.

“Boss,” Freddy said. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Where’s your head at?”

“I dunno. Just connect me with Nikki.” Dean took a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ll break the news to her. Afterward, we can collect the payment.”

A few moments ticked by.

Dean waited.

Nikki came on the line.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, her tone heavy, concerned, and weary. “Have you made any progress with…?”

“I have.” Dean held the line for a bit. “It appears that Jimmy, I’m sorry to say, has passed away.”

“Oh…” Nikki cleared her throat. “Wow.” She huffed. “Okay.”

Dean furrowed his brow.

No “you’re sure?”

No freak-out?

None of that “you must’ve made a mistake” shtick?

“Nikki,” Dean said. “Are you still there?”

“Where is Jimmy’s body now?” she said. “Do you know where they took it?”

“The morgue, I would assume.”

“Are you able to get, I don’t know, access to it?”

Dean sensed the curtain lifting a bit. “And why would you need to look at his body?”

Nikki said nothing.

Dean was certain he heard her stifle a gasp.

“Miss Caimi.” He cocked his head to the side. “Is there something you wanna tell me?”

“I…” She exhaled deeply. “Jimmy has something of mine. He took it from me.”

“What was it?”

“An SD card.”

“For a camera?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s on it?”

“Material for my show,” Nikki said. “Jimmy was my editor and cameraman. He had possession and control of all the footage. He’s got, like, I don’t know, maybe two shows worth on that card.”

“You didn’t ask how.”

“What?”

“Jimmy died,” Dean said. “And you didn’t ask me how.”

“Right.” Nikki took a pause. “Well, how did he die?”

“He had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He fell.”

“Fell how?”

“Off something. The top level of Dodger Stadium, specifically.”

“Jesus.”

“It happened at last night’s game,” Dean went on. “Police are saying Jimmy was drunk, tripped over himself, and stumbled over the railing.”

“My God.”

“Were you there?”

“What?”

“At Dodger Stadium,” Dean said. “With Jimmy.”

“Of course I wasn’t.” Nikki exhaled sharply. “If I was with him, I would have known he was dead, so I wouldn’t have called you.”

“Just checking.” Dean looked at his phone to make sure Freddy was still looped into the call and engaged the speaker so he could talk and walk. “Tell me a little more about this SD card.”

“If I don’t have it, I can’t upload new content for a few days until I make more.”

“Your friend dies, and the only thing you’re worried about is your gossip show?”

“It’s an entertainment news channel,” Nikki clarified. “With many subscribers, and I’m this close to getting a Gold Play Button sent to me.”

“One time I snagged a coach’s award for Positive Mindset at a Gymboree when I was six.”

“Are you insulting me?”

“Actually, I’m celebrating my own accomplishments.”

“Mr. Blackwood.” Nikki’s angry and defiant disposition clinched her vocal cords. “From what I understand, I’m paying you to help me.”

“You haven’t paid me yet, Miss Caimi. So far, all the legwork I’ve done could be considered pro bono.”

“Well, I’ll double the rate. Actually, I’ll triple it. I’ll pay half in advance right now if that’ll stop this whole interrogation room nonsense.”

Crying out loud.

Dean shook his head.

Girl really wants that footage for her show.

He had a second thought.

Allegedly.

“I need that card, Mr. Blackwood,” Nikki said, her voice more level. “My life’s work is on that thing. If I don’t get it, I’m screwed.”

“What about Jimmy’s place?”

“You mean go by there?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t have a key or access or anything like that, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“All right.” Dean cogitated on the situation for a moment, certain he could milk a little more cash for the exchange—enough to pay for a plane ticket to Berkshire. “I’ll see if I can locate this card of yours. I should warn you though. If there’s anything on this card that⁠—”

“There’s nothing illegal or concerning or whatever,” Nikki butted in. “Jimmy just took work that was mine, and I want it back. Look, I have to go. I’ll go ahead and forward the first half of the payment to your assistant.”

The call ended.

Dean stared at the phone.

Then he walked to the fridge, palmed a beer, and questioned what was on the alleged SD card.

It could just be footage for a show.

Kids these days, it’s all about the clicks.

“Boss,” Freddy said over the line. “What’s our next move?”

“I’m mulling it over.” Dean popped the top on his beer. “The whole thing is a bit shady. She’s definitely not giving us the full scoop.”

“She’s calling again on the other line,” Freddy said.

“She really wants that card.”

“Are we gonna try to track it down, boss? If she’s paying triple the rate like she promised, that’s a lot of scratch.”

Dean tapped his finger on the rim of his PBR can.

Took a swig of his beer.

“Boss,” Freddy said. “Give me a play here. She just called twice.”

Dean thought it through and opted to take part in it for the money.

15

Governor Adam Rubek, bellowing at a high volume, swiped the marble Marcus Aurelius bust off his desk, watched it shatter, and turned his back on it.

“Fuck,” the tanned, toned, 6-foot Adonis grumbled. “Un-fucking-believable.” He exhaled deeply and tousled his chestnut-colored hair streaked with gray. “How the fuck did you not find it?”

Tucker Cates, lounging in a high-back leather recliner to Rubek’s left, twirled a thin, gold-plated Cartier lighter over his knuckles.

“Bit ironic what you just did with that bust there, boss,” Rubek’s head of security said. “Very incongruous.”

Rubek, pacing his spacious office fit for a king, looked at his security detail parceled throughout the room, all of them dressed in the approved black suit and white dress shirt attire.

One stood near the door.

Another on the balcony strolled casually along the terracotta tiles, his attention drawn to the moonlit shores of the ocean 2 miles away.

“Okay,” Rubek said, shooting the cuffs of his $400 shirt as he slipped down on the chair behind his Kirkpatrick desk. “All right, I’m cool.” He entwined his fingers and placed his hands on the desk blotter. “Let’s just,” he waved his sun-licked, manicured fingers at Tucker, “circle back to what you were saying a second ago.”

“The card,” Tucker said, his word polished with a Southern twang, “wasn’t on Valenti’s body when we went to the morgue.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sadly.” Tucker rose and paced, his Ariat Rambler boots clicking along the high-polished chestnut floors. “We paid off a couple folks over there to do a thorough exam of Valenti’s body and his personal possessions.” He swung his attention to Rubek. “We didn’t find it. And we were thorough. We checked every nook and cranny, dotted every I, and crossed every T.”

“You’re just brimming with hillbilly colloquialisms there, Tuck,” Rubek scowled. “Every word out of your goddamn mouth is like a lyric from some honky-tonk anthem.”

“Rich in flavor, aren’t I?” Tucker took out his nickel-plated cigarette case, pinched a Chesterfield, and tapped it on the case. “People don’t call me a character for nothin’.”

“What about Robbie Aimes?”

“We talked to him.”

“And?”

“I get the sense that he’s in the dark on this one,” Tucker said. “Pretty sure he doesn’t know about Valenti or that video Valenti showed us at the stadium.”

“You’re certain?” Rubek said. “No shred of a doubt?”

“Big time, boss.” Tucker peered at the guard on the balcony. “Billy and I were very meticulous when we had our little sidebar with him.”

A tensed-up Rubek twirled around in his chair and focused on the photos on the wall behind him, framed snapshots flaunting his career.

Shaking hands with Bill Clinton.

Laughing with Barack Obama.

Hugging Nancy Pelosi.

Standing with dignity next to Joseph Robinette Biden Jr.

Boastfully embedded in the center of the gallery was an 11” x 14” frame—the most expensive frame of the batch—with a photo of Rubek at his gubernatorial inauguration in Sacramento almost six years ago.

That prick Vaelnti is going to fuck this up.

Rubek fixated on the empty space on the wall, envisioning the photos that would hang there from the position he was aiming to secure in the Oval during the upcoming election cycle.

All of it.

Mumbling under his breath, Rubek wandered over to his Wayfair bar cart, lifted a Glencairn glass, and poured himself a finger’s worth of Yamazaki whiskey. “You said Valenti had the card on him when you met up with him at the stadium,” he said, raising the glass to his nose so he could take a whiff. “After he showed you the footage, he slipped that thing in his pocket. I mean,” he laughed sardonically, “unless my memory is failing me here, he had the thing on him before our guys took off after him, right?”

Tucker lit his Chesterfield, speaking as he smoked. “When we sicced Barnes and Czerny on him at the stadium, they only lost track of him for a few minutes. It’s possible Valenti dropped it or tossed it in a trash can before he took that tumble, but I can’t really say for sure.”

“Did you check the security footage at the stadium?” Rubek asked.

“We tried.” Tucker shrugged. “The cops and the security that were on site wouldn’t let us.”

“Why not?”

“Something about policies and procedures and all that other shit.”

“Wonderful,” Rubek groaned. “Please tell me you at least shitcanned those blockheads at the very least.”

“That I did.” Tucker flexed his brow. “I gave that pair a reeaal browbeating once I got everything smoothed over with the PD.”

“You didn’t…” Rubek flinched and held a finger gun to his head. “You know...?”

“Come now.” Tucker’s lips pulled back to reveal an oversized set of bleached white, Jim Carrey-esque teeth. “Extraneous displays of violence to boost my already sterling reputation are overkill.” He held up a single finger. “I did strike my boot against one of their bee-hinds on his way out the door, just for good measure. Rest assured, those boys aren’t an issue anymore.”

“That video Valenti showed you is the issue right now.” Rubek swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Everything else is shuffled to the bottom of the pile until we find all copies of this fucking thing and destroy them.”

“Your VP announcement is in a week.”

“And?”

“So your schedule’s fillin’ up quick.” Tucker examined his cigarette like a sommelier scrutinizing a glass of a premium grade red. “You’re gonna have to take a back seat to this whole thing. Gotta let me and the boys handle it while you’re out there smoochin’ babies and whatnot.”

Rubek took a beat.

Sipped his whiskey.

Sat back down at his desk.

“Valenti told you he had two cards,” Rubek said. “The one he showed you and a backup in case we tried to go over his head or threaten him.”

“Correct.”

“You think it was true? That he only had two copies?”

“Well, if I’m a bettin’ man,” Tucker sat on the edge of his boss’s desk, “and I am, this kid Valenti was a few cards short of a full deck, but he still had a few marbles rolling around in there. I think he was smart enough to make a pair of copies, maybe more, until we gave him his payoff.”

“Luckily it never got to that.” Rubek’s lips twitched into a smirk. “That dunderhead tripped and fell off the top of a goddamn ballpark.”

“Funny how things work out sometimes, isn’t it?” Tucker said, brushing Rubek’s comment aside with a swipe of his hand. “But assuming Valenti only had a pair of those SD cards like he claimed, just physical hard copies and nothing stored digitally, then the first card, the one he showed us at the stadium, is most likely in the wind.”

“Then sweep the goddamn stadium.”

“You know damn well that riflin’ through the baseball stadium is a big ol’ swing-and-miss there, slick.” Tucker winked. “No pun intended. We already tried going back there, but it was a non-starter. Cops won’t let us anywhere near that place. Hell, even if we had full license to tear the stadium apart seat by seat, odds are that card has been kicked into a gutter or swept up in a trash bin somewhere. Also, after I had to mend fences with those shits at the stadium and the cops, we drew a bit of attention to ourselves. We gotta keep things down to a dull roar now while we search for those cards along with whatever potential backups Valenti may have had.”

“You really think Valenti lost the card after you met with him?” Rubek asked. “He just,” he threw up his hands, “what? Dropped the goddamn thing accidently or something?”

“Stranger things have happened.” Tucker flicked the ash off his jacket sleeve. “Heard about this guy one time who accidentally chucked away in the trash millions in crypto stashed on a hard drive. Poor bastard’s been paying a team of folks to sift through a garbage dump for years now trying to find it.”

“You’re failing to instill me with confidence here, Tuck.” Rubek threw back the last of his whiskey. “We need to figure this out.”

“I’ve got the reins here, chief.” Tucker stood. “I’m going to err on the side of caution and assume the second copy of the card exists until proven otherwise. I’ll also assume Valenti was lying through his teeth when he said he only had the pair of copies and nothing else. Me and the boys will tear apart everything. We’ll sweep his house, his car, his gym locker, whatever. We’ll find it. You’ve got my word on that.”

Knuckles rapped on the door.

Tucker whipped his head around.

“It’s me,” came a soft, timid voice from the other side of the door. “Can I talk to you?”

“It’s your boy,” Tucker groaned, staring at his boss. “Want me to run him along?”

“No, just…” Upon hearing his son’s voice, Rubek felt his neck muscles tense. “See what he wants.”

Tucker approached the door, nudged the other security member aside, cracked it open, and stuck his head through the crack to greet Josh—Jack Torrance style. His face was pulpy and mangled, one of his eyelids sealed shut—someone had severely beat the shit out of him.

“Well hey there, little darlin’,” Tucker saluted. “What’s new? Need someone to sing you a lullaby? Make bicycle legs with your feet? Rub circles on your belly?”

Josh winced. “The hell does that mean?”

“I’m callin’ you an infant.” Tucker took a drag of his Chesterfield and blew the smoke in the kid’s face. “Just in a more decorative prose.”

A stone-faced Josh Rubek—hunched over, sheepish, one side of his sandy blond hair covering his right eye—took a small step back. “Is my dad in there?” He tried to peek around Tucker’s body. “I wanna talk to him.”

“Yeah, he’s here.” Tucker lowered his tone to a hush. “He’s a bit busy at the moment though. Just making sure your trust fund stays replenished and whatnot.”

“Fuck you, Tuck.”

“Come again?” Tucker cupped his hand behind his ear. “Sounds like you’re growing a set there, sonny.” He pointed his finger to his ear and made circles. “Could’ve sworn I misheard you.” His smile grew, a predatory glint in his eye. “Say it again so I know you’re not mincing words.”

Josh scowled.

He peered around Tucker again.

Turning on his heel, Josh stuffed a pair of AirPods in his ears, pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, and padded his bare feet down the long hallway that led to the west side of the beachview property.

“Sweet dreams, baby boy,” Tucker called out. “Don’t forget to put on that sound machine with them whale noises before you conk out.”

Josh flicked his middle finger over his shoulder.

Tucker closed the door.

The head of Governor Rubek’s security then angled his body toward Adam Rubek and stood at attention.

“Think we’re done covering the basics here,” Tucker said. “I should get the boys ready and head on out. Gonna have to do a lot of lookin’ for the next day or two.”

“Just get on it.” Rubek sauntered over to the bar cart and filled his glass with another pour. “I pay you for results, not effort.”

“I got the green light to tackle this head on?”

“Yes.” The Governor of the great state of California downed his drink in one gulp. “Bribe, cajole.” He refrained from stating the obvious. “Whatever.”

“Copy that.” Tucker edged closer to Rubek. “But I will say, all the effort that’s going into this, the kind of diligence I’m gonna have to exert⁠—”

“Yeah, I got it.” Rubek held up his hand. “Secret security. Top dog of the team. Whatever the hell you were calling it, it’s yours.”

“Well, hot shot.” Tucker displayed a lopsided sneer. “Glad to know we’re on the same train here.” He playfully shook a finger. “You take it easy on that Jap whiskey now. You dive in too deep on that stuff, you’ll be speaking that bing-bong talk before too long.”

Rubek said nothing.

Tucker turned to leave.

A moment after Tucker opened the door, Rubek called out to him.

“Tucker,” he said, his face a study of strain. “You’re sure that video Valenti showed you was real? No tricks? No question about it?”

“Yep.” Tucker nodded his head slowly. “And with everything goin’ on right now, boss, you don’t want that thing blasted all over the Internet.”

Rubek refilled his glass.

He sat down on his desk chair.

With an unsteady hand, he gulped down a quarter of the whiskey and turned his back to Tucker.

“The keys for my Benz are by the door,” Rubek said. “It’s yours. Consider it a downpayment for your assurances that you’ll handle this.”

“For keeps?”

“Take it.”

Tucker clicked his oversized teeth.

He found the keys.

“Bees knees,” Tucker muttered and called out to the other security members to join him. Moments later, Tucker was out the door, Rubek catching the sound of car keys jiggling as his head of security belted out an ear-splitting rendition of “Nashville Cats.”

“Goddamn hick,” Rubek grumbled, reviewing again the photos on the walls.

Find it.

Get rid of it.

He devoured the last of his whiskey, his nerves shot, unable to discern if it was due to the drink or the missing SD card.

Shut this the fuck down.

16

“Ride Captain Ride” by Blues Captain blasted over Holloway’s car speakers as he turned left onto Melrose.

Ten grand.

Beaming, Holloway thumped his fist against the roof of his Buick in step with the rhythm.

Not bad, bubba.

Not bad at all.

Holloway coasted up to San Vicente, hooked a right, and drove until he pulled up outside the apartment complex on North San Vicente Boulevard. The sleek, boxy, modern building adorned with wooden insets on its facade, stood flanked by a pair of languishing palm trees swaying in the night breeze.

Nikki Caimi’s place.

Holloway checked the address he had jotted down in pen on his palm to be sure.

Boom.

He cut the engine and leaned back, scrutinizing the block through his windshield. He couldn’t help but grimace at the immaculate, manicured West Hollywood neighborhood, his scowl growing as he took in the sleek, modern architecture of the buildings.

Everything was blemish-free.

Pristine.

Even the air smelled sweeter.

There were no dogs barking or people shouting at neighbors to keep their televisions down or kids scampering their way down the block.

God damn.

Holloway took his Astra Terminator from the glove box, checked the rounds, and pulled out his cell.

You’re starting to miss home bad, bub.

Holloway anticipated that Becky would be pissed and call him a son of a bitch when he announced he’d be later getting home than anticipated. But Jackson Branson had thrown him a financial break. Sure, the little church he repped was a gang of cult members with wild ideas and even wilder methods of keeping their “congregation” in check, but at the end of the day, ten grand was ten grand.

“And there will be ten more,” Jackson had promised, “if you,” he puffed out a shrill giggle, “well if things require a little more of a hands on approach.”

Doubling the cash wasn’t at the forefront of Holloway’s mind. Getting his hands dirty was something he avoided at all costs. He preferred not to engage directly, if possible. It was only when someone put him in that position—that you-or-me kind of scenario—that he would even think about pulling the trigger.

He had to do it twice before.

After the last one, he hoped he’d never have to do it again.

You’ll pay off a chunk of bills with 10k, Mikey.

Holloway mentally crossed off several items of his daughter’s manifest medical bills.

Money like that can stretch.

He eyed the corner apartment, observing a feminine figure waltzing sluggishly past a panoramic window.

Just talk to this Caimi broad, scare her off this Robbie Aimes prick, get that video off the net, and you’ll be on the plane by morning.

Holloway looked over the Astra in his hand.

But no fists.

No violence.

He centered his sites on the corner apartment.

Harsh rhetoric only.

He pulled out his phone.

Dialed Jackson Branson.

Heard it ring twice.

“Good evening, Mister Holloway,” Jackson said. “How are you?”

“I ran those names you gave me.”

“Tucker and Billy.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Any luck?”

“Well, with no surnames, it’s gonna take a while to find them.” Holloway switched the phone to his other ear. “I pride myself in being able to track people down, but I get the feeling these guys are professionals, and professionals such as myself go to great lengths to make sure they’re not listed in the yellow pages, so to speak.”

“I understand,” Jackson said. “We’ve floated the names to our friends in the police department. They’re going to keep an eye out for them.”

“What about your boy Robbie Aimes? You should probably⁠—”

“We set him up in the Chateau Marmont until this blows over.”

“Good idea.”

“As for this Nikki Caimi,” Jackson continued, “we have successfully flagged her YouTube page via our legal associates. It will not be coming back up. However⁠—”

“You want the backups of her videos that got destroyed,” Holloway said. “Any and all copies.”

“Precisely. And as for this so-called ‘juicy gossip’ video she claims to have⁠—”

“Yeah.” Holloway nodded. “I’ll feel it out. If it’s real, I’ll be sure to get rid of it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holloway,” Jackson said. “I’ll be awaiting your call.”

“Sounds good.”

“Be blessed.”

“Yeah, uh…” Holloway flinched and lowered the phone. “You too.” He ended the call. Goddamn weirdo.

Holloway checked the rounds in the cylinder of his Astra.

Slapped it back in place.

Then he slipped out of his Charger, stuffed the weapon in the back of his pants, and pulled out his pack of Lucky Strikes.

He tapped the pack on his wrist.

Climbed the stairs leading to the front gate of the building.

Probed the building for signs of any cameras.

None.

Zip.

Holloway flexed his brow.

Nice.

After making a mental map of the area, Holloway focused on a white horizontal plank gate before him, its height reaching roughly to his sternum. He glanced over both shoulders. There were no onlookers, no witnesses, so he hopped over the gate, strolled toward the stairwell, and raced his way up it with soft footing toward the top level.

He arrived at the fifth floor.

Located the penthouse unit on the corner.

After pocketing his Lucky Strikes, he raised his fist and gently tapped once.

17

Ear close to the door, Holloway discerned the steady throb of music emanating from inside the unit.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Heard someone shout.

A quick beat after that, the door swung open, revealing a barefooted, bleached-blonde woman in a royal purple silk night robe. Little Xs were printed on the fabric. In her left hand she elegantly cradled a glass of Malbec.

She smirked playfully.

Raised her brow.

Holloway did the same.

“Well, hi,” Nikki Caimi said, leaning against the door frame, examining every inch of Holloway as she bit her lower lip. “And who might you be?”

“Mike.” Holloway clasped his hands in front of him. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m good.” Nikki brought the glass to her lips. “You?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Are you, uh…” Nikki delicately ran a finger across her exposed collarbone, “looking for someone in particular?”

“Well, if your name is Nikki,” Holloway breathed out a mirthful laugh, “then I’m looking for you.”

“You got her.” Nikki exhaled slowly, swirling the plum contents in her glass. “You must’ve seen my show.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t?”

“No,” Holloway said. “I haven’t.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” A look of nonplussed disappointment overcame her. “You said your name is Mike?”

“That’s what my parents told me.”

“And you’re sure you’re looking for me?” Nikki was swaying slightly. Holloway guessed she was three or four glasses deep as she cocked her hips to one side. “Little ol’ me?”

“That I am.” Holloway took a step closer and leaned against the door frame. “I was hoping to bend your ear for a minute.”

“Bend your ear.” Nikki giggled. “Had a lot of that tonight.”

“You have, huh?”

“My YouTube channel got removed. Had a bunch of lawyers call me up a little while ago telling me they were pulling my page.” She brushed her hand through her hair, dismissing the ordeal. “It was a whole thing.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” Nikki took a sip of her wine, her coquettish blue irises peering over the rim. “Yep, I’ve got all the makings of a great evening panning out for me—got my channel shut down, a glass of wine in my hand.” She smirked and winked at Holloway. “And now a handsome guy stops by my door for reasons yet to be determined.”

“Sounds like a titillating evening.”

“I bet you’re about to say that titillating is your middle name, huh?”

“It’s Thaddeus, actually.”

“Slay.”

Holloway winced. “Come again?”

“It’s kind of my catchphrase,” Nikki sneered. “Slayyyy.”

“Right.” Holloway peered over her shoulder, surveying the inside of the two-bedroom. “I see.”

“So, should I call you Mike or Michael?”

“Depending on how the next ten minutes goes, you can call me whatever you want.”

“Awww.” Nikki flashed an exaggerated frown. “Ten minutes? That fast?”

“Just a quick in-and-out.”

“I like that.” Crimson hues tinted Nikki’s cheek. “Fast and quick.”

Holloway, sensing the woman might have a pair of drinks deeper than he initially thought and wearied from the exchange, pinched a cigarette out of his pack. “Listen.” He tapped the cigarette on the face of his G-Shock, “I really don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’ve got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

“Where to?”

“Home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Jersey.”

“The garrrrden state.” Nikki sipped her wine. “I’ve never been.”

“Well,” Holloway smoothed the unfiltered edge of his Lucky Strike across the tip of his tongue, “Robbie Aimes has.” He lit his cigarette and took a drag. “He shot that movie Jersey Lady there back in 2010, I think.” He blew smoke out through his nose, hostilely grinning as he did so. “And the two of you are acquaintances, last I checked.”

Nikki glowered.

She straightened her back.

Her eyes shimmered with knowing.

18

“Should we keep playing games?” Holloway said as he picked a piece of loose tobacco off his lip. “Or is it better if I just skip straight to the punch line?”

“Okay.” Nikki placed her glass of Malbec down on the entry table beside her, all sense of flirtation slipping away from her tone. “What the fuck is this?”

“A conversation. Hopefully a brief one.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Actually, it’s going to be mostly me talking and you listening,” Holloway said. “Unless you wanna go the other route.”

“What would that be?”

“Something along the lines of Robbie Aimes’s malicious little club sending the sharks after you.” Holloway took a step forward, his stare boring through Nikki. “And I get the sense that you’re keenly aware that when those merry band of whack jobs sink their teeth into someone, prying them loose is about as easy as running a marathon through quicksand.”

Nikki, jaw muscles tensing, sensed nothing.

“I’m pretty sure,” Holloway’s eyelids constricted, “that this is the part where you invite me in, hon.”

A moment passed.

Nikki flared her nostrils.

Leaving the door ajar, she scooped up her glass of Malbec, the wine slopping over the rim before it splashed into quarter-sized puddles on the gleaming hardwood floors.

Holloway moved inside, nudged the door closed with his knuckles, and scanned the space for any additional parties. He found none.

He looked around the apartment.

Heard Nikki pop the cork of a wine bottle in the kitchen on his left.

Made double sure no one was waiting in the wings as he meandered his way through the foyer.

“You, uh…” Holloway lassoed his fingers in the air, “mind if we turn the music down?” He shot his chin toward the sound system that was in the throes of blasting “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls” by TLC. “Can’t really hear the sound of my own voice at the moment.”

“Really?” Nikki knocked back half her glass before refilling it. “Good.”

“Sure you need a top-off there?” Holloway eyed the bottle of Malbec on the counter. “Feel like you’ve drunk half the vineyard already.”

“You planning on putting me through a sobriety test?”

“Don’t think I need to.” Holloway flared his nostrils. “With the aroma around this apartment, I’m sure we can crown you Ms. Malbec without a judge’s panel.”

“Blow me.” More Malbec slopped over the rim of Nikki’s glass. “You know, Robbie’s got a fucking giant pair on him sending some guido shithead with a receding hairline over here to threaten me.”

“First off,” Holloway examined the gradually thinning parts of his hair at the crown and temples in the mirror beside him, “ouch.” He strolled over to the kitchen sink and tapped his cigarette ashes. “Second, I’m Irish. And third,” his tone mellowed, “I’m not here to threaten you.”

“That’s rich.” Nikki took a generous sip of her drink. “Honestly, I had a feeling someone from that schizoid cult would send someone over here the second I put that video up.”

“You figured correctly.” Holloway briefly recalled Nikki’s YouTube video that Jackson Branson had sent him—along with her personal information—before he tossed his unfinished cigarette in the sink. “But let’s breeze past all that and get to the point, shall we?”

“For the sake of my imminent migraine, please do.” As Nikki stepped around Holloway, she spilled more wine on the hardwood floors and drifted into the living room. “And when we’re all finished here, I’m calling the cop that’s working for me, so keep that in mind. You know, he’ll probably kill someone for me if I ask him to.” Nikki sat on the couch, facing the panoramic window that overlooked the city. “A few grand more,” she snapped her fingers and fixed a hostile gaze at Holloway, “and he’ll do it.”

“Lady?”

Nikki cocked her head to the side.

“Shut up,” Holloway said, moving closer to the couch, “and listen.”

Nikki, tossing her hair, donned an overstated I’m-all-ears expression.

“Three issues will be resolved here tonight,” Holloway continued. “First, you’ll pull the video about Robbie Aimes that you put up.”

“Some shithead attorneys already got my page shut down.”

“I want the backups of that footage erased.” Holloway motioned to Nikki’s phone and then to her computer. “All of it. Every copy you got.”

“Whatever.” Nikki sipped her wine. “What’s this second issue you were planning on addressing?”

“The second and third issues are questions,” Holloway said. “And you’re going to resist the impulse to lie while you answer them.”

“And if I do,” Nikki stood, “what happens then?”

For the sake of theatrics, Holloway palmed the handle of his Astra Terminator and guided it toward the front of his waistband.

Nikki, sheet-white, nibbled untidily at her wine glass. “Fucking unbelievable.” She made her way to the sound system beside the flat screen and turned down the sound. “You’re a real scene-stealer. You know that?” She pulled out her phone and looked at her Spotify list synced to the speakers. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“This doesn’t have to be a chore here, Nikki.”

“Bet you said the same thing to Jimmy.” Nikki thumbed through her playlist. “You probably threw him off that balcony last night. Figured this whole ‘he tripped’ crap was just a coverup.”

“Who’s Jimmy?”

Nikki, swallowing the lump in her throat, dismissed her drunken rambling with a casual flick of her wrist. “Nothing.” She nursed her wine. “Forget it.”

“Jimmy,” Holloway said. “”He’s the guy who died at the stadium last night, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s your cameraman.”

“What?”

“Your pal Jimmy was your partner in this little YouTube channel of yours,” Holloway said. “I looked all this up before I came over here. Bunch of people have been asking about him lately.”

“Well, he’s dead now.”

“That he is.”

“So what does it matter now?”

“Not much, now that he’s soon gonna be in the ground.”

“Good.” Nikki tensed her jaw muscles. “Because he seriously fucked me falling over that railing and dying on me before we could get those other videos up.”

“Woulda-coulda,” Holloway said. “It’s in the past now. Presently, I’ve got my third question loaded in the chamber for you, if you’re ready.”

“By all means.”

“Do the names Tucker or Billy mean anything to you?”

“They don’t.”

“You sure?”

“God damn it.” Nikki laughed. “I don’t know a guy named Tucker or a guy named Billy. You can ask me six times more, and you’re going to get the same answer.”

“What about this thing you mentioned about Robbie on your video? This juicy shit you have on him, or whatever you want to call it.”

“What about it?”

“Is it true?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Holloway looked to his left.

Saw Nikki’s laptop on the coffee table.

Decided to ask a few questions before he got to the part where he demanded she remove the teaser video about Robbie Aimes from her channel.

“Then why,” Holloway said, “do I not believe you?”

“Not my problem.” Nikki, pinpointing a song she liked, pressed play and turned up the volume again on “Every Little Step I Take” rumbling out of the sound system. “It’s the truth.”

“I’ve got a sense that ain’t the case, hon.”

“You a mind reader now?”

“No, you’ve just got bad lying down to an art.”

“I don’t have anything on Robbie,” she said, her back to Holloway, moving from one foot to another to the beat as she beheld the city outside her panoramic window. “I was just fibbing.”

“Open up your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone.” Holloway pointed to the device on the coffee table. “You’re gonna delete the teaser video of Robbie Aimes from your gallery, your cloud, your email, your Google drive—all of it, along with any backups. I’ll confirm it’s gone once you’re finished.”

He picked up the phone and tossed it to her.

She fumbled and caught it.

“Come on,” Nikki said. “I⁠—”

“This isn’t a discussion.” Holloway ran his thumb along the revolver in his waistband, approached Nikki, and peered over her shoulder at the device. “Just do it.”

Nikki unlocked her device.

Complied with his orders.

Grumbled and threw a mild hissy fit as she did so.

“There.” She slapped the phone against his chest. “It’s gone.”

“Good.” Holloway made doubly sure the footage was scrubbed. He saw nothing on the device or her email or Google drive that indicated any signs that the video still existed. “What about this other video?”

“What other video?”

“The one about Robbie,” Holloway said. “The video you were going to upload on Friday.”

“It’s not real.”

“You seemed awfully confident in your little video that you had something of value on our boy Robbie.”

“It’s called acting.”

“As much as you big up yourself on your videos, doll,” Holloway said, “you ain’t no Hepburn.”

Nikki turned away.

Mumbled under her breath.

Sipped a little more of her wine.

“This video of Robbie Aimes is real,” Holloway said. “Isn’t it?”

Nikki was silent.

Another sip.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s real.”

“What’s on it?”

“Him.”

“Doing what? And where can I find it?”

“It’s on an SD card,” Nikki said. “Jimmy had it. He was supposed to bring it to me after he edited it, but he never showed up.”

“I take it it’s not footage of your show or anything like that,” Holloway said. “I mean, I don’t think the Awakening Center sent me over here to go through this whole rigmarole over videos of you talking nonsense about what North West wore this week.”

“Screw you!” Nikki spun around, spilling more wine in an arced pattern across the hardwood floor beneath her feet. “Look, asshole. I already told you⁠—”

Her right foot plunged into the wine puddle and slid out from under her.

She churned both feet to catch her balance, moving faster and faster as she slipped on the floor.

Holloway shot out his hand.

Nikki couldn’t stop, tripped, and crashed into the panoramic window, shattering it and falling back first five stories to the street below.

Holloway heard the sickening clamor of flesh and bone hitting the pavement.

He ran over to the busted window and looked down.

He examined Nikki’s corpse, coiled and deformed, sprawled out on the sidewalk in a pool of crimson.

“Oh man,” Holloway mumbled. “You gotta be friggin’ kidding me.”

He backed away from the window.

Analyzed the scene.

Took a moment to think.

Go.

Holloway wiped clean the areas he had touched.

Leave.

He saw Nikki’s laptop on the coffee table and snagged it.

He split.

Moments later, he was out the door and in his car, pulling away slowly from the scene. Still processing the incident as he drove down the block, Holloway cursed at himself for how the incident had played out. He heard the high-pitched shrill of a bystander who had just undoubtedly stumbled upon Nikki Caimi’s body.

19

Nikki Caimi had paid Dean and Freddy in full—four grand, well over what the invoice stated. Dean still felt compelled to talk to Nikki in person.

Need a better sense of the truth here.

He turned his Plymouth left down San Vicente.

If she’s hiding something, I need to know.

Dean briefly recalled several incidents from his past.

Anytime someone withholds, I tend to get shot at.

He crept closer to her apartment building, a wave of sapphire and burgundy lights cascading through his windshield.

Emergency lights.

Apprehension knotted his stomach.

Rollers.

He made out a small fleet of WeHo sheriff cruisers parked at canted angles in the middle of the street.

Han Solo would have a bad feeling about this.

Dean hoped it was a drunk stop.

A break-in.

An assault.

Something other than what his gut intuition was telling him it was.

“No!” Dean pulled his Plymouth to the right and parked, studying the four deputies posted on the sidewalk outside Nikki Caimi’s apartment building. “Oh hell.”

He looked up and saw the busted window in the corner apartment.

Yellow tape cordoned off the scene.

Shards of glass sprinkled the sidewalk.

A pair of detectives were lording over the white sheet draped over the bipedal lump.

“Shiiiit,” Dean whispered, a sinking feeling confirming deep down what he already knew.

Two to one, he eyed the body, that’s our girl.

Dean killed the engine.

Prodded open his door.

Hoped his instincts were steering him wrong as he clocked an unmarked Crown Vic rolling past him.

CID.

Dean appraised the VHF/UHF antenna fixed on the back of the Crown Vic’s roof.

Yup.

He ambled his way toward the crime scene.

Detectives are on the scene.

The Crown Vic parked.

The driver’s door jostled open.

Dean saw a 6-foot, bronze-skinned gentleman who bore an appearance on par with actor Esai Morales slip out of the car.

Son of a bitch.

Dean smirked upon seeing his father’s old LAPD trainee.

That’s Benny Boy Zelada.

20

Lingering back, Dean observed Benny Zelada, dressed in a teal suit and tie, approach the yellow tape, duck under it, and inspect the body as he conferred with Sheriff’s Department detectives.

A couple minutes rolled by.

Zelada took a moment to scan the block.

When he looked over at Dean, he appeared completely dumbfounded.

“You?” he mouthed.

“Howdy,” Dean replied.

Zelada muttered something to one of the other detectives.

Ducked back under the tape.

Made his way over.

A moment later, he tilted his chin in greeting and embraced Dean’s hand with a firm grip.

“Benny Zelada,” Dean said. “No kidding.”

“Yeah.” Zelada clapped him on his shoulder. “No kidding.”

“¿Qué pasa, hombre?”

“Same circus, different clowns.” Zelada knitted his brow, eyeing the body near the curb. “How’s my old TO doing?”

“Pop’s okay. Just puttering around his place in Echo Park most of the time.”

“Heard about that shit a few years back.”

“Which shit?”

“Your pops. Was he really…?”

“Laundering cash for the Sarkissians?” Dean refrained from inundating himself with the memories of the titular crime family abducting his son. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

“How did he dodge getting cuffed by your people at the Bureau?”

“They cut him a break. The Sarkissians blackmailed him into cooperating. Feds took that into account when they sifted through the detritus.”

“Running that through the bullshit filter roughly translates into ‘I pulled some strings over in DC,’” Zelada said.

“You know how it goes, brother.” Dean shrugged. “Feds cut deals all the time.”

“I’m in the old man’s cheering section, all controversies aside.” Zelada’s eyes glossed over with nostalgia. “Dude really lifted me into the fold when I was pushing a black and white.”

“You should holler at him. He’d love to hear from you.”

But you won’t.

Dean tamped down his urge to sigh.

Dad’s old cronies won’t touch him with a 10-foot cattle prod.

“Yeah.” Zelada’s tone became indifferent. “I’ll give him a shout.” He stood back and examined Dean’s jeans, black tee, and leather jacket. “That’s a nice fit you got there, bro. The Feds cool with you rockin’ a facha like that while you’re on the clock?”

“I don’t work for them anymore.”

“No shit.” Zelada wrinkled his nose. “Since when?”

“Few years back.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“You working this side of town?” Dean asked.

“West Olympic.”

“Someone from the KGB dumping bodies in WeHo now?”

“You, uh…” Zelada took a step closer, “hear about that white kid who took a dive over the railing at the game last night?”

“Yeah.” Dean clenched a fist, trying to hide signs that would give him away. “Rings a bell.”

“Turns out that same dude was living in some rathole studio apartment in my patch. Heard one of his KAs lived on this side of town.” Zelada took out a stick of gum, ripped it in half, and popped one of the halves in his mouth. “I called the county over here in WeHo to give them a heads up that I was coming over so I could do an inquiry. Two minutes into the drive, they rang me back and told me my KA took a dive out her window.”

“What are the chances, huh?”

“Two dead bodies with ties to each other both take tumbles less than twenty-four hours apart.” Zelada’s tone brimmed with doubt. “That’s too neat to be a fluke. The math just doesn’t add up.”

“You sound like the Hispanic Jack Reacher there, brother.”

“Oh yeah?” Zelada cracked the same charming, sideways smirk that Dean recalled from his childhood, framed by a few aging lines. “What would the Mexican Jack Reacher be called, hermano?”

“Dunno.” Dean thought about it. “Juan Ricardo maybe.”

“That’s good.” Zelada chuckled and dropped his smile. “Sorry to ask, but…what’re you doing on this side of town, dude?”

“Simple. I was just taking a drive. Will that do it for you, Benny?”

“That’s Detective, white boy.” Zelada spoke with an air of sarcasm. “And no.” His tone turned grave. “It doesn’t.”

Dean clicked his teeth.

Zelada held his gaze.

“Your DB on the sidewalk over there,” Dean said. “Her name isn’t Nikki Caimi by chance, is it?”

“You knew her?”

“I did.”

“In what capacity?”

Dean pulled out his PI badge and handed it over. “She hired me to track down some guy who did some camera work for her. Did about an hour’s worth of digging before I put it together that it was the same dude who took a dive last night at the stadium. I rolled by to have a quick talk with her and,” Dean nodded at the body on the sidewalk, “here we are.”

“Small world.”

“Very tight-knit, apparently.”

“Guess your end on this is done, from what it sounds like.” Zelada handed back the badge. “Least you got paid up front.”

“I can’t lie, Benny.” Dean spotted the white coroner’s van pulling up to the scene. “I am a tad inquisitive as to what happened with my client over there. Like you said, two DBs with ties dropping a few hours apart ain’t no coincidence.”

“If you’re hoping to do a walk-through of the scene, hombre⁠—”

“I am.”

“You can’t.”

“I could,” Dean said. “And I’m not going to cash in on favors or old friendships to make that happen. I’m just here to cooperate, tell you what I know.”

“Much as I appreciate you being a stand-up guy, I was close with your old man, dude.” Zelada laughed. “Shit, you were still in high school back when I was in dress blues. We know each other, yeah, but we’re not tight. Not like me and your pops back in the day, and even then…” His voice trailed off.

“Keep talking.”

“Bro,” Zelada’s lips twitched into a sneer, “the name Blackwood around the department isn't exactly reputable. I hate saying it, but it’s true.”

“You did my old man a solid, but you can’t do me one?”

“That was different,” Zelada said. “And if I let you walk the scene, I gotta tell people you did it, and after I tell people you did it, they’re going to ask why I let you do it.”

“Work with me here, hombre.”

“Deano—”

“Just let me do a walk-through,” Dean said. “I’ll fill you in on everything I know about Caimi and the guy she was trying to track down. Plus, you’ll need to log my name before you pack it in for the night. It’ll help when management starts pressing you for credible info next to my name—the guy who got hired by your DB a few hours before she was killed.”

Zelada mulled it over in his mind.

Looked at the body.

Then put his focus back on Dean.

“Five minutes,” Dean said. “Just wanna close this out for my own peace of mind. After that, I’ll bounce. I’ll even hook you up with a Starbucks gift card for the effort.”

“You’re a sweetheart.”

“And you’ve aged like fine wine, Benny.” Dean winked. “Muy guapo.”

Zelada grinned. “All right, dickhead.” He started walking. “I’ll give you five minutes.” He held up the corresponding fingers. “Five.”

Dean trailed him toward the body.

Examined Nikki Caimi’s spiritless corpse.

Then turned his focus up to the broken window.

Benny Boy’s right.

Dean clicked his teeth.

Coincidence my ass.

21

Thanks to Benny Zelada’s honeyed words with the Sheriff’s Department detectives, Dean and Zelada were allowed a “gaze but no contact” walk-through of the scene. Two minutes turned into a five-minute running clock that Zelada proffered later. Dean was examining the droplets on the foyer floor as he stepped into Nikki Caimi’s apartment.

Looks like she came to the door.

Maybe greeted someone.

He followed the trail of wine that snaked its way into the kitchen.

A pair of empty bottles were on the counter.

An essence of burnt, damp tobacco suspended in the air like a whispered secret near the sink.

“Yo, Deano,” Zelada called out, standing just outside the kitchen. “What did you do for the Feeb again?”

“Undercover work.”

“So not the traditional, pound-the-pavement types of investigations.”

“Skip the fluff, Benny.”

“You look like you’re suspicious of something,” Zelada said. “Like you’re working this scene like a real-life cop.”

“I am.” Dean stepped into the living room. “And I’ll wager a latte that you’re in the same camp I am, theory-wise.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, take it away then,” Zelada said.

“The wine splashes on the floor by the front door. Yep. I’m thinking someone knocked on her door.”

“County flatfoots said a neighbor heard the window shatter. Nothing else.” Zelada approached the stereo setup near the TV. “Music was blasting before the decs got here. They said our DB had the thing cranked up when they walked inside.”

“Neighbors catch sight of anyone?”

“They didn’t see anyone come in or out. Only eyewitness was a lady who found the body. Decs are thinking she rolled up on it two, maybe three minutes after it hit the pavement.”

“And there’s no cameras in the complex?” Dean wondered.

“None looking out.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Dean shook his head, his focus on the smeared puddle of wine and the shattered glass beside it near the panoramic window. “Leaves me in awe at how many complexes owned by these property management firms either don’t have cameras or just set up prop ones to placate the residents.”

“All while charging them north of three-and-half grand for a two-bedroom.”

“Loan shark rates, man.” Dean pointed back toward the kitchen. “Second weird thing.”

“What?”

“Go take a whiff of the kitchen.”

Zelada, touring the chef’s domain, turned up his nose. “Cigarettes.” He assessed the area around him and then the living room. “Don’t see no pack though.” He checked the trash can in the kitchen, sifting through it with his pen. “Maybe she tossed it somewhere else.”

Upon a quick walk-through of the bedroom and the studio, Dean found no evidence that Nikki smoked. There were no signs of a pack, either out in the open or in any of the trash receptacles in the restrooms or bedroom.

“Zip.” Dean scoured the living room. “Nothing. Unless she was smoking a loosie.”

“Didn’t smell it on the body downstairs,” added Zelada.

“So someone could’ve knocked.” Dean pointed with two fingers to the foyer. “She lets a possible unsub in.” Dean swung his fingers toward the kitchen. “She has a drink, goes into the living room, puts on some music, and then stumbles, falling through the window.”

“Maybe she got pushed. Little nudge through the glass.”

“Maybe.” Dean approached Zelada, the pair standing on either side of the smeared pool of Malbec near the big window. “It’s possible she might’ve just slipped.” He focused on the front door. “What are the county fools saying?”

“They’re thinking it was a Code 3.” Zelada shook his head. “Our DB on the curb out there had a few noise complaint calls made on her last year. One of the deputies on the street said he took two of the calls. He remembered her. Said she was pretty lit both times—couldn’t stand. Slurred her words. Shit like that.”

Dean said nothing.

“I mean, it’s possible it was a Code 3 and nothing more,” Zelada said. “Hell, she could’ve snagged a cigarette off anybody. Maybe she bummed one off a neighbor. It might not mean anything.”

“Possibly.”

“A few more inquiries with the other units might fill in the blanks here,” Zelada suggested.

Dean studied the apartment. “You might be right.”

“Bro,” Zelada groaned, “you know that whole forest for the trees thing, yeah?”

“I’m just going off a hunch here, Benny Boy.” Dean held up his hands. “Nothing more.”

“Good.” Zelada hesitated. “To be real with you, though, I’m also having a hard time shaking the sense that someone else was here.”

“So,” Dean shrugged, “who was our mystery caller?”

One of the Sheriff’s Department detectives—the older, heavy-eyed, pot-bellied one named Beldick—stepped inside and informed Dean and Zelada that it was time to clear out.

“Dean,” Zelada said, nodding toward the cop. “This is Jerry Beldick. Jerry here used to work with me over at Rampart before he transferred over here.” He slapped his palm into Beldick’s. “Thanks again, Jer. I’ll give you a shout if I need to follow up.”

“Seems pretty straightforward to me, Benny,” Beldick said, “unless the Department’s got a different take here.”

“Nothing official.” Zelada put his focus on Dean. “Just kicking around some theories.”

“That right?” Beldick wrinkled his brow. “Well, what’s on your mind?”

“Your DB,” Dean said, facing the busted window. “We’re thinking it’s possible someone might’ve been in the apartment with her before she took a dive.”

“Fascinating,” said Beldick.

“You don’t buy it,” Dean assumed.

“I just don’t like to entertain any theory until I’ve got more of the facts on hand. Besides,” Beldick gestured around the crime scene, “all indications here suggest that this bitch who’s got a 647 on her file for getting buckwild and dancing on the tables at the Abbey three weeks ago got tanked, slipped, and fell.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“Nothing.”

“You plan on⁠—?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Beldick swiped his hand through the air. “We’ll pull any nearby doorbell cams, dash cams, and cell phone footage to corroborate. We’ll go full CSI on this thing, rest assured.”

“Just keep this unsub thing tucked in your back pocket,” Dean said, joining Zelada by the door. “Something tells me our girl down on the sidewalk there had a visitor.”

Beldick walked over to the door. “Your name’s Blackwood, right?”

“Last I checked.”

“Son of a bitch.” Beldick puffed his chest, cackling as he stabbed his finger in Dean’s chest. “You're that same asshole who shot up the docks at Long Beach a few years back. Same guy whose kid got snagged by those Sarkissian fucks. That same prick who cut his Poppa a sweetheart deal with the Feds⁠—”

“All right,” Zelada groaned. “Everybody chill out.”

“Just get this asshole off my crime scene.” Beldick fixed a heated stare at Dean. “I don’t need some borderline 5150 with a hair trigger treading on my turf.”

“Check you out,” Dean said. “You sound like some prototype ripped straight from the pages of an Ellroy novel there, big man.”

“Get fucked, burnout.” Beldick looked at Zelada. “The hell is he doing here anyway?”

“Just doing him a courtesy,” Zelada said. “He’s a PI. Got hired by our DB down there. He was coming here to ask her a few questions in regard to a missing person’s case.”

“Taking into account that body on the curb, I’d say his investigation is dead in the water.” Beldick turned to Dean. “Now I want you gone.”

“Tell me something, Beldick,” Dean said. “What’s your rank?”

“Fuck difference does that make?”

“I just don’t take you as the type who’s gunning for a lieutenant slot is all.” Dean focused on the detective’s distended waistline. “From all outward appearances.”

“You really wanna throw stones here, rummy?” Beldick hovered his face an inch away from Dean’s beer-tinted breath. “Just get the fuck off my crime scene.”

Dean rubbernecked the detective. A vein jutted from his neck.

For a moment, Dean considered pressing his luck, but Zelada managed to pull him outside before he could make a decision he would regret.

“Nice work,” Zelada said as Dean trailed him down the stairwell toward the front gate. “You managed to burn whatever bridges I had with the county over here in about five seconds.”

“That prick Beldick.” Dean shook his head. “He’s, what, in his late fifties?”

“So?”

“He’s close to retirement.” Dean approached the front gate and nudged it open. “The FBI’s UCR program states that this part of LA has one of the lowest crime rates in the entire city. Last thing our pudgy pal wants to do is open a murder investigation while he’s in the home stretch of his career.” He pouted his lip. “Or…”

Zelada shrugged. “Or?”

“Or we’ve stumbled onto something on par with Amazon Kindle crime fiction territory.” Dean fished out his car keys. “Some kind of case riddled with tropes chock full of red herrings, shadowy figures, and sinister conspiracies someone’s aiming to obscure.”

“Venga.” Zelada approached Dean’s Plymouth and sat on the hood. “You’re spinning there, bobo.”

“I’m just kicking around some ideas,” Dean explained.

“Can I ask you something?”

“As long as it’s not a ride to LAX.”

“You uh,” Zelada winced, “been drinking today?”

Dean said nothing.

“Listen.” Zelada turned toward the body on the sidewalk. “I gave you your five minutes. Now I need the complete rundown of why Nikki Caimi hired you. All of it.” He ogled Dean. “Including the parts you were withholding earlier.”

“It’s getting late, Benny.” Dean scrutinized the corpse near the curb one more time and then popped open his car door. “Hop to it…quick.”

“Why’d she hire you?” Zelada asked.

“To find this guy Jimmy Valenti. The ballgame fatality—same guy whose death you’re looking into.” Dean rested his right arm on the roof of his Plymouth. “After I found out he got shipped to the morgue, I passed the word along to Nikki. She said she would pay me more if I found some kind of SD card this guy allegedly had on him.”

“SD card?”

“Yep.”

“Like for a camera or something?”

“Allegedly.”

“Okay.” Zelada crossed his arms. “Did she say what was on it?”

“When I pressed her about it, she claimed there was footage on it for her little YouTube show,” Dean said. “Whole thing didn’t settle right in my stomach, so I thought putting in a little one-on-one time with her might fill in some of the blanks.”

“And the rest,” Zelada pinned his focus to the body on the sidewalk, “is history.”

“Seems like it,” Dean said. “Seems being the operative word here.”

“Any leads on the SD card?”

“Only lead I had is sprawled out there on the sidewalk, Benny. Short of tearing apart Jimmy Valenti’s apartment, which I’m not inclined to do, my case has now gone cold.” Dean examined his counterpart suspiciously. “Now I gotta throw a question back at you there, hermano.”

Zelada grinned. “You wanna know why I got a hard on for Jimmy Valenti?”

“Your people seem to think the case of him tripping over that railing at the ballpark is open and closed.”

“They do.”

“But not you,” Dean said.

“It’s like I told you before,” Zelada said. “We’ve got two people with a connection to one another. Both of them died in a similar fashion.”

“Which makes you curious.”

“Curiosity coupled with a badge doesn’t give a guy carte blanche to investigate anything he wants to on a whim, dude.”

“Really?” Dean pouted his lip, feigning a look of disbelief. “Guess I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”

“You Dirty Harry now or something?”

“I’m tired.” Dean jiggled his car keys. “And now that my client is on her way to the parlor, I’m gonna pack it in and cash the check.” He shot his chin. “I take it your skipper doesn’t want you wasting time and resources on something he’s ready to mark as resolved either.”

“He doesn’t.”

“So, that’s it for you?”

“Looks like it.”

“Well, until another body takes a spill out a window,” Dean slapped his hand into Zelada’s, “I’ll catch you later, Benny Boy.”

“’Til then.” Zelada took a beat. “You good?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Come on, man. You got that same jaded look every burnout with a badge has. Sorry to just come out and say it, but…”

“Well, when you’re right,” Dean dwelled on his absent family members and felt his heart wrench, “you’re right.”

Zelada said nothing for a moment. Based on the detective’s inquisitive countenance, Dean sensed he was waiting for more, but he wasn’t going to give it to him.

“Maybe I’ll call your Pops,” Zelada said. “It’s been a while.”

“Been a few days for me too.”

“You guys okay?”

“All things considered.”

Zelada flashed a wry smirk. “I’ll catch you later.” He moved toward his Crown Vic. “Cuídate, amigo.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Hungry and mildly hungover, Dean slipped into his rig.

He took one last look at the scene…at the body…at the busted up window where the paunch-gutted detective was staring down at him through splinters of broken glass.

Straightforward accident.

Dean slipped his key into the ignition.

Yeah.

Turned over the engine.

Right.

22

Jerry Beldick waited until Dean’s Plymouth Road Runner pulled away from the curb before he pulled out his cell and plugged in a number from memory.

He paced as the phone rang.

Studied the body on the sidewalk.

After a few curses and grumbles and a pair of rings, someone on the other end of the line picked up.

“The Awakening Center” a female voice answered. “How may I direct your call?”

“This is Detective Jerry Beldick.” He slipped down on the gaudy yellow couch near the window in Nikki Caimi’s apartment. “Jackson Branson, please.”

The receptionist requested a moment.

Beldick listened to a MIDI version of “American Pie” for close to a minute.

Finally, the line reconnected.

“Detective Beldick,” Jackson Branson said. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Beldick stood. “Listen, that address you asked me to forward to your guy⁠—”

“Holloway.”

“Was he planning on going there after I gave it to you?”

“I would assume.”

“Well, it appears as though the woman he came to see had an accident,” Beldick said, “either before he arrived or shortly after, I can’t say for sure.”

“An accident?”

“She fell out a window.”

“She fell,” Jackson said, “or she was pushed?”

“Dunno.” Beldick took another gander at the corpse on the street. “That’s why I’m calling. Whatever you’ve got going on, whatever this friend of yours is looking into, it just became more complicated, and now I’ve got a dead body on my hands as a result.”

“I understand.” Jackson’s tone was apathetic, like he was correcting a pizza order for a customer who was missing some toppings. “I’ll contact him right away. Keep in mind, the likelihood of this happening is⁠—”

“Likelihood or not,” Beldick cut in, “I need you and your friend to try to keep a low profile after this. I am happy to assist the church in any way I can, but stuff like this⁠—”

“I understand.”

“I just can’t have it.”

“Again, I wholeheartedly understand. On behalf of Mr. Wozniak and the Center, I will assume you will⁠—”

“Of course. I’ll make sure it ends here.” Beldick held up his hand. “As a member of the congregation, it’s important to me that the church is protected in any and all matters. I just need to be sure this incident is the first and the last from here on out.”

“I offer you my assurances here and now that it will be,” Jackson said. “Thank you, Detective.”

“Thank you.”

“Faith in the system.”

“Yes. Faith in the system.” A surge of pride swelled inside Beldick as he recited the motto of his doctrine. He stared at the spot where Blackwood’s Plymouth had been parked. “Also, and it may not be of any real concern, but there were a pair of men here at the scene. One of them I’m not so worried about, but the other one does stir some suspicion. He was here to try to ask our dead girl some questions.”

“Can you give me his name, please?”

“It’s Blackwood,” Beldick said. “Dean Blackwood. He and his family are fairly well-known in both the LAPD and SD departments, albeit not in an esteemed way. I just thought I should tell you his name on the off chance it may come up again at some point.”

“Are you available to provide us with more information on him?” Jackson asked.

“I can run a 10-29 and get you his full jacket. In terms of any kind of follow-up with this guy, I need to delegate that to your people.”

“Understood.”

Beldick made out a sound on Jackson’s end akin to a pen scribbling on paper.

“Once again, the church appreciates your efforts and sacrifices, Brother Beldick.”

“For the overall welfare.”

“For the overall welfare. Have a blessed night, Detective. I look forward to seeing you at Wednesday service.”

“Same here.”

Beldick terminated the call.

Went downstairs.

Got the ball rolling on making sure Nikki Caimi’s death was filed away as an accident. He still wondered exactly what went down in Caimi’s apartment. But his job would be to make sure the truth never surfaced.

23

“God,” Holloway said as he turned right onto Hollywood Boulevard. “Damn it.”

Shit went sideways quickly there, didn’t it?

He pursed his lips.

Maybe you’re getting too old for this shit, bubba.

On his right, Holloway eyed the T-Rex with the clock in his mouth jutting out the roof of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. The panoply of neon lights atop the building soaked the streets with shades of yellow, red, green, and blue.

He pulled over.

Parked near a meter.

After checking his surroundings for signs of a black and white, Holloway rolled down the window, took out a Lucky Strike, and lit it, replaying the moment Nikki slipped and then dove out the window.

It is tragic.

But silly accidents happen.

Holloway couldn’t help but think about the handful of guys he saw back in the day who took a spill or got torn apart by friendly fire.

You’ve seen it before.

He puffed on his cigarette.

Shit, though.

If I had been just a step closer, I could’ve grabbed her and⁠—

Holloway’s cell buzzed.

He mumbled a curse.

He knew who was calling because word around LA tended to outrun light.

All right. Holloway breathed, lowered his heart rate, and pulled out the device. Get a grip.

He answered the call.

Strained a smile.

Heard Jackson Branson greet him like an old friend hesitantly requesting to use his truck for a move.

“Good evening, Mister Holloway.”

“Hey, how ya doin’?”

“All is well?” asked Jackson.

“I assume you received word about my little sidebar with Miss Caimi.”

“Moments ago, yes,” Jackson said. “Quite unfortunate. Like we discussed before, however, we anticipated this outcome was a possibility.”

“It was an accident. Not planned. I need to stress that.”

“I’m certain it was. Thankfully, we have members within the police department ranks who are more than willing to assist us. As of now, friends loyal to our congregation are taking steps to make sure this incident will be viewed as an unintended occurrence and nothing more. You need not worry about reprisals.”

Christ.

These fuckers’ ties run deep.

Holloway observed the pedestrian traffic flowing down the sidewalk, tourists and residents taking in the view of the Hollywood landmarks—once pristine, now chipped and faded and polished with soiled overlay.

This town is friggin’ whacked.

“As for this teaser video Miss Caimi had,” Jackson continued, “I trust the copies have been erased.”

“Momentarily.” Holloway ran his hand across the laptop on the passenger seat. “A few minutes, and they’re gone.”

“And the one she was set to upload? Have you gotten confirmation of its existence?”

“It’s real.”

“Have you found it yet?”

“I will shortly,” Holloway said. “Valenti stored it on an SD card. I can only assume it’s stashed somewhere, either in his apartment or with his belongings at the medical examiner’s office. I’ll check both. It’ll be in my possession soon.”

“Excellent,” Jackson said. “Once we have confirmation that it’s been destroyed, we’ll forward the $20,000 to the account you provided⁠—”

“It’s ten.”

“We agreed ten more would be tacked onto the principal fee should Miss Caimi be disposed of.”

“She wasn’t disposed of,” Holloway clarified. “She fell.”

“Nevertheless, we stipulated that $10,000 more⁠—”

“Listen,” Holloway butted in, “I didn’t kill anybody. I made it a point to underscore that for you.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“You’re gonna keep that additional ten. Do not, and I repeat, do not send it to my account.”

“I see.” Jackson Branson took a beat. “Well, perhaps you’d be willing to consider the additional ten grand as a fee for following up on something for us.”

Holloway paused.

He wanted to opt out.

Cash the 10k check.

Get as much distance between him and Jackson Branson as possible.

But money was money.

Bills were bills.

Green was the only thing that made them go away.

“When our friend in the Sheriff’s Department responded to the scene,” Jackson said, “he met a man who had been at Miss Caimi’s apartment asking her questions—ones we naturally don’t wish to have asked.”

“If you’re askin’ me to do some wet work,” Holloway flung his cigarette out the open window, “I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Nothing so direct as that.” Jackson spoke in a level above a whisper. “We simply want you to make sure this individual isn’t attempting to investigate any further into Miss Caimi or to the matters you are currently tending to.”

“So no violence.”

“As before, we’ll leave that to your discernment. We would simply like you to engage in some, well, light surveillance to make sure this man is not pursuing what we are on the cusp of considering a dead issue.”

“If this guy is causing problems that require a more permanent solution, I can’t help you,” Holloway made clear.

“We would still appreciate the effort of looking into him. If you could, as they say, ‘tail’ him for a while and identify how much of a threat he truly is, we can take it from there.”

“And I still get paid?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “You will still receive payment.”

Holloway stared at his cell’s wallpaper—his wife and child.

Thought about the day the picture was taken on the waterfront.

It was nice out.

Breezy.

A good day for Holly.

He examined the details on their faces.

“Mister Holloway,” Jackson said, ripping him out of his daydream. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Fifteen grand,” Holloway stated with no hesitation.

“Fifteen?”

“One-five.” Holloway envisioned himself settling more of his daughter’s hefty medical bills. “Half sent now, the other half after I suss out this guy you’re talking about.”

“I see.” Jackson took a long pause. “Let me check with Mr. Wozniak. Can I put you on hold for a moment?”

“Have at it.”

As Jackson conferred with his superior, Holloway chewed up the time by cracking open Nikki Caimi’s laptop.

Need a password.

He drummed his fingers on the touchpad.

Come on.

His mental wheels spun.

The login’s gotta be somethin’ on the nose, a woman like her.

He thought about it.

Ruminated on it some more.

He recalled his conversation with Nikki—one word in particular—and the scales fell from his eyes.

“Slay,” Holloway mumbled out loud, tensing his vocal chords in an attempt to impersonate Nikki’s voice. “It’s kind of my catchphrase,” she had said.

He typed “Slay” in the login.

Nothing.

Tried the name of her show, The Hollyweird Buzz.

Nada.

“Come on,” Holloway groaned. “Easy money here.”

He scoured his memory, sifting through the facts he had about Nikki, certain the password had to be something cheap and obvious, lacking in precaution.

Her birthday.

Holloway squinted.

12-18-85.

He entered “Slay85” into the login.

Waited.

A moment later, the password, to his delight, was accepted.

Taking a moment to acknowledge his stroke of luck, Holloway opened the WiFi settings, used the open network of a nearby McDonald’s, and signed on.

He did a sweep of her computer.

Found three backups of the teaser video, but he didn’t find anything in the way of the actual “juicy gossip” Nikki had planned to present to her viewers.

Might have not been real.

Holloway looked some more.

Think we’re in the clear.

Once he confirmed the backups of the teaser video had been eighty-sixed, he closed the lid, sat back, and tossed the device on the floor.

Do a thorough data wipe later.

Dump the comp.

Then find this dude, check him out, and get your ass back home.

“Mister Holloway,” Jackson said in his nasal voice. “Mister Wozniak has agreed to your rate.”

“Good.” Holloway felt the phone buzz in his hand—an incoming text. “I’ll get right on it.”

“We will forward you the details in a moment. We’ll be awaiting your call in regard to the video and your confirmation of its confiscation.”

“You got it.”

“Have a blessed night.”

“Yeah.” Goddamn fruitcake. “You too.”

The call ended.

Holloway gazed down at his phone and saw that his wife had sent a picture of Holly in her wheelchair, laughing delightedly at a pair of squirrels fighting over a nut in Broadway Park earlier that day.

She’s waiting, the text from Becky read. What time does your flight land?

Holloway’s thumbs hovered over the phone, struggling to find a way to inform his family that he would be a day late getting back to them. But his focus was diverted when he saw a text alert from Jackson Branson.

He opened it.

Skimmed the details of the man he was supposed to follow up on.

Upon seeing the name, he felt his stomach drop.

“Fuck me,” Holloway grumbled, rereading the name over and over again to make sure he was seeing straight.

Dean Henry Blackwood, the information read.

Six-three.

210 pounds.

FBI agent (former).

“Damn it.” Holloway read the name again and calculated the odds. Of all the people he could have been assigned to follow, how could it be an old buddy from his Ranger unit?

24

Lying back on a mechanic’s creeper, Dean Blackwood gazed up at the undercarriage of his Plymouth. He finished the process of changing the oil filter, his head pounding, although the PBR can near his head had done a decent job of softening the throb.

His white tee was smeared with grease.

His hands were soiled.

“Like a Stone” blasted out of the Bluetooth speaker on his workbench in the rear of the garage.

He wasn’t thinking about Nikki Caimi.

The check was cashed.

The case was closed.

Like the piggish Detective Jerry Beldick said to him after Nikki fell out the window, his investigation was now “dead in the water.”

As far as the alleged SD card, Dean also saw it as a closed topic.

“It was weird though, laddie,” Woody said, the mouthy Irish dickhead lying right beside Dean. “Like it just doesn’t settle right in your stomach, you know?” He nudged Dean. “But a lot of things are not settling right in our stomachs lately, to be fair.” He held up a finger. “Layla.” Another finger. “Grace.” Another finger. “Claire.” A fourth finger. “Jeremy.”

Woody droned on.

Dean tried to shake him off.

He took a breath.

Then he glanced to his left and found that Woody was no longer there.

Just keep moving.

Dean started the process of removing the oil pan with a socket wrench.

Keep working.

Tinkering.

Don’t dwell on any of the rest.

A few turns of his wrench later, Dean heard footsteps shuffling up the driveway.

His primal instincts kicked in.

Without hesitation, he palmed the 1911 beside him, rolled the mechanic’s creeper out from under his car, shot to his feet, and held the weapon behind his back.

25

“Yo,” Dean called out, gripping the hood with his free, sweat-glazed hand before he lowered it. “Help you?”

He chambered a round into the 1911.

Thumbed off the safety.

Caressed the trigger slowly with his oil-covered finger.

“Hello?” Dean called out, rounding the front of the Plymouth as the caller came into view. For a fleeting moment as he assessed the visitor standing outside his garage, he thought his drinking had escalated to the point that he was having delusions.

Son of a bitch.

Dean scraped his finger against the trigger guard.

Last I saw you, I almost killed you.

“Mikey?” Dean said. “That you, Hollow Man?”

The visitor—Mike Holloway—cracked a grin and extended his arms. “What’s the word, Deano?”

“Crying out loud.” Dean, laughing, holding up the 1911. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“You, uh…” Mike nodded at the 1911, “plan on plugging me?”

“No, I uh…” Dean safetied the weapon. “I just didn’t know it was you.”

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Dean summoned the memory of his brawl with Holloway in Takur Ghar. “I’m great.”

The two men bumped fists.

Shared a smile.

Took a moment to soak each other in.

“You’re looking good.” Holloway said. “Packed on some muscle since I last saw you.”

“I’m doing all right.” With his less oil-blemished hand, Dean thumbed off his Bluetooth speaker. “Trying to remember how long it’s been.”

“I gotta assume that freaky little mind of yours probably has a running count of it.”

“Twelve years,” Dean said, “ten months, and three weeks.”

“Still knocks me off my feet that you can do that.”

“Yeah, it comes in handy every once in a while.”

The two men said nothing.

Shifted their weight.

Allowed their gazes to drift.

“How’ve you been, Hollow?” Dean asked.

“I’ve been okay.” Holloway turned in a circle, surveying the garage and the tract-style home it was connected to. “This your place?”

“Not until I pay it off.” Dean leaned against his Plymouth. “You still in Jersey?”

“Yeah, still there.”

“How’s the family?”

“They’re good.” Holloway said. “What about you? You still single?”

“Well, I was married. Met someone else after that, but…” Dean swigged the last drops of his PBR and crumpled the can one-handed. “It’s all past tense.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“It happens.” Dean, blinking away thoughts of his ex-wife and Layla, padded his way over toward his old buddy. “So what brings you around, Hollow?”

“I’m in LA for a few days. Thought I’d look you up while I was in town.”

“Look me up?”

“Yeah, you know…” Holloway laughed. “Catch up or whatever.”

“You wanna catch up?”

“Is that so out of left field for you?”

Dean, dwelling on the memory of slamming Holloway against the side of a Rhino vehicle, nearly said something about it but refrained.

“You, uh…” Holloway said, eyeing the crushed PBR can in Dean’s hand. “You got another one of those I can crack open?”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean slapped his friend on the back. “Come on in.”

Both men wandered into the house.

Dean snagged his pal a beer from the fridge.

For a few moments, they talked about the house. How much Holloway liked it. How nice the backyard was. The understated rustic motif of it all.

“So what brought you out to LA?” Dean asked, a fresh beer in his hand, leaning against the kitchen island. “Sure as hell wasn’t a vacation.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re a dyed-in-the-wool Jersey man, Hollow. Every chance you had, you slandered the West Coast.”

“It’s just not my vibe,” Holloway explained.

“It’s my home.”

“Right.” Holloway flexed his brow. “Guess I should’ve pumped the brakes more with my bad-mouthin’.”

“Nice suit.” Dean motioned to Holloway’s cream-colored blazer and slacks. “Gives off a Gary Oldman from The Professional kind of vibe.”

“I got this sucker from Men’s Warehouse. For a steal, I might add.”

“Guess I’m just used to seeing you in fatigues is all.”

“What was that piece you almost pointed in my face in the garage?” Holloway said. “Looked like a Colt or something.”

“Who cares?” Dean rounded the kitchen island. “This isn’t a Jack Carr novel.”

“I like Jack Carr.”

“I dig him too,” Dean said. “I just never really understood why the guy wastes two to three pages with characters talking about what kind of sidearm they just bought while some kind of nuclear clock is counting down in the background.”

“It’s weird, I’ll give you that.” Holloway placed his beer down. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, DB. I should’ve kept better tabs on you.”

“All good. People lose touch,” Dean said dismissively. “So, what line of work did you land in, Hollow?”

“Private security stuff.” Holloway fished his Zippo lighter out of his pocket. “Freelance mostly. Keeps me hoppin’ around the map. Like you, I’m trying to cut down on travel time. Older I get, the more my knees are screaming at me.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“I’m actually in the middle of sortin’ some stuff out as we speak.”

“I guess I’m a…” Dean sighed, “a convenient stop along the way or something?”

“What’s wrong with stopping by to see an old buddy?”

“Well, the last time I checked, we didn’t exactly exchange information after what happened.”

“Yeah. I, uh…” Holloway huffed, his focus fastened on the floor. “I’m sorry for what happened. It was a shithead move on my part.”

“I took four rounds to the chest, Hollow.”

“You had a vest.”

“You still shouldn’t have ducked out of the way.” Dean tapped his neck. “Couple inches higher, I would’ve been a memory.”

“DB—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Hollow.” Dean crept toward his buddy. “You didn’t stop by to dish out a few apologies and crack open a brew with me. I played a few rounds of cards with you back in the day, and you’ve got that same tell you did whenever you had a shitty poker hand.” Dean nodded toward the lighter Holloway was tinkering with. “You want something, so whatever it is, I’d suggest you ask it so I can get on with my day.”

Holloway stared.

Sat silent.

Clicked open and closed his lighter once, twice, and then a third time.

“Be real with me, brother,” Dean said. “This pop-in is more than just two retired Jumpers throwing back a few, isn’t it? This has something to do with whatever work you’re doing out here.”

“Deano—”

“Just tell me. If I’m being paranoid,” Dean pointed his finger at Holloway, “I’ll back off.”

Holloway waited.

Leaned back.

Stared at Dean and smirked.

“Being intuitive,” Holloway slowly reached toward his inside pocket, “was always one of your strong suits, brother.”

Dean tensed.

Felt his tension spike.

Moved his hand toward the 1911 in the back of his pants, speculating if he was about to get into a second brawl in his house in under two years.

26

As Holloway dug into his pocket, Dean quickly slapped together a plan if his old chum decided to draw out a sidearm.

Kick the table into him.

Flip it over.

Get him on his back and wrestle his piece away.

Once Dean saw Holloway take out a pack of Lucky Strikes, all sense of paranoia slipped away. He relaxed his posture, giving Hollow the go-ahead to light up as he wandered over to the kitchen window.

“Try to blow it this way if you can,” Dean said as he lifted the window. “Smell might piss the mutt off.”

“You got a dog?”

“He’s in the back with a Remington locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll if I give him the signal.” Dean took a seat at the kitchen table across from his fellow Ranger. “If he doesn’t like whatever you’re about to say, all I gotta do is snap my fingers.”

“Christ.” Holloway lit his cigarette. “You really turned a new shade of jittery since I last saw you.”

“I did.” Memories of his disreputable, high-stakes life raced through Dean’s mind as he placed an empty coffee mug in front of Holloway, an improvised ashtray. “And for good reason.”

“You don’t gotta worry about me, brother.”

“You’re implying there’s something I do need to worry about though.”

“It’s nothing serious. Not a big deal in the slightest. Nothing that can’t be cleared up with a quick back-and-forth.” Holloway tapped the ash off his cigarette into the mug. “As long as you’re up front with me about it, that is.”

“Foreboding,” Dean said. “Now,” he waved his old Ranger chum on, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Holloway puffed his Lucky Strike.

Shook his head.

Made a smoke circle with his mouth.

“Nikki Caimi,” he said. “That name strike a chord with you at all?”

“Yeah.” Dean shuddered, reeling at the world being so small of a place. “It does.”

“How so?”

“Tell me why you wanna know.”

“Come on, bud.” Holloway flared his nostrils. “You wanted me to be real with you.” He signaled to Dean. “Do me the same courtesy here.”

Dean killed his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it in the recycling bin near the door. “She hired me to find someone.”

“Who?”

“You asked about Nikki, not this other guy.”

“So,” Holloway said, “it’s a guy.”

“God damn.” Dean rolled his head in circles to loosen up his neck. “I really start running my mouth two beers in, don’t I?”

“You were at this chick’s house last night, correct?”

“You shouldn’t phrase statements like questions.”

“Why were you there?”

“I wanted to talk to her about this guy she was looking for.”

“Who was the guy?”

Dean, knowing the case was dead, figured there was no point in playing games or withholding info any longer. “Jimmy,” he said. “Valenti. Allegedly, he was the cameraman for my client. She hired me to track him down.”

“Did you?”

“Yep.”

“Well, where is he?”

“Department of the Medical Examiner,” Dean said. “They’re probably in the middle of cutting open his chest right now.”

“You know what happened to him?”

“Dodger Stadium.” Dean held his hand above his head. “Fucker nose-dived off the Top Deck.” He slowly brought his hand down and slapped his palm on the table. “Splat.”

“Why did Nikki go to you? Why not the cops?”

“She claimed she went to the cops.”

“Well, did she?”

“I got the feeling she was shining me on,” Dean said. “I decided to roll by her place, feel this whole thing out a bit more, but she was already being bagged up by the time I got there.”

“How?” Holloway pouted his lip curiously. “I mean, what happened to her?”

“She fell out a window.”

“She fell, huh?”

“Yeah. ” Dean watched Holloway smoke his Lucky Strike. The glint in the man’s eyes sparked suspicion—same for the Lucky Strike. “She fell.”

Nikki’s kitchen sink.

The cigarette smell.

The spilled wine near her front door.

“When you talked to her before she tapped out,” Holloway said, “did she mention anything to you? Anything about Valenti?”

“She was talking about some SD card he had on him.”

“An SD card?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“What’s got you all riled up about it?”

Holloway took a beat.

A drag.

Then he crushed his cigarette in the mug.

“This card,” Holloway said. “Did Nikki say what was on it?”

“Footage for her show.”

“Did you find the card by chance?”

“No point looking for it, now that she’s dead.”

“So you didn’t go by Valenti’s place?” Holloway leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “You didn’t try to follow up on it?”

“Why would I?” Dean raised his shoulders. “She’s dead. So is Valenti. Money is in my account, so the whole thing is a moot point now.”

“So you don’t know where this supposed SD card may be?” Holloway asked. “Other than the fact that Nikki was trying to get her hands on it?”

“I don’t have clue one as to where it is, Hollow.” Dean leaned in closer to Holloway. “For all I know, it’s either in the morgue with his belongings or sitting in a drawer in his apartment. Wherever it is, whatever is on it, I couldn’t give less of shit than I do now.”

“All right. All right.” Holloway sat back and looked up at the ceiling. “Mind if I float another pair of names your way?”

“Have at it.”

“Tucker and Billy.”

“Isn’t that a horror parody movie?”

“That’s Tucker and Dale.”

“Right.” Dean shook his head. “Well, to answer your question, no. This is the first time I’m hearing of a guy named Tucker or a guy named Billy.” He scooted his chair closer to the table. “And what’s your interest in all this? Who hired you? What part do you play in all this?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You could.”

“But I won’t,” Holloway said. “In the interest of throwing you a bone, though, I can tell you there’s some interested parties in the background who are trying to keep this whole thing as quiet as they can.”

“The PD?”

“Interested parties.”

“Okay, wise ass.” Dean swiped flakes of cigarette ash off of the table. “Just know that as far as my involvement in this thing goes, it ended when Caimi’s body hit the pavement.”

“I’ve got your word on that?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Dean said, “it sounds like you’re trying to intimidate me, Hollow.”

“I am.”

“You fuckin’ kidding me?”

“DB.” Holloway scraped his chair back and stuck out his palms. “I came by because the people who hired me wanna make sure there’s no one on the outside stickin’ their nose into this whole business. When I was checkin’ on Nikki Caimi and then caught wind of your name, I wanted to do you the courtesy of⁠—”

“Coming by to threaten me.”

“—to be sure,” Holloway insisted, “that you’re steering clear of this shit. Like you said, you cashed the check. That means you’ve got no other reason to be meanderin’ around crime scenes or talking to cops or ringing up the numbers of guys who don’t want their phones to be ringing.”

“Hollow…” Dean pressed a finger into the table for emphasis, “If you’re gonna start in on the scare tactics with me, we can do away with the niceties.”

“Get the memo here, DB,” Holloway said. “Don’t fuck with this. Just stay home, keep your head down, and don’t go lookin’ into Jimmy Valenti or Nikki Caimi or any other goddamn thing.”

“Or what?”

“Deano,” Holloway stood. “Don’t.”

Dean flared his nostrils.

Holloway clenched a fist.

For a moment, both men felt like the temperature in the room had ticked up a few degrees.

“I’m your pal,” Holloway said. “Time and distance notwithstanding. All I’m doing is looking out for you here.”

“You’re an old acquaintance, Hollow,” Dean specified. “Let’s be real about that. If part of you really cared about seeing me, if you really wanted to make amends for letting me take shots that were meant for you, you would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Silence held sway.

Willy moseyed into the room, gazing at Dean and Holloway with a curious, head-tilted expression.

“I’m gonna head out,” Holloway said, his shoulders slumped, his tone flat and uneven. “It was good to see you, brother.”

“Yeah. “Solid catch-up.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Holloway moved toward the front door.

Stopped.

Turned back.

Held his head high.

“I’ve got your word,” Holloway said, his concern and inquisitiveness apparent. “You’re done with this, yeah?”

“Yeah, Hollow.” Dean saluted. “Consider it given.”

Holloway saluted with two fingers.

A moment later, Holloway left the house, closing the door behind him.

Dean rose from his chair.

Wandered over to the front window.

Observed Holloway as he got into his Charger and throttled the engine.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, laddie,” Woody whispered, his breath heated, labored, and polished off with a Guiness finish. “’Bout that girl Nikki lying all bloodied and twisted on the sidewalk like that. About the cigarette smell in her kitchen. That whole second-person-in-the-room business you were talking about with Zelada.”

Yeah.

Dean parted the blinds to get a better view of Holloway’s ride.

I am.

“So why not follow your friend?” Woody suggested. “If the Hollow Man there did knock her off, it’d feel good to confront him about it.”

Would it?

“It would.” Woody linked his arm around Dean’s neck and squeezed. “I know you, lad. You don’t like people getting hurt that shouldn’t.”

Dean walked back to the fridge and grabbed another beer.

“Think about it,” the diminutive Irish bastard said. “No harm taking a little drive. Besides,” he chuckled, “you’ve been wanting to clock one across the guy’s jaw after that time he got you shot.”

After Dean took three gulps of his PBR, Woody vanished.

Maybe he did kill Nikki.

The prospect triggered Dean’s temples to throb.

Is it possible?

Oh, come on, Deano.

Of course it’s possible.

The dude is a trained killer.

And the same applies to you.

Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that Holloway was the one who shoved Nikki out the window. And the more he thought about it, the more beer he consumed and the more pissed off he became.

Fuck it.

He grabbed his leather jacket from the foyer.

Why not?

Got his car keys.

Nothing wrong with taking a little drive.

Checked to make sure his 1911 was still in his waistband.

After locking up the house, Dean got behind the wheel of his Plymouth, peeled out, took off, and headed after Holloway, half-certain the guy was heading toward either the morgue or Jimmy Valenti’s apartment to track down the SD card.

Start with the morgue.

Dean eased his Plymouth onto the on-ramp.

If he’s thinking like me, that’s where he’ll go first.

27

Mike Holloway had noticed something during his conversation with Dean. His Ranger buddy had this mischievous little I-know-what-you-did-last-summer countenance the second they started talking about Nikki Caimi and how she died.

No way.

Holloway made out the nondescript building on his right. If the small sign outside hadn’t said Medical Examiner, he would have mistaken it for a public library.

He doesn’t know I was at Nikki Caimi’s apartment.

How could he?

He turned into the parking lot.

Oh, hell.

He is a PI, dumb fuck.

Holloway put the Charger in park.

Maybe he pieced it together the second you dropped her name.

“All right, man,” he mumbled. “Pull it together.”

His cell phone vibrated.

He thumbed the answer button.

His wife, Becky, was already mid-sentence before he could greet her.

“You said this morning,” she said. “It’s now the afternoon.”

“Baby—”

“Where are you?”

“Last-minute stop,” Holloway insisted. “Final one.” He crossed himself. “Swear to Christ Almighty.”

“You’re on speakerphone, jackass.”

“Shit.” He flinched. “Did Holly hear?”

“Perked her up like a meerkat, so yeah.”

“Hon…” Holloway strained to find the right words, knowing he was doing the right thing but still pissing his wife off in the process. “The gig I got is paying more than I thought.”

“And it’s taking longer than you thought.” Becky huffed. “I don’t get it, Mike. You drive around famous assholes all day. It’s not like they’re paying you to do some Ray Donovan cover-this-dead-body-up shit.”

“Right.” Holloway said, certain his tone was shaky. “Hundred percent.”

“Then come home. Do whatever you need to do. Say whatever you need to say. I need you here.”

“I will, babe.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” Becky’s volume amplified. “Tomorrow.”

She hung up.

Holloway gnashed his teeth.

Chiding himself and feeling like he was being pulled in two directions at once, he got out of his Charger, opened the trunk, located the fugazi LAPD badge he had in his go bag, and clipped it to his belt.

He headed inside the medical examiner’s office.

Signed in with a fake name.

Got directed to a guy who referred him to a gal who Holloway sweet-talked into taking him to pilfer through Jimmy Valenti’s belongings that were sealed in evidence bags and housed in a storage room.

The woman gave Holloway five minutes.

He sifted through Valenti’s stuff twice and found no SD cards among his belongings.

Nothing.

Zip.

Holloway placed the evidence bags back in their respective places.

This whole SD card shit has to be a bust.

Before heading out, Holloway caught sight of Jimmy Valenti’s bagged-up phone, blotched with blood, a crack tracing down the middle of the screen.

He pocketed the phone.

Walked out and closed the door.

Making sure the device was nestled deep inside his jacket pocket, Holloway turned right down a hallway and witnessed a balding, overweight detective in the middle of a phone call.

“Yeah, Caimi,” the bare-headed detective grumbled. “Nikki Caimi. I’m here now.” He nodded. “Yeah, it’s all done. Family is flying in to take possession of the body.”

Holloway averted his gaze.

The pudgy cop squinted.

“Hang on a second, Gordy,” the cop spoke into his phone before directing a sharp whistle at Holloway. “Yo, buddy!”

Holloway squeezed his eyelids shut.

Angled around.

Snapped his eyes open.

“Don’t I know you?” The thick-set cop said. “Yeah, I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“Not sure.” Holloway shrugged. “I get around.”

“Yeah…” The pudgy cop snapped his fingers. “Wilshire Vice, right?”

“Yeah,” Holloway lied. “Once upon a time.”

“God damn.” The cop pressed his thumb into his chest. “Jerry Beldick.”

“Danny Hardwick.”

“Good to see you, Danny.”

“Same here.” Holloway started moving. “I gotta run, Jer. Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah.” Beldick paused, his jubilant tone swiftly giving way to skepticism. “Yeah, you too.”

Holloway walked away.

Felt Beldick track him.

Minutes later, Holloway was in the parking lot and behind the wheel of his Charger. He cranked the ignition as he observed the portly cop Beldick stroll out the front door.

Holloway smiled at Beldick.

The cop saluted.

Holloway revved his engine, prayed the cop would forget about him, and proceeded to back out.

Just drive away.

He turned on the radio.

Go.

He took a look in his rearview mirror.

This prick will forget all about you by tom⁠—

Holloway, noticing something in his rearview mirror, slammed on the brakes.

He cursed under his breath.

Shook his head.

Adjusting his mirror, he thought, You just couldn’t let it go, could you? Dean’s Plymouth Road Runner was tailing him 50 yards back.

Beldick, snapping on a piece of gum, gawked at “Danny Hardwick” as the former Vice backed his Charger out of his parking spot.

He creased his brow.

Wrote it off as odd and nothing more.

But he also saw the Plymouth Road Runner a moment later—the same exact rig he spotted outside Nikki Caimi’s apartment just hours before. He rang up Jackson Branson.

“Jackson,” Beldick said. “I think this guy I mentioned to you before is lurking around the neighborhood.”

“Blackwood?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s disconcerting.” Jackson took a breath. “I’ll inform our man who’s currently investigating.”

“Tell him to take a more direct approach.” Beldick wrestled his car keys out of his pocket, eager to tail Blackwood, if only for a minute. “Knock his ass off the playing board.”

“Yes,” Jackson said followed by a moan. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I, uh…” Beldick tapped his fingers on the hood of his black Chevy Impala. “I’m curious. You got a description of what this Holloway guy looks like?”

“We keep detailed accounts of all of our associates,” Jackson said. “Are you asking for me to forward you something in the way of that?”

“Yeah.” Beldick, thinking about the guy in the Charger, slid behind the wheel of his Impala. “I am.”

28

Dean had one hand on the steering wheel and the other firmly resting on the 1911 in the passenger seat. Ahead of him—50 yards out—he saw Holloway’s Charger jerk to a halt and idle.

He sees you, dummy.

Dean throttled down the engine.

Fine.

His hand glided toward the radio and switched it on.

Let him.

“All right, listeners,” the DJ on the radio declared. “We’re gonna rip through our next half hour of music unabated for the sake of my stomach. Pink’s Hot Dogs is screaming my name right now, so I’m gonna pop over there and grab a dog. Until then, we’re taking it back to the ’70s for a little while, so sit back, relax, and enjoy.”

“Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” by the Rolling Stones kicked in.

Dean turned up the volume.

Holloway’s Charger was on the move again. Dean put his Plymouth in drive, rolled forward, and followed him.

29

Holloway—watching Dean’s Plymouth shadow him in his rearview mirror—headed south on Mission.

He nodded in approval.

Raised the volume on his radio.

Entertained the fantasy for a brief moment that he was in a Martin Scorsese movie, inspired by the radio’s soundtrack, as he slowly made his way to Zonal, took a left, and then made another on Alhambra.

“Keep comin’, Deano,” Holloway said as he fetched his Astra terminator from the glove box and laid it on his lap. “Keeeep comin’.”

After he turned left on Daly and then another left on Main, Holloway peeked at his rearview mirror.

He watched Dean’s Plymouth creep even closer.

He shook his head.

Checked his right mirror.

Then he knitted his brow curiously.

“The fuck?” Holloway mumbled, certain he was seeing another car following Dean’s Plymouth a quarter mile back.

30

Dean easily spotted a black Chevy Impala trailing him. “All right, who’s this wiggler?”

He kept driving.

Stayed on Holloway.

Stalked him for close to a mile before they ended up spilling onto Stadium Way.

Dean cut a look at his mirrors.

The Impala behind him was keeping up the pace.

It didn’t break off.

It braked, turned, and stopped at the same lights.

Dean straightened up.

Kept following Holloway as he thought back to what he told Freddy the day before.

“When things get weird,” Dean whispered as he followed Holloway’s Charger north on Stadium Way, “all kinds of squirrelly people tend to materialize.”

31

On Holloway’s right, Dodger Stadium was creeping into view, sunlight twinkling off the peak of its structure. Its captivating presence was like a jewel nestled in the heart of the city. Despite being a die-hard Mets fan, Holloway found himself momentarily distracted from the task at hand.

Focus.

Holloway eyed his mirrors.

You gotta shake this son of a bitch.

He grinned at an idea.

Or just put the dumb bastard in his place.

He positioned his hands at ten and two.

Hovered his foot over the brake.

Told himself to wait until Dean’s Plymouth got just a little bit closer.

32

Dean watched the Impala behind him break off, turn right, and head south down Coronel.

He tweaked his mirror.

Made sure the car was gone.

Monetarily lost focus of the road ahead of him as he looked over his shoulder to make sure the Impala had broken off for good.

“Jesus,” Dean hissed, swinging his attention back to his windshield. “Almost had to break check that fu⁠—”

Holloway’s Charger had suddenly careened to a stop. Dean was bearing down on him at an alarming speed.

His eyes bulged.

His body tensed.

His foot jammed down on the brake, but he knew it was a bust.

Crap, Dean thought as his Plymouth slammed into the rear of Holloway’s Charger. He quickly tallied how much the cost of repairs would be.

33

Whatever damage his Charger sustained meant nothing to Holloway. He had paid for insurance coverage, so when he returned the rig to Enterprise, he planned on telling them some “drunk idiot” clipped him and took off before he could get a read on the guy’s plates.

Holloway put his car in park.

Grabbed his Astra and slipped out of the car.

As he made his way toward Dean’s Plymouth—Astra concealed in one hand behind his back—the song on his Charger’s radio switched to James Brown’s “Get Up Offa That Thing.”

Intense, unrestrained rage surged in Dean as he kicked open his door, got out, and kicked it shut.

He saw Holloway approach.

Gnashed his teeth.

Shifted his focus to the front of his Plymouth—front bumper crumpled, left headlight shattered, hood showing signs of buckling.

“You unhinged lunatic,” Dean shouted, his fists clenched as he lumbered his way over to Holloway. “Do you have any idea what the deductible is on my insurance?”

“What did I say?” Holloway, terminating his stride, maintained a safe distance as he spaced his feet apart. “I told you to back off.”

“My old man gave me this car,” Dean said. “Thing’s been in the family for close to thirty years.”

“I guess you should’ve thought of that before you decided to play Harry Callahan with me, DB.” Holloway pointed a finger. “I told you what would happen if you started screwing around with this.”

“You’re footing the bill for this, Hollow.”

“Go home, Deano.” Holloway turned away. “Consider this a warning.”

“A warning?”

“The first and last.” Holloway shoved his Astra into his waistband, walked back to his Charger, and palmed the door. “Now split.”

Holloway opened his door.

Shook his head.

Thought things would end then and there until he clocked Dean in his peripherals storming up to him.

“For fuck’s sake, DB,” Holloway grumbled as he turned and faced his buddy. “Knock off the cowboy shi⁠—”

Stars danced in Holloway’s vision.

His cheek seared.

His body lurched and slammed against his Charger.

Once Holloway’s brain processed that he had taken a left hook to the jaw, he balanced himself, held his head high, and spread his feet apart.

After landing a decisive strike on Holloway’s cheek, Dean took a small step back, raised his fists in a guarded position, flexed his hands, and prepared to follow up with a jab at Holloway’s nose.

Dean rotated his hips and shoulders.

Executed the punch and followed through.

Holloway, quickly raising his guard, managed to strike his left palm against the blow and deflect it.

He followed up with a right cross.

A left elbow struck Dean’s temple.

Then a right hook smacked Dean square in his left ear and sent him crashing to the pavement.

“That first hit you took at me was gratis, you fuckin’ burnout,” Holloway said, crooking a finger at his old Ranger pal who gradually rose to his feet. “You come at me again and I’m⁠—”

“Gratis?”

“Complimentary.”

“Got it.”

Dean charged.

Hollered.

Drove his body weight into Holloway, using his momentum to lift the guy up, twist him around, and slam him onto the pavement back first.

Air evacuated Holloway’s lungs.

Acute pain shot through his lumbar.

The back of his head had thwacked against the asphalt and for the second time in a minute sent him into a daze.

Sitting up and working off of pure muscle memory ingrained in him from his mentors in the Rangers, Holloway turned on his left side, propped up on his left hand, spun, and swept his leg around into Dean’s calves.

Dean dropped onto his back.

Turned over.

Mumbled something about quitting drinking as Holloway quickly rolled to his right, pushed himself off the pavement, and created some space between him and his opponent.

He pulled out his Astra.

Cocked back the hammer.

Depressed the trigger to fire a warning shot into the pavement. But Dean—having evidently palmed a busted piece of his headlight seconds before—chucked the mangled hunk of glass at Holloway’s hand, knocking the Astra free of his grip and causing it to skitter along the street.

Holloway observed a frantic-faced Dean racing toward him.

He dodged left and yanked open the driver’s door of his Charger.

The door struck Dean’s knees, causing him to lurch backward.

As Dean’s body swayed, Holloway’s hands secured a grip on the back of his shirt and glided him past the door and onto the pavement.

Dean coasted a couple of feet.

Landed on his face.

Felt his palms, chin, and elbows scrape against the ragged asphalt.

“Damn it,” Dean grumbled, flicking a look back at Holloway. “You’re a fucking dick. You know that?”

“DB,” Holloway said. “Stay down.”

Dean flipped onto his back.

Saw Holloway closing in on him.

Kicked out his right foot and struck it against Holloway’s left knee. His old “pal” buckled and then collapsed onto his side.

Both men stood.

They advanced.

They cursed, yelled, and crashed into one another, taking hold of each other’s shirts as they turned into a knotted mass of limbs.

Holloway kneed Dean in the groan.

Dean snapped his head back, jerked it forward, followed through, and thwacked it against Holloway’s nose.

They tumbled into the Charger and landed on the pavement.

Holloway was on top of Dean. Blood seeping out of his freshly broken nose, he pinned down Dean’s right arm and used his right fist to land three consecutive strikes into Holloway’s cheek.

Dean’s body slackened.

Holloway broke loose, stumbled, rounded the hood of the Charger, and scooped up his Astra.

Dean hopped to his feet.

Holloway eased back the Astra’s hammer and swung the weapon up.

34

Breathing heavily, Dean engaged in a staring contest with Holloway who was 4 feet away. His body and face were studded with contusions and abrasions, his clothing dotted with droplets of crimson from the wounds.

“Okay, Hollow,” Dean said, his shoulders dropping in defeat. “What do you wanna do now?”

A pinched-faced Holloway, lining up Dean’s head between the sights of his Astra, flexed and reinforced his grip on the gun. “I’m having trouble refrainin’ from putting one in your leg for makin’ me go through that, jerkoff.”

“That’ll be the second time I got shot on account of you.” Dean spit blood on the pavement. “Not that we’re keeping score or anything.”

Holloway took a beat.

Stepped closer.

Tapped his finger on the Astra’s trigger guard.

“So,” Dean said, hands held out at his sides. “You gonna do it or not, dipshit?”

Holloway took another beat.

Stepped back.

Then he lowered the weapon, slipped it into his waistband, and shot a look down the road. “There a coffee shop around here?”

“Only if you’re buying.”

Holloway nodded.

Once Dean was behind the wheel of his Plymouth Road Runner, he did a quick scan of his wounds and thanked God that he was still a bit buzzed from drinking a pair of beers, which cut the pain in half.

Both men started their cars, and Dean followed Holloway.

Looked in his mirrors.

He was certain for a second that he caught a glimmer of the Chevy Impala parked at a corner half a block behind him.

35

It came as no surprise to Jerry Beldick—once he witnessed Dean’s scuffle with the guy in the suit reach its conclusion—that the suit guy had claimed victory. When Beldick first met Blackwood the night before in West Hollywood, he saw that same drained, tapped out, resolved-to-his-fate countenance he’d seen in a litany of other booze-soaked burnouts in his career.

“Goddamn loser,” Beldick grumbled, peering through his windshield as Dean’s Plymouth trailed after the Charger heading north on Stadium Way.

Beldick’s phone chirped—an incoming text from Jackson Branson.

It was a photo of an official Army ID of a guy with thinning hair and dressed in fatigues. It was the same guy Beldick had glad-handed back at the ME’s office just minutes before.

This is Holloway, the text below the snapshot read. Is there a problem?

“Damn it,” Beldick grumbled, texting Jackson back that his “cleanup guy” had just gotten into fisticuffs with the same dude who was poking his head in places he shouldn’t.

Beldick put his phone away.

Turned over the engine.

Before he pulled out, a thought struck him on how to handle this.

He took his cell out again.

Dialed Benny Zelada.

If anyone could slap their dick on the table and keep that fuckwit Blackwood in check, it was him. Beldick pulled his Impala away from the curb.

36

After parking his banged-up Plymouth outside Nick’s Cafe, Dean got out, appraised the busted-in hood, and felt his stomach drop when he realized he didn’t have the scratch on hand to cover the damages.

“Daaaaamn,” someone exclaimed. Dean angled his body around to find a Hispanic guy in a Lakers jersey—number 24—ogling the damage on the Plymouth. “The hell did you do, homie?”

“I was chasing a bus,” Dean said, moving toward the front of the restaurant. “Thing had a bomb on it that was gonna go off if it went below fifty.”

The metallic tang of blood still clung to Dean’s tongue. Sore, tired, and tamping down his impulse to go a second round with Holloway, Dean strolled through the front doors of Nick’s Cafe. It was known for its hearty dishes and laid-back aesthetic, replete with signed photos of celebrities adorning the walls.

Short-order cooks clanged their utensils on the grill.

Customers conversed and picked away at their dishes.

Seated off to the right in one of the booths facing a window, Holloway was blotting away the blood under his nose.

As Dean moved past the diner-style counter toward the booth, “Rock the Boat” by the Hues Corporation started over the joint’s speakers.

He slid into the booth.

Flipped a napkin out of the dispenser.

Dipped it in Holloway’s ice water and dabbed at his collection of cuts.

“Think you broke one of my ribs, Hollow,” Dean said, cracking his neck. “Don’t suppose you got any aspirin on you?”

“No.” Holloway flipped open a laminated menu. “Hope no one asks us any questions.” He parted his coat to reveal the ribbon of blood on his dress shirt. “We’re screaming the obvious here.”

“Servers won’t say anything.” Dean took a swig of his ice water, swirled, and swallowed. “Not if they want a decent tip.”

Behind Holloway, a server approached, a buff guy in a loose-fitting black shirt, his focus on the pad in his hand. “Hey, guys,” he said, nodding his head to greet his customers. “What can I—?” His eyes expanded. “Jesus! What the hell happened to you two?”

“Nice,” Holloway groaned as he slapped his menu closed. “Just coffee, please.”

“Same.” Dean held up two fingers. “Black.”

“You guys want an ice pack or something?”

“You got any Tylenol? Ibuprofen?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, sure.” The server tapped his pad with his pen and moved away. “I’ll hook it up.”

Dean saluted the guy.

Holloway gnashed his teeth and cursed under his breath. “For chrissakes, DB,” he said. “You have some kind of a friggin’ death wish, don’t you? That’s what this is. You could’ve stayed put, but you decided to use this whole thing as some kind of outlet for whatever pent-up bullshit you’re dealin’ with.”

“Eat dirt, Hollow.” Dean leaned back against the booth, waving Hollow off with a flick of his hand. “Last thing I need right now is your dime-store psych eval.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Holloway said. “Christ Almighty! You were half in the bag when I saw you back at your place.”

“Point being?”

“That you know as well as I do that the guys we knew way back when who were drowning their sorrows were always running from somethin’.”

“Again, keep your assessments to yourself there, Sigmund Fraud.”

The server returned, put down a pair of mugs with Nick’s Cafe emblazoned on them—along with a pack of Tylenol—and left.

“Just know this little sit-down here changes nothing, DB.” Holloway took a creamer, popped the top with his thumb, and poured it into his mug. “My mandate for you to steer clear and wide of this thing is still inflexible.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then why aren’t you following through? You cashed the check. Your client is dead. So what the hell’s driving you to spiral downward into a scenario that’s past the point of being untenable?”

Dean took a sip of his coffee.

Then he leaned over the table.

“I’m gonna ask you a question,” Dean said. “And I swear to Christ that if you lie to me, we’re goin’ a second round right here.”

“All right, DMX. Just ask your goddamn question.” Holloway’s hands fell into his lap. Dean realized the guy was palming the grip of his revolver. “Keep in mind,” Holloway said, that I cut you a break the first time a few blocks back.”

“Did you kill Nikki Caimi?” Dean asked, scraping his index finger against the 1911 in his hand.

“No,” Holloway said. “No, I didn’t kill Nikki Caimi.”

“But you were there before she dove out that window.” Dean popped the Tylenol into his mouth and dry swallowed. “Last night, when I took a walk-through of her place, all signs pointed to a second party being in attendance.”

Holloway sat back.

Traced his fingers through his hair.

Staring contemplatively out the window, he nodded and confirmed Dean’s suspicions.

“How’d you know I was there?”

“Smelled a cigarette in Nikki’s apartment,” Dean said. “From what I gathered, she didn’t smoke. When you came by my place and I saw you pull out that pack of Lucky Strikes, I went off a hunch.”

“I was just supposed to scare her off, DB. That’s all. You know me, man.” Holloway ripped his focus off the window and put it on Dean. “I don’t raise a hand to anyone who doesn’t step to me first.”

“I haven’t seen you in years, bub,” Dean said. “As far as I know, you could’ve gone full-fledged psycho since we last saw each other.”

“Careful who you’re pointing fingers at there, boozy.” Holloway held up a hand. “Look, I’ll fire straight with you here. I’ll lay all my cards on the table.” He did a scan of the diner, ticked down his volume, and leaned over the table. “A group hired me.”

“What group?”

“The Awakening Center.”

“That celebrity cult church?”

“That’s the one.”

“Pretty ruthless organization,” Dean said. “They’re known for intimidating witnesses and whatever when allegations of corruption or abuse are brought up against them. All that has just increased tenfold in the past year since they’ve been petitioning the IRS for religious tax exempt status.”

“They pay well though.” Holloway, touching his tender lip, took another napkin from the dispenser to clean it up. “Anyway, some actor had an issue with Nikki Caimi. She said she had a video with some gossip on him that she was gonna drop in a couple of days. I got hired by a guy who works at the church to take the teaser video down and to feel out if the video she was teasing about was legit or not. When I got there, she was wasted. Completely shit-faced. At one point, she wandered over to the window, and then…” His voice trailed off.

“She slipped on a puddle of wine, slipped, and catapulted through the window.”

“That’s what happened?”

“Yeah.” Holloway scowled. “That’s what happened. Come on, DB. I’m being real with you here. The last thing I like is complications, and Nikki Caimi crashing through that window is the textbook definition of complicated.”

“Did Nikki say anything about the footage she was going to upload?”

“She said Valenti had it on an SD card.”

“Did you buy it?”

“I dunno.” Holloway tapped his finger on his coffee mug. “She sounded sincere.”

“That’s why you were pressing me about the card.” Dean nodded. “That’s why you popped by the ME’s office a few minutes ago. You were looking to see if they had the card stored in Jimmy Valenti’s personal possessions. You think it might have had this so-called footage of Robbie Aimes on it that she was gonna post to her channel.”

“That SD card could be anywhere by now. Maybe at Jimmy Valenti’s place, but I won’t know for sure unless I go there.” Holloway motioned at Dean with his chin. “Unless you were holdin’ out on me when I asked you about it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then it’s safe to say that my job is close to reaching a rousing conclusion.” Holloway crumpled up his bloodied napkin and tossed it on the table. “All I gotta do now is pop into Jimmy Valenti’s place. Once I confirm this SD card or footage is or isn’t there, I’ll phone the guy who gave me the contract, collect something in the way of payment, and then get my ass back on a plane to Jersey.”

“What about these guys you mentioned?” Dean said. “Tucker and Billy.”

“The guy who hired me told me they worked over this actor. He wanted me to try to track them down.”

“Robbie Aimes?”

“Aimes...”

Dean nodded. “The guy from Reckless Endangerment?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good movie.”

“Yeah, pretty solid.” Holloway examined the scrapes on his palm from the fight. “And as far as Tucker and Billy are concerned, I never got a line on them. At this point, it doesn’t matter either. Unless I find somethin’ in the way of a card or footage at Valenti’s place after I go there,” he grabbed his coffee cup, “I’m done.”

“Guess I am too.”

“I’d like to circle back to something real quick,” Holloway added.

“What?”

“I wanna know why you were tailin’ me,” Holloway said. “It’s because you thought I killed Nikki, right? You got in your head that I might’ve pushed her out that window, so you were planning on taking me to task over it.”

“The thought did occur to me, Hollow.” Dean grinned. “I guess I was planning on pummeling you a bit if my theory panned out.”

“Worked out well for you, didn’t it?”

“Fuck you.” Dean blew out a hot gust of air. “I guess I was just looking for an excuse.”

“Because of what happened back in Takur Ghar?”

“I guess I’m still a little miffed about it.”

“How many times do I need to apologize for that, man?”

“Do it a few more times, and maybe I’ll be good.”

“It was a shit play on my end,” Holloway said. “It’s like I told you back then.” He pressed his finger into the table. “I had just gotten married before I hopped on the plane, and the last thing I wanted to do was make my wife a widow.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Hollow. You know that?” Dean shook his head. “We all had families we didn’t want to leave stranded. But your job, my job, and the job of everyone else in that unit was to make sure we were looking out for the guy next to us. It’s all about decisions that are made in the heat of the moment, and in the frenzy of that moment, you decided to duck out of the way and let me take a trio of bullets that were meant for you.”

“I’m sorry, brother.” Holloway patted his chest. “I am.”

“What happened, happened,” Dean said. “There’s no taking it back. And just so we’re on the same page, you ducking out of the way of those shots wasn’t the first instance of you proving to everyone that you were, are, and always will be a selfish asshole.”

“Say again?”

“You’re selfish, Hollow,” Dean grumbled. “I liked you well enough, but you always put yourself before everyone else. Guys in the unit were always trading jabs about it.” He snickered. “I mean, where the hell did you think we came up with the name Hollow Man?”

“I, uh…” Holloway cleared his throat. “I guess I never picked up on that.”

“Selfish people rarely tune in to others. Besides, that’s why talking behind people’s backs is a thing.” Dean winked. “The person in question never catches wind of the discussions.”

Holloway hung his head.

Sat back.

Said nothing.

Then he swung a heated gaze around and fastened it on Dean.

“What about you?” he said.

“What about me?” Dean replied.

“I just find it a bit hypocritical that you’re on this high and mighty trip at the moment.” Holloway crossed his arms. “From what you’ve told me, you’re not exactly Mr. Model-Fucking-Citizen right now.”

“Back off,” Dean said. “Don’t start projecting your bullshit on me.”

“You’ve been an angry little shithead ever since I knew you.” Holloway nodded toward the parking lot like there was a screen outside where the movie of Dean’s life was being projected. “You were always pissed off about something, and whenever you got the chance, you found an outlet, usually another person, to take that out on.”

“Enough.”

“It’s true.” Hollway rested his arms on the table and leaned over. “You were always running from something, DB. Your life was always in shambles. You had a lack of resolve with something, whatever it was, and you did what every guy does when his depression is turned inward.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “He goes nuclear.”

“Careful who you’re throwing shade at there, Hollow,” Dean said, his nostrils flaring. “After what happened to you back in ’04, one could make the argument that you’re just as fucked in the head as I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re kidding me.” Dean shook his head. “You really don’t remember?”

Holloway tapered his eyes.

Dean cocked his head curiously to one side.

A moment later, Holloway’s cell buzzed.

37

On the display, Holloway eyed Jackson Branson’s name. “Unreal.” He held the phone out. “My guy’s lookin’ for a progress report.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Dean picked up his coffee mug. “You’re the one pressed for time here.”

Holloway puttered his lips.

Blew out a sigh.

Then he answered the device and held it to his ear.

“Jackson Branson,” Holloway said. “How goes it?”

“Mr. Holloway,” Jackson replied. “I’m going to connect you with Mr. Wozniak, if you don’t mind.”

“Your boss?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Holloway said. “Can I ask why?”

“It would be better if he explained it himself.”

Holloway was put on hold. “Well,” he said to Dean, pulling out his wallet, “that’s odd.”

“What’s up?” Dean stood. “Coffee talking back to you?”

“The little weirdo from the church is putting me on with his superior.” Holloway took a $20 bill out of his wallet, placed it on the table, and moved out of the booth. “That never happens.”

“Never?”

“Negative,” Holloway said. “I’ve never talked to the man.”

Dean, after taking one last generous gulp of his coffee, tailed Holloway out, the pair loitering by Dean’s Plymouth for a few moments before Jackson Branson came back on the line.

“Mr. Holloway,” Jackson said. “Mr. Wozniak is on the line with us.”

“All right.” Holloway thumbed the speakerphone button so Dean could hear. “Sounds good.”

One beat ticked by.

Two.

On the third beat, Wozniak’s confident, high-pitched voice entered the conversation. “Mr. Holloway,” Wozniak said, his tone marked by discontent. “It’s good to finally connect with you.”

“Same here.”

“I’ve overheard that we had some complications with this Nikki Caimi issue.”

“Nothing I haven’t already told Mr. Branson.”

“I’m speaking of setbacks other than the ones initially stated to Mr. Branson.”

“Such as?”

“Well, from what Mr. Branson relayed to me, there is a man we asked you to question. A mister…” Wozniak paused, “Dean Blackwood.”

Holloway flicked a glance toward Dean.

Dean knitted his brow in silent reply.

“I just spoke to him moments ago,” Holloway said. “Rest assured, he is no longer a factor.”

“According to a source of ours inside the Sheriff’s Department,” Wozniak said, “I have reason to believe otherwise.”

“What source?”

“A source.”

“Well, he’s wrong,” Holloway said, maintaining his composure. “You have my assurance that Blackwood is riding the pine.”

“What about that footage Nikki Caimi mentioned in her YouTube video? Have you made any progress on that?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s safe to say that you’re falling behind in your timeline then.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Holloway said. “I’m still planning on stopping by⁠—”

“Mr. Holloway,” Wozniak butted in, his tone sharper and less cordial. “We hired you to do a job. To procure us results. It would appear, however, that all you have done more than anything else is complicate things.”

“Mr. Wozniak,” Holloway paused, thinking of a way to finesse the situation. “I’m still working on⁠—”

“I’m going to assign you one final task, Mr. Holloway. If you fail to deliver, and I’m sorry to say this, we’ll be finding ourselves at an impasse.”

“Sounds like an ultimatum.”

“Call it what you like,” Wozniak said. “Just know that if you do not follow the parameters I’m about to set forth, someone will have to pay a visit to your wife, Becky, as well as your daughter, Holland.”

Holloway flinched.

Tensed his jaw.

Shot a look toward Dean who was showcasing a similar sheet-white expression.

38

“Mr. Wozniak,” Holloway said, pacing the parking lot, his rage welling to the point that his hand gripping the phone was shaking. “I hope I’m misinterpreting your last implication.”

“Insinuation would be the more appropriate word to categorize my last statement,” Wozniak said, “based on the negative outcome said insinuations would entail. For example, I could insinuate, from what I’m reading here, that failing to follow through with my next instructions would severely impact your daughter Holly’s recent medical afflictions you’re in the throes of sorting out.”

“Check yourself there, asshole,” Holloway said, feeling like he was being watched. He turned in a circle and eyeballed every parked car, person, and passing vehicle in the immediate vicinity. “The last guy who threatened me ended up bound to a wheelchair the rest of his life.”

“I don’t make threats,” Wozniak said. “Like you have said to many of the people we’ve hired you to deal with on our behalf, I simply follow through on my commitments.”

“You mother fu⁠—”

“I’d suggest you take a moment to compose yourself and listen, Mr. Holloway. Nothing sinister has to befall you or your family if you simply follow through with the task I am about to assign you.”

Holloway, fist clenched, refrained from telling Wozniak he’d cut off his balls and feed them to him for the sake of his family’s safety. “All right.” He took a breath. “What do you want?”

“I want you to find this Dean Blackwood individual,” Wozniak said, “and make sure he will not surface again.”

“You mean kill him.”

“Was how I phrased it not clear enough for you?”

Holloway ogled Dean.

Dean noted the Astra peeking out of Holloway’s waistband.

“Fuck that,” Holloway said to Wozniak. “And fuck you.”

Dean, mouthing something, frantically waved Holloway off.

“Mr. Holloway,” Wozniak said. “I would strongly recommend⁠—”

“I would strongly recommend that you double up your security, you disturbed piece of shit.” Holloway held the phone closer to his mouth. “’Cause the next time I see you, I’m gonna shove my foot so far up your ass that it’s gonna impale your fuckin’ tonsils.”

“Mr. Holloway⁠—”

Holloway ended the call.

Kicked the bumper of his Charger.

Pacing the parking lot, he shook off the tension from his hands and neck, grimacing once he caused several of the injuries that Dean gave him to flare up.

“Jesus Christ, Hollow,” Dean said. “And you were claiming I was the reckless one.”

“Not now.”

“You just threatened⁠—”

“I know what I did.”

“Then you must have some inkling about the kind of shit you’re about to stir up.” Dean pointed to the skyline, backlit by a copper hue. “Because if the stories of the Awakening and their little band of misfits are true, then this guy Wozniak is going to sic every one of his schizoid triggermen on you after that macho bullshit you just flaunted to that guy.”

“I know.”

“Did you see that documentary the actress who left the church made?” Dean asked. “People go missing from that organization every other Tuesday.”

“I get it.” Holloway held up his phone. “And yeah, I guess I should’ve exercised a little more decorum there.”

Dean angled away from his buddy. “This is bad, amigo.”

“I know.” Holloway sat on the hood of his Charger. “I gotta think this through.” He drummed his fingers on the car. “I gotta figure this out.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “My wife’s gonna friggin’ kill me.”

“You gotta call her,” Dean said. “Tell her to skip town for a while.”

“You know what that conversation is gonna be like, DB?”

“Trust me.” Dean flexed his brow. “I’ve had it more than once.”

“This is fucked.”

“You don’t have much in the way of a choice—unless you are toying with the idea of killing me.”

“Pull your head out of your ass,” Holloway said. “I don’t do that kind of work, let alone with people I know.”

“Well, either way, mouthing off to this guy Wozniak aside, you’re caught in his crosshairs now.”

“I should’ve never taken the job.” Holloway punched the hood of his car. “Maybe if Nikki Caimi hadn't fallen out that window, none of this would have ever happened.”

“I’ve spent half my life exploring the hypotheticals of how something could or should have played out, Hollow. Doesn’t do you any good when you’ve got more pressing affairs at hand. Trust me.”

“Kinda like Carr talking about guns with a nuclear clock running in the background.”

“Yeah.” Dean smirked. “Exactly.”

Holloway pushed himself off the hood.

Stared at the skyline.

Sorted through the cards he had in his hand and slapped together a plan.

“I’ll tell my family to clear out,” he said. “Lay low somewhere.”

“Nowhere familiar.”

“Goes without saying.” Holloway faced Dean. “But what then? I can’t just go into the main office of the Awakening Center guns blazing. In terms of the options here, I’m struggling to think of what feasible choices I have.” He pointed. “And now that they want you dead, you’re in exactly the same position as I am.”

“Story of my life, Hollow.” Dean gingerly touched the abrasion on his chin and then glimpsed at the blood on his fingers. “I go through this whole bric-a-brac on a biannual basis.”

“So what now?” Holloway asked. “Give me some options here. I gotta figure out a way to get Wozniak and these shitheads off my back.”

A few moments went by.

The breeze blew through.

Both former Rangers were thinking of plays to make.

“Finding some kind of leverage is your only option here,” Dean said. “The way I see it.”

“What do you mean ‘leverage’?” Holloway crinkled his forehead. “What kind of blackmail could I possibly find on these guys that would get them to back off?”

“The SD card.”

“It could be any number of places, DB.”

“Then we’d better start looking,” Dean said. “If we find the card, that’ll give us something to hold over Wozniak’s head. At that point, we’ve got a bargaining chip. We could use that to our advantage.”

“I assume using the pronoun we means you’re gonna help me.”

“Wozniak wants me dead.” Dean nodded toward the road. “And between the guys I’ve seen following us and names like Tucker and Billy getting mentioned, it’s reasonable to conclude that there are more than just a few people at play here. So yeah.” Dean nodded. “I guess we’re in this together.”

Holloway took out his pack of Lucky Strikes.

After lighting one up, he took a generous drag, carefully studying the horizon.

“Not a great plan, DB,” Holloway said as he pulled out his cell, readying himself to call Becky and break the news. “Guess it’s all we got though.” He dug in another pocket, pulled out a cell phone peppered with dried blood, and held it up. “And maybe this will come in handy while we try to figure things out.”

“What’s that?”

“Jimmy Valenti’s cell phone.”

“You took that from his belongings?” Dean said. “At the ME’s office?”

“Right you are.” Holloway slipped the phone back in his blazer pocket. “Maybe we can jailbreak it and piece together Jimmy’s movements before he died. There might be something on there worth looking at.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Then let’s roll by Jimmy Valenti’s in the meantime,” Holloway said. “We need an address though.”

“The resources you got, you don’t have it already?” Dean asked.

“I was getting around to it.”

“Well, lucky for you, I got it on my phone,” Dean said, fishing in his pocket for his cell. “I had my assistant pull it up yesterday before I…” His voice tapered off.

“What?”

“My phone, dumbass.” Dean sneered, holding up the device so Holloway could see the fractured, frosted screen. “You broke it when we got into that tiff.”

“Serves you right for throwing down in the first place.”

“I’m still paying this thing off.”

“You didn’t get insurance on it?” Holloway puffed his Lucky Strike. “You should have gotten the insurance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monday Morning Quarterback.”

“I’ll ring up my contact to pull up Jimmy’s address.” Holloway pulled out his keys and twirled them on his finger. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Forget that. Let’s just head to my office.” Dean walked toward his car. “We’ll pull it up on the computer. I gotta have a quick chat with my second banana there anyway. He’s a bit of a chore to deal with, but he sure as shit can jailbreak that phone you got on you. We should also change our shirts, considering our appearance.”

“I’ll follow you then.” Holloway gestured at his trunk with his keys. “And I got a backup suit, so don’t worry about it.”

“Whatever.” Dean popped open the driver’s door of his Plymouth. “And while we’re on the way there, do me a favor, and call your insurance company.” He pounded his fist twice on the roof. “The damage on this sucker isn’t coming out of my end.”

Holloway saluted.

Piled into his rig.

Following behind Dean, Holloway put in a call to Becky and wrestled over the phone with her for ten minutes. Eventually, she relented to her husband’s proposal to hide out at her second cousin’s friend’s place on Long Island. Once plans were solidified, she abruptly hung up.

“Selfish asshole,” Becky said right before she ended the call. “You’re unbelievable.”

Selfish.

Holloway reeled at the word being thrown around so frequently in the past hour.

There’s a pattern developing here, Mikey.

He eased into the left lane on the 134, two car lengths behind Dean’s smashed-up Plymouth.

God only knows who Wozniak’s gonna send after me now.

39

The soft, rhythmic beat of “Nikita” by Elton John flowed effortlessly through Jasper’s earbuds.

He nodded slowly to the beat.

Tapped his foot in sync.

Was fairly certain that the man at the desk across from his couch, Jackson Branson, was unsettled by the fact that he’d been watching him intently for the past fifteen minutes—unwavering and without blinking once, a byproduct of Jasper’s neurological affliction.

Jackson mouthed something.

Jasper pulled out his earbuds, chagrined but not flustered that he had to rip himself away from a song he listened to at least six times a day.

“Yes, Mr. Branson?” Jasper said, his cushioned, mild-mannered voice—as was customary—just above a whisper.

“Can I get you some water?” Jackson asked. The doors leading into Wozniak’s office were just over his shoulder. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Do you have apple juice?”

“Apple juice?”

“Yes, please.”

“I…” Jackson studied the room as though some unseen person could answer the question for him. “I can check.”

“I would like a boxed apple juice if you have one. The boxed ones taste better.” Jasper reached into the pocket of his oversized, sky-blue blazer outfitted with thick shoulder pads. People told him they made him look like David Byrne, but he wasn’t sure who that was.

Jackson, a fabricated smile on his face, rapped his knuckles gently on his desk. “I’ll check right now.” He strolled past the framed photos of celebrity clients on the wall, the glittering trident-like emblem of the Awakening Center affixed beside their faces. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Ritz crackers,” Jasper said. “If there are any.”

“Sure…” Jackson lingered for a moment in the doorway leading out to the hall, observed Jasper warily, and kept on walking.

As Jasper waited for his refreshments to arrive, he took out the medicated eye drops in his pocket and squeezed two drops into both peepers, blinking away the sting as the residue rolled down his sharp angular cheeks.

The imposing double doors to the office in front of him swung open.

Wozniak stepped in.

For a fraction of a second, Jasper, standing now, a towering 6’2” over the chest-high Pat Wozniak, had forgotten just how small his employer was.

“Jasper,” Wozniak said, beaming from one ear to the other as he approached and clapped his hands together. “It is wonderful to see you.”

“Hi, Mr. Wozniak.” Jasper waved sheepishly and uneasily bowed his head. “It’s very nice to see you.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good.” Jasper slid his spindly fingers across his dress shirt that was buttoned up to the neck. “I’m a little hungry.”

“We’ll sort that out in a moment.” Wozniak stuck his hand out toward his office. “Please, come in. I hate to rush right into things, but we’re on a bit of a tight time frame here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It, uh…” Wozniak motioned Jasper through the doors and pushed a button to close them. He thought of a way to rephrase it. “It means I’m in a bit of a rush, if that makes sense.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jasper nodded as he took a seat in front of Wozniak’s desk. “It does.”

“Good.” Wozniak walked around his desk and sat down. “I trust everything in Chicago worked out all right.”

“It was fine.” Jasper turned his head, his thumb smoothing the sideburns just below his flat-top haircut. “The woman I was there for was yelling quite loudly, though, when I had to put that knife⁠—”

“The less I know,” Wozniak signaled with his hand, “the better.” He flattened his hands together, straightened his index fingers, and pointed. “I’m just glad it’s all sorted out.”

“Thank you for the money,” Jasper said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The money you gave me.” Jasper’s thin lips pursed. “That was very nice of you.”

“That was your paycheck, my dear friend.”

“Of course.” Jasper nodded. “It was still very nice of you.”

“Well, I…” Wozniack stifled a nerve-riddled cough with his fist. “I have another paycheck I’d like to offer you. For another job. That is, if you have the time.”

“My sister says I do.”

“Right.” Wozniak’s tanned complexion paled. “And how is Linda?”

“She’s good.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And since it appears you are free for work,” Wozniak laid his abridged upper limbs on his desk, “I have a job for you. Getting right to the point, I made the,” he hesitated, “well, mistake of hiring a man named Michael Holloway. He’s in Los Angeles right now. I assigned him to look into a man named Dean Blackwood⁠—”

“To kill him?”

“Yes.” Wozniak was taken aback. “To, uh…to kill him. Long story short, both of these men have become quite a nuisance for me.” He wagged a finger playfully. “And we both know how much I don’t like people who are a nuisance. Don’t we, Jasper?”

“Nuisances are not good,” Jasper said, proud that he had retained a word that big. “They cause trouble.”

“Precisely.” Wozniak sat back in his high-back leather chair. “So what I need you to do, my good friend, is find these two men I mentioned and⁠—”

“Kill them.”

“Yes,” Wozniak said. “Yes, I need you to kill them. And I trust I don’t have to worry about how you will go about finding them or handling this affair in a discreet fashion.”

“Discreet?”

“Quiet.”

“No.” Jasper patted his sunken chest. “I am very good at both of those things.”

“Jasper,” Wozniak cackled, “you are by far the most competent man on the planet when it comes to these kinds of things.”

“I like finding people.”

“I know you do.”

“It’s enjoyable.”

“Yes.” Wozniak nodded. “I’m sure it is. And when the job is finished, I will, as before, forward payment to your sister, Linda.”

“She holds onto my money.”

“I know.”

“I get a weekly allowance.”

“I see.”

“I bought a new pair of earbuds with last week’s allowance.” Jasper reached into his pocket, pulled them out, and held them in his hand. “They’re noise cancellers.”

“Very good.” Wozniak flexed his brow, stood, and moved to the door. “I should also mention that this whole circumstance is centered on a friend of ours, Robbie Aimes.”

“I’ve met Robbie.”

“Yes, I recall.” Wozniak held up a finger. “You see, Robbie is, well, in a bit of trouble at the moment. Before I terminated Michael Holloway’s contract, he mentioned that there was footage on an SD card floating around. Supposedly, this card has footage of Robbie on it, and it’s footage we need to get our hands on and erase. What I need you to do is keep a close eye out for this card. It’s possible that Holloway or this other man, Blackwood, has it on them. If you find it, bring it straight back to me.”

“Yes, Mr. Wozniak,” Jasper said. “I will do just that.”

“Splendid.” Wozniak pressed the button that activated his office doors. “To help get you started, I’ll forward you all the details of these two men I need you to take care of.”

“I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“You won’t?”

“No. I have their names.”

“That’ll be enough to find them?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Very well then.” Wozniak paused, walked around his desk, clapped Jasper on the back, and then advanced to the doors. “Well, as always, please let me know if you need anything. All I ask is that you give me a call once the problem with these two men has been resolved.”

“I will.”

“Before you leave, make sure you head down to Riley in the lobby. She’s going to do your Assessment Exam to check that your stress levels are within normal range.”

“Okay.”

“Have a wonderful night, Jasper.”

“You have a good night, too, Mr. Wozniak.”

Jasper left.

Put in his earbuds.

Replayed “Nikita” for the fourth time that day before setting out to take his exam. The results, he was sure, would register the same zero stress count level that it had several times before.

Wozniak waved goodbye to Jasper.

Closed his doors.

Mumbled the words “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” under his breath and thanked God on high that the man child was no longer in the room.

40

Dean, standing next to his Plymouth, waved Holloway to the spot beside him in his office parking lot.

Holloway parked his Charger.

Got out.

Followed Dean to a staircase that led up to the second floor of a business complex in Hollywood. In the building were Ralphs, Subway, Starbucks, an optometry clinic, and a previous dental office that had been converted into an office with a channel letter sign that read Blackwood Private Investigations.

“Solid business name,” Holloway said, mounting the steps beside Dean as he read the sign. “Did you come up with that yourself?”

“I was gonna call it Hair Force One,” Dean dug his office keys out of his pocket, “but some salon in Australia already beat me to the punch.”

“Funny.”

“Not really. I’m running out of steam, so it’s hard to spin gold at the moment.”

Just outside the framed glass doors of his PI office, Dean picked up on the muted throb of music, cranked up to the point that it shook the windows, prompting him to groan.

“What’s that?” Holloway said. “You leave the stereo on or something?”

“Nope.” A grim-faced Dean unlocked the door. “That’s my boy Freddy.”

After swinging open the door, Dean and Holloway stepped inside the nondescript office. The pair was then quickly assaulted by the funky, bass-heavy, booming riffs of Prince’s “I Wanna Be Your Lover.”

All the lights were out, save for a desk lamp.

On the right, a pair of metal desks faced each other.

To the left was a couch in a makeshift waiting room.

In the back of the office was a break room with a kid inside. The lanky, dressed-down twenty-something was in the process of making a Coyote Ugly league display of pouring cream into his coffee.

41

“Freddy,” Dean shouted over the music, tightening his jaw before cupping his hands around his mouth. “Freddy!”

Spinning on his heels, a cup of coffee in his hand, Freddy belted out the song’s high falsetto chorus. His back facing Dean and Holloway, the kid raised his finger at the coffee pot, curled it, and then motioned to himself like he was inviting the pot to join him on the dance floor.

“God damn it,” Dean grumbled, storming his way to the break room.

He stood in the doorway.

Watched Freddy gyrate his hips and spin in a slow circle.

Reached to his left and flicked the light switch off and on several times.

“Yo,” Freddy said, spinning around to face his boss. “Oh, hey! Sorry, bruh.”

“Turn it off,” Dean shouted.

“What?”

“The music.”

“What?”

“I swear…” Dean moved to the break room table, grabbed Freddy’s phone, and hit pause on the music playing over the speaker near the microwave. “I’d like to walk in one time without catching you playing with yourself.”

“You should’ve been here thirty minutes ago.” Freddy took his phone back from his boss. “Shit got real weird.”

“Freddy—”

“I’m kidding around, man!” Freddy, spotting the blood-streaked mess that was Dean’s wardrobe, gawked at his employer. “Dude, what happened to you?” He nodded at Holloway. “And who’s this guy?”

“Long story.”

“Did you…?” Freddy gestured to Holloway, then at Dean, then back to Holloway. “Yo, did you two guys get into it or something?”

“Good eye, Freddy.”

“Daaaamn.” Freddy approached Holloway. “What for?”

“I don’t have time to go through a whole dissertation with you,” Dean said. At his desk, Dean opened the bottom drawer and took out some jeans. “I need you to pull up that address for Jimmy Valenti for me.”

“Didn’t I give it to you already?”

“Give it to me again.” Dean snagged a pair of extra mags for his 1911 from another drawer. “It’s been a long day.”

“Sure, boss,” Freddy said. “Think the screen is still open on your computer.” He nodded at Holloway and stuck out his hand. “Freddy Bazz.”

“Mike,” Holloway said, scrutinizing the kid with a suspicious eye as he shook his hand. “And what role do you play in this little operation here?”

“I’m Dean’s protege.”

“Protege, huh?”

“I’m licensed and everything.” Freddy lit up when he made out the chrome six-shooter peeking out of Holloway’s waistband. “Oh, snap!” He reached out to touch it. “Yo, is that an Astra?”

Holloway seized Freddy by the wrist, twisted it to the left, and lowered the kid down to the floor.

“Oh-kay! Chill. Chill. Chill.” Freddy bit his lip to stave off the pain Holloway was triggering in his elbow. “I just didn’t think people carried six-shooters anymore.”

“Dean,” Holloway said, “as the parent of a kid with their own set of medical issues, I’m not one to be insensitive, but has this kid been tested?”

“Yeah.” Dean put on the clean pair of jeans. “Twice.”

“Twice?”

Freddy, teeth gnashed, held up a pair of fingers on his free hand. “Two times.”

Holloway released his grip.

Freddy hopped to his feet and rubbed his elbow.

Dean peeled off his bloody T-shirt, rolled it into a ball, and chucked it in a trash can. “Freddy,” he said, rifling through his desk drawers. “You got an extra shirt?”

“Yeah, in the car.” Freddy moved to the door. “Want me to go get it?”

“Please.”

“Two seconds.” The kid traded looks between Dean and Holloway. “Y’all want something to eat? I can score you a pair of sandwiches from downstairs. I’m two subs away from a freebie.”

“Just the shirt and the address.” Dean, bare-chested, located a bottle of Tylenol in a desk drawer. “And put some oomph on that if you can.”

“Yeah, you got it.” Freddy raised his arms, balled his fists, and made thrusting motions. “Be back in a flash.”

The kid left.

Holloway glared at Dean.

“He’s the nephew of an old pal of mine,” Dean said before dry-swallowing the pair of tablets in his hand. “I hooked him up with a job.”

“That kid’s not carrying a piece, is he?”

“I’m generous, Hollow. Not stupid.”

“Nepotism at its finest.” Holloway leaned against the doorway to the break room. “You know, if you really wanted to help that kid, you should’ve given him a couple of bucks and just put him on a bus somewhere.”

“I owed his uncle big time. Guy took a bullet for me a couple years ago.” Dean huffed. “Not that you’d know what that’s like.”

“You’re still on that, huh?”

“And I will be for a while.”

“Well, I’m sure Freddy Boy’s uncle doesn’t harangue you over taking a bullet damn near as much as you do with me.”

“Maybe he would,” Dean said, staring down Holloway, “if he were alive.”

Holloway said nothing.

Dean sat down in his desk chair.

Minutes later, Freddy, whistling the theme song for Golden Girls, walked back into the office, holding up a folded T-shirt. “Here you go.” He dropped it in Dean’s lap. “Do me a solid and wash it before you bring it back.”

Dean flapped open the shirt.

Sighed.

Held it up for the others to see.

“Freddy,” Dean groaned, pointing to the picture printed on the shirt of Dave Chappelle dressed as Rick James, digging his mud-slicked heels into a couch. “I can’t wear this.”

“It’s the only one I got,” Freddy said. “Unless you wanna go outside shirtless.”

“Screw it.” Dean stood, pulled the shirt over his head, and draped his jacket over it. “We don’t have time for this shit.” He flicked his hand at Holloway. “Give him the phone.”

Freddy furrowed his brow. “What phone?”

“This one,” Holloway said, slapping the device on the kid’s chest. “It belonged to Jimmy Valenti. We need you to jailbreak it for us and take a look through it. Same goes for a laptop in my car that belonged to Nikki Caimi.”

“You got her laptop?” Dean said. “When?”

“Right after she died. Had to scrub it clean of the backups of a YouTube video she posted, the teaser video she uploaded about some dirt she had on Robbie Aimes. After I got rid of all that, I scoured everything to see if this ‘dirt’ video was on there, but it was a bust. Either way,” Holloway said, “Freddy here should go through it.”

“That’s easy.” Freddy took a once-over of the phone in his hand. “Oh, snap!” He held up the device. “Yo, is this blood?”

“Two points.” Dean opened the laptop on his desk, pinpointed the address he needed—525 South Gramercy Place, Apartment 5C—and headed to the door. “Now, Freddy…”

“Yeah.” The kid pocketed the phone. “What’s up?”

“Two items on the docket for you.”

“Name ’em.”

“First, I need you to close up the office, go home, pack a bag, leave your cell there, and then head to that motel we talked about in Atwater. Be sure to register under the name Danny Moore so I know I can get in touch with you.”

“No problem,” Freddy said. “And the second?”

Dean squeezed the kid’s shoulder. “I need you to jailbreak that phone you got, and then Nikki’s laptop. Go through everything—texts, calls, voicemails, whatever—with an emphasis on uncovering anything in the way of a video about Robbie Aimes, specifically an SD card or anything along those lines.”

“Damn it,” Freddy moaned. “Dude, I had a Bumble date tomorrow and everything…”

“Reschedule it.”

“Goddamn it.” Freddy said, shutting off the lights in the break room and grabbing his bag. “Every six months, we go through this routine.” He glanced at Holloway. “You know, last year I got my ass kidnapped by a bunch of Italians. Whole thing ended with Dean setting this gas station on fire before he⁠—”

“Freddy,” Dean said, seizing the kid by the arm. “This is important.”

“It always is.”

“And this time isn’t any different. Look, I’m counting on you, okay?” Dean patted his protege on the back. “I need you, pal.”

Freddy grinned.

Fist-bumped his boss.

Dean, Freddy, and Holloway made their way out the office door. Freddy locked the door and told his mentor he’d need a couple hours to get settled in the motel and break into Valenti’s phone. The trio arrived at the Charger where Holloway retrieved Nikki’s laptop and handed it over to Freddy.

“Get on it,” Dean told his protege. “And be quick.”

“Yussir!” Freddy said, tucking the laptop under his arm as he ambled his way toward a Toyota Camry. “Talk soon.”

“The kid will deliver on cracking those devices open, right?” Holloway said as he popped the trunk of the Charger, recovered a muted, gray-toned suit from inside, and started to change. “Right?”

“He will,” Dean said. “Freddy’s a lot of things, but he’s smarter than he lets on.”

On the corner across the street, Dean studied a lanky guy, a guy he’d never seen before, in an ill-fitting suit who looked a lot like the artist David Byrne loitering on the corner next to a bus stop.

Is he looking at us?

Dean ripped his focus off the man.

No.

He got in the Charger.

It’s just another Hollywood Boulevard whack job.

42

“Kidnapped by Italians?” Holloway said, slipping the key into the Charger’s ignition. “The hell’s he talking about?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Dean took out his 1911, press-checked the rounds, stored the pair of backup magazines in his jacket pocket, and rolled down the window. “And as spazzy as that kid is, he’s good in a pinch. He’ll come through.”

“You got a helluva way of livin’ out here, DB.” Holloway put the Charger in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. He put it in drive, took a right, and headed toward the freeway. “I get the impression your life is on par with some CBS-league procedural.”

“Gets tiresome after a while.”

“Quit then.”

“I’ve tried.” Dean explained, trying not to think about his family who had grown weary of that same routine. “Having trouble making it stick.”

“Takes its toll.”

“That it does.” Dean pictured his children in his mind. “We’re headed to Koreatown—525 South Gramercy. Pop into a McDonald’s or something on the way.”

“Copy that.” Holloway twisted the dials on his radio. “And for what it’s worth, at least you don’t have a wife or kid in the mix here. If things go sour with this whole Jimmy Valenti thing, all you got to worry about is that little sass-mouth back there. Not like me.”

“Poor you,” Dean said, hints of lavender from the sun in the early stages of setting cresting over the Charger’s windshield. “And you clearly didn’t look me up well enough in advance before you dropped in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kids, an ex-wife, and a former partner is what I mean.” Dean propped his elbow on the door. “Distance aside, I’m still running the risk of them becoming collateral damage if things get pear-shaped here.”

“You got kids?”

“Yeah.” Dean took a beat. “Two.”

“How old?”

“Not old enough.” Dean, despite his better efforts, played back a series of memories of Jeremy and Grace at high speed. “Even though they’re not around, I’m still responsible for them.”

Holloway nosed the Charger to the right and cruised down Los Feliz Boulevard. “I’ve got a wife and kid of my own I’m lookin’ out for.”

“They know what you do for a living?”

“They have a general sense.”

“So they don’t know.” Dean laughed. “That’s good, Hollow.”

“Back off, DB,” Holloway said. “Last person who should be throwin’ me shade here is a crisped, boozed-up PI who’s down on his luck.”

“All right, triggerman.”

“I ain’t no triggerman.”

“You’re a bad cliche is what you are,” Dean said. “You’re a wise-cracking, chain-smoking Army vet pimping himself out to establishments like the Awakening to make ends meet. You’re a character ripped straight from the pages of an Elmore Leonard novel.”

“For real?” Holloway huffed. “Sub out a pair of those things, and you’re no different than I am. I’d think long and hard before you start throwing the word cliche around.” He paused. “You’re as lost as I am.”

Dean opened his mouth.

Summoned something clever to say.

Thought of nothing, so he backed off, looked at himself in the side mirror, and kept quiet as the Charger rumbled its way toward Jimmy Valenti’s place.

43

The phone call Benny Zelada had with the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department lasted a grand total of eight minutes before he managed to hop off the line.

He hung up.

Cracked his knuckles.

Heard his stomach growl, got up from his desk, and threaded his way out of his office and through the bullpen in the Olympic Division police station.

Phones rang.

Detectives chattered.

The aroma of sweat, paperwork, and stress lingered in the air.

Get a bite.

Zelada rubbed his neck.

Stop by home and see the kids.

He checked his watch.

Maybe catch a quick nap and then make your way back.

Zelada’s cell buzzed.

He took it out.

Before he answered the call, he shouted to his Captain that he’d be back in a couple hours.

“Lieutenant Zelada.”

“It’s me,” Jerry Beldick said. “I’m calling about that guy Blackwood from the other night.”

“What about him?”

“Just saw him get into a brawl off Stadium Way. Pretty sure he was tailing a guy I know.”

“What?” Zelada arrived at the front doors of the station, nudged his way through them, and made a beeline toward his car. “Back up. Start again.”

“Your boy Blackwood is acting really suspect, Zelada,” Beldick said. “I was at the ME’s office following up on Nikki Caimi when I ran into a guy I know.”

“What guy?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay…” Zelada fished out his keys and held the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “You said Blackwood and this other guy got into it?”

“They tuned each other up pretty good,” Beldick said. “Whatever it was about, I don’t know, nor do I care. All I know is that Blackwood was sniffing around the ME’s office after I wrapped up that Nikki Caimi business, and two minutes after that, he gets into a scrape with this other guy.”

“I’ll call him.” Zelada popped open the driver’s door of his Crown Vic and piled inside. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ve got your word on that?”

“Yeah, Jer.” Zelada slammed the door shut. “You’ve got it.”

“Let me know.”

“Will do.”

The call ended.

Zelada stared at his phone.

“Deano,” he mumbled to himself. “What the hell are you up to?”

44

Holloway parked the Charger near the curb, still ruminating on the shade-throwing match he had with Dean after leaving the PI’s office.

Burnouts.

Cliches.

Holloway slinked out from behind the wheel, smoothing the front of the starched white dress shirt he had changed into before heading out.

Characters ripped straight from the pages of an Elmore Leonard novel.

“Hey, Hollow,” Dean said, snapping his fingers, his arms draped on the roof of the car. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Holloway blinked himself out of his train of thought, lit a cigarette, and surveyed the five-story, stucco and brick, post-World War II building ahead of him. “What’s the plan here?”

“Valenti’s place is on the fifth floor. Figured we’d take a look through it, bounce, then wait for Freddy to call us back. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find this card.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Holloway linked up with Dean, the pair moving in tandem to the complex’s entrance. “In this day and age, if someone has footage of something, they wouldn’t store it on an SD card. Everyone’s got a cell phone, the cloud, email, whatever.”

“You’re asking why someone,” Dean opened the front door on the right and moved aside, “would bother storing a video solely on an SD card?”

“It makes no sense.” Holloway stepped into the lobby, the smell of mildew and disinfectant clinging to the soiled, decades-old emerald carpeting beneath his feet. “If Jimmy and Nikki truly did have some kind of video with dirt they had on Robbie Aimes, why not make extra copies? Why store whatever they allegedly had on an SD card?”

“Maybe they didn’t want anyone hacking into their stuff and finding a slew of digital copies,” Dean surmised.

“They wanted to keep it a secret,” Holloway said.

“That would insinuate they might have had something really worthwhile on Robbie Aimes.”

Holloway thumbed the button for the elevator. “Maybe it’s a big deal.” He shot a look toward the lobby doors on his left. “Maybe the church is covering up for Robbie killing a guy or something.”

“It’s possible.”

The elevator pinged.

The doors opened.

Dean and Holloway stepped inside.

“But whatever it is,” Dean said, pressing the button for the fifth floor, “if we can find it and present it to the church, we use that as a way to buy ourselves a ticket out of this mess. Blackmail, in certain cases, is the best medicine.”

“Are you saying this for the sake of the audience here, DB?” Holloway looked up at the floor marker and watched it tick up from floor L to 5. “Or for your own peace of mind?”

“The second one.” Dean rubbed his temples. “Christ, my head is killing me.”

“Because you drink too much.”

“And you’re a nicotine addict.” Dean showcased a glare. “Don’t start in on me with who’s shaving more years off their shelf life here.”

Holloway turned.

Went to say something.

Couldn’t think of a thing.

“Yeah,” Dean said as the elevator arrived on the fifth floor, the dull chime above their heads signaling they had reached their destination. “That’s what I thought.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

The pair stepped out.

Took a left.

Arrived at the door to Apartment 5C.

“Okay.” Dean took out his 1911 and stood off to the side, allowing Holloway to take the lead. “Just like old times.”

Holloway drew out his Astra.

Palmed the door handle and twisted.

“DB,” he whispered. “The thing’s unlocked.”

Dean shrugged.

Holloway nudged the door open.

The duo then moved inside, relying on muscle memory instilled in them by the Rangers as they prepared to clear every corner of the apartment, gliding into the living room with smooth, aquiline grace.

They raised their weapons.

Stopped dead in their tracks.

A few feet away, Holloway eyeballed a pair of men—one with oversized teeth, the other with a thick beard and a lack of a neck—both aiming sidearms directly at their heads.

45

It was only his gut instinct, but Dean was fairly certain—enough to put hard money on it—that the guy with the big teeth and the bearded man beside him were the enigmatic Tucker and Billy.

“I got a hard time thinkin’ that you two are here on behalf of management,” Big Teeth said, Dean’s head lined up between the sights of his Beretta.

“Drop ’em,” Bearded Guy instructed. “On the floor. Kick ’em away into the bedroom there on your left.”

Dean tossed his piece to the floor.

Holloway did the same.

They kicked their weapons to the left, the sidearms skidding across the floor before settling near the base of the overturned, twin-sized bed in the next room.

“Nudge that door closed, will ya?” Big Teeth said. “You’re lettin’ all the cold air out.”

Dean did as ordered.

Holloway, hands up, mumbled something to himself.

“What’s that?” Big Teeth asked. “Couldn’t make that out.”

“Nothin’.” Holloway shrugged. “I was just commenting to myself about how scenarios like this one always seem to pan out in the same fashion. Two good guys walk into a room, and then two bad guys show up to dick up the flow.”

“I guess you should’ve picked another line of work then. Could’ve cut down on somethin’ like this happening.”

“Yeah.” Holloway flicked a look at Dean. “My thoughts exactly.”

Dean, glancing sideways at the two men, snapped his fingers and pointed. “Apologies if I’m off the mark here, but are the two of you Tucker and Billy?”

“Well, shit,” Big Teeth said, glancing at his partner. “Indeed we are.”

“Which one are you? Tucker or Billy?”

“The first one.”

“Got it.” Dean signaled to his mouth. “And are those natural or aftermarket modifications?”

“You’re a funny summabitch, ain’t ya?”

“Only on my good days.”

“Well, funny man.” Tucker stepped around the books, clothes, videos, and shelves strewn around the apartment. “In the interest of being polite, now that you’ve got our names, I think it’s high time you reciprocate.”

“Well, I’m Dennis.” Dean pointed to himself. “And that’s Mac. We owned a bar called Paddy’s Pub over in Philly⁠—”

“Regular Don Rickles over here.” Tucker hiked his right foot up on an overturned coffee table, his body swaying, trading off his concentration between Dean and Holloway. “Now I’m thinkin’.”

“About what?” Holloway asked.

“About shootin’ you or questioning you and then shootin’ you after I question you.”

“Which way are you leaning?”

“Not sure,” Tucker said. “Wish I was more like that fella from No Country who just flipped a coin to make the decisions for him, but I’m not a big prop guy.”

“Place is a wreck,” Dean said, surveying the ravaged conditions of the apartment. “Did you guys lose your keys or something?”

“An SD card actually.”

“Get the fuck outta here.” Dean snorted. “That’s the exact same thing my buddy and I came by here to look for.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Tucker lazily trained his weapon on Dean. “Then if you know what’s on it, you know it’s important that Billy and I get our hands on it before anyone else does.”

“Pretend we don’t know what’s on it,” Holloway said. “Just for the sake of our own amusement.”

“Ahhhh…” Tucker shook a finger. “You don’t know.”

“Then tell us,” Holloway said.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“You’re gonna shoot us anyway, aren’t you?” Dean said. “I mean, feel free to correct me here.”

“I am.”

“Then tell us.”

“Usually when the villain does that,” Tucker cackled, “it precedes him getting his ass ripped to shreds.”

“So you’re implying you’re the villain here.”

“Oh, yeah.” Tucker drew back his lips, his comical-sized teeth appearing even larger. “I am the villain.”

“Tucker,” Billy said, the brutish hooligan tapping the face of his watch. “We gotta move. I didn’t find a goddamn thing in here. Valenti’s computer and hard drives had nothing on ’em.”

“No card?”

“No card.”

“Damn.” Tucker clicked his teeth, motioning with his Beretta toward the wall near the hallway. “All right, so be it.” He tilted his head at Dean and Holloway. “You boys line up against the wall. I’ll put one between your eyes and call it a day. And please don’t pull any funny business. I don’t want to go through that whole put-one-in-your-kneecap spiel.”

“Dean,” Holloway murmured. “Make a play here.”

“I’m thinking,” Dean said, probing the space for something to use. “Give me a second.”

“We’ve got less than five before we’re corpses.”

“No shit.”

“Goddamn booze hound.” Holloway reluctantly made his way toward the wall. “You know, you were a lot sharper back when you were sober.”

“I know.”

“Then shake off your hangover and think, man!”

“Hey, funny guy,” Tucker said, beckoning at Dean with his weapon. “Link up with your pal there so we can wrap this up.”

“Mmm,” Dean said, a strained look of contemplation on his face. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You remember what I said about shootin’ you in the knee?”

“Yep.”

“Then I suggest you start shufflin’.” Tucker snapped back the hammer on his weapon. “’Cause a bullet to the knee ain’t exactly on par with a charlie horse.”

Think, Deano.

Bluff your way out of this.

You got about two flipping seconds left to live.

“We have the card,” Dean said. “We took it off Jimmy Valenti last night.”

Tucker took a beat.

He squinted.

Then he shook his head.

“No you don’t.” He waved Dean over to the wall. “Now get steppin’.”

“Damn it,” Dean said, staring at Holloway. “Worth a shot though.”

“You dumb bastard,” Holloway grumbled as Billy shoved him face first at the wall. “I should’ve left town when I had the chance.”

“That’s gospel right there,” Tucker said, standing back as Dean and Holloway, hands flattened against the wall, waited for the shots to go off. “Let’s do this on three. Shall we?”

“Dean,” Holloway said, his face turned down, his forehead pressed against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded. “Me too.”

“One,” Tucker said.

Dean and Holloway shut their eyes.

“Two.”

A flurry of pictures of Layla, Grace, Jeremy, and Claire raced through Dean’s mind.

“Thre—”

“Tuck,” Billy said, the bear of a man bending down as he scooped a book off the floor. “Get a load of this.”

“Chrissakes!” Tucker lowered his Beretta. “What is it?”

“The card.” Billy, laughing amusedly, ripped apart the spine of a hardcover biography of Jean-Luc Godard. “Goddamn thing was sticking out of the spine here.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, look.” Billy picked it out and held up a thumbnail-sized device between his fingers. “I mean, this has gotta be it, right?”

“I have a hard time believing it’s not.” Tucker clapped his partner on the back. “Good job, Billy Boy.”

Dean turned his head, glimpsing at the card.

Son of a bitch.

He put his focus on Holloway.

Should have got here ten minutes earlier.

Dean called out, his face pressed against the wall, “Suppose we can get a last-minute reprieve here, guys?”

“No can do.” Tucker spread his feet apart and flexed his grip on his Beretta. “Now, let’s start the countdown again. Shall we?”

“Well,” Dean grumbled, “at least we got an extra ten seconds there, Hollow.”

“Yeah,” Holloway said. “Really made those seconds count too.”

“One,” Tucker counted.

Dean and Holloway bared their teeth.

“Two.”

They braced themselves for the final moment.

“Thr—”

Knuckles tapped sharply on the front door.

A red-faced Tucker cracked his neck.

Billy, moving around Tucker, kicked aside the mess on the floor as he made his way toward the front door.

“Just poke your head out,” Tucker said. “Shoo ’em off, for cryin’ out loud.” He brandished his Beretta at Dean and Holloway. “No screamin’ now. Not unless you want some innocent lookie-lou gettin’ shot.”

Billy cracked open the door.

Looked through the opening.

Dean, eyeing the situation through his peripherals, clocked a guy outside in the hallway who looked a lot like the same dude he had just seen on the corner across the street from his office.

Wait.

He let his hands drop.

Oh, shit!

“Hi,” the guy at the door said, waving shyly with one hand as he held up the MAC-10 submachine gun, outfitted with a suppressor, in the other. He stuck it through the door and put his finger on the trigger.

46

Ahalf-second before the first shots cracked through the air, Dean grabbed Holloway by his arm and yanked him to the floor.

Fuck.

He guided Holloway into the bedroom on their left.

Here we go.

The man at the door rattled off his MAC-10.

Billy’s body convulsed as it was ripped apart and pockmarked with holes.

Tucker, lifting up his Beretta, hollered something as he managed to squeeze off a single shot before the man in the doorway turned the MAC-10 on him, spraying and cutting him down with a sweeping arc of gunfire that traveled in a north-to-south pattern down his torso.

“Dean,” Holloway shouted, striking his elbow against the window beside him. “Fire escape is right down there.”

“Break it!”

Holloway raised his foot, thrust it forward, and kicked the glass. “It’s not budging. Goddamn thing is better reinforced than the Popemobile.”

“Excuse me?” the man with the MAC-10 called out from the living room. Dean picked up on a metallic click-clack clamor—a magazine being ejected. “If you two could please come out here, I would like to finish this so Mr. Wozniak can give me my paycheck.”

“Hollow,” Dean said, turning and pivoting back toward the living room. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Move!”

“What the fuck?” Holloway, a look of nonplussed horror on his face, followed Dean into the living room. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

Dean raced into the living room, pinned his sights on the man who was strangely wearing a jacket with very large shoulder pads, and drove his shoulder into him as the assassin was in the process of loading a fresh mag into his MAC-10.

Dean knocked the shoulder-pad man to the floor.

Watched the MAC-10 glide across the floor.

Got on top of him, pressed his knee into the man’s unnaturally flat sternum, pinned his right arm down with his left hand, and then used his right elbow to strike two consecutive blows to the man’s temple.

“Hollow,” Dean shouted. “Get the MAC!”

Holloway hustled toward the MAC-10.

Dean thwacked his opponent once more, this time in the nose.

The assassin, slipping his right arm free, reached into his pocket, pulled out a butterfly knife, twisted it open, and sliced Dean across his cheek.

Dean wrenched back.

Fell onto his rear.

The shoulder-padded hitman, now on his knee, turned to the left, twisted his hips and shoulders, and threw the butterfly knife overhand at Holloway. The blade burrowed itself into Holloway’s left hand a quick second after Holloway had scooped up the MAC-10.

The submachine gun fell from Holloway’s grip.

He pulled out the knife.

The hitman then lunged at Dean, who kicked him off his feet. Dean grabbed Holloway, hauled him into the bedroom, and made a mad dash for the double windows that looked out onto the fire escape.

“Jump,” Dean said as they both picked up their weapons near the base of the bed.

“Jump?”

“Yes, asshole! Jump!”

They both brought up their hands to shield their faces.

Lept into the air.

Crashed into the windows, burst through the glass, and landed on their right sides on the rusted, rickety fire escape, the flesh on their arms and faces slashed in several places.

Both of them turned onto their backs.

They raised their weapons, training them on the broken window as the assassin made an appearance.

The duo fired in sync—ten collective shots. The assassin dipped and retreated as a flurry of rounds chewed up and splintered the window frame.

“Go! Go! Go!” Dean screamed, hopping to his feet and scaling down the fire escape toward ground level as he made out lumbering footsteps above them in the bedroom.

As they rounded the next landing, hugging the third floor of the building, a barrage of gunfire erupted from above their heads.

Bullets pinged off the fire escape.

Sparks flew.

One of the shots managed to strike Dean in his left calf.

He stumbled.

Crashed into the railing.

Tumbled over it and started to drop.

Holloway stuck out his hand, grabbed hold of Dean, and terminated his fall.

“I’m dropping you,” Holloway said.

Dean shot his buddy a frenzied look. “What?”

“Dumpster,” Holloway said, a bullet zipping past his head and clipping the railing. “Tuck and roll. Jump!”

Holloway released his grip.

Dean plummeted to the ground, his surroundings a hazy blur of colors and shapes. His heart was in his throat as he hollered, tucked his body, and felt himself land ass first into a dumpster filled with leaking, oversized trash bags.

He looked up.

Saw Holloway hop over the railing.

Dean quickly scrambled aside before Holloway landed shoulder first in the dumpster, sat up, and secured a grip on a dazed, mumbling Dean.

“Come on!” Holloway scrambled out of the dumpster and then helped Dean climb out. “He’s probably reloading.”

The pair, now on wet pavement, helped each other to their feet as they dashed down the alleyway behind Valenti’s apartment complex. The assassin above them stitched a series of rounds that chewed up the asphalt near their feet.

They rounded the corner.

Emerged onto the street.

Piled into Holloway’s Charger.

“Drive!” Dean shouted, ducking below the dashboard. “Split!”

Holloway throttled the engine.

Peeled off.

Took off and drove three blocks before both of them managed to slurp down slower, less shallow breaths.

Dean sat up.

Holloway shot him a look.

Neither breathed a word as they took a once-over of their wounds—a bullet-grazed left calf for Dean and a gaping knife wound in Holloway’s hand. “Take It Easy” by the Eagles came over the radio.

47

Forty-five minutes after Jasper left Jimmy Valenti’s apartment, he strolled through the Meditation Garden at the Awakening Center. It was a rich, flamboyant orchard replete with chirping birds, a tea room, and an alluring landscape of botanicals arranged in a 360-degree pattern that covered the entirety of the courtyard.

In the tea room, Jasper cradled his upset stomach, glowering and somewhat irritated that the man he tried to kill not only got away but got the better of him. He observed Pat Wozniak in the middle of recording a video with a three-member crew.

“The Awakening,” Wozniak said, dressed in a $3,000, three-piece cornflower suit with pinstripes, “is not just a way of life.” Radiating joy at the camera lens, he held out his arms like he was welcoming potential followers for an embrace. “It is salvation itself, a path to a higher calling.”

“Mr. Wozniak,” the camera operator said, peeking out from behind the viewfinder. “We need to start over. We’re getting some feedback on the sound.”

“Goddamn hacks.” Wozniak dropped his smile and checked the time on his Bvlgari watch. “USC film school my ass. Figure it the fuck out and fast.” He turned to Jasper, offered a nod, and walked toward him. “Let me know when you dipshits are ready.”

As Wozniak’s crew tinkered and adjusted their lens and lights, Wozniak, eyeing Jasper curiously, approached him and pulled him off to the side.

“Goodness, Jasper,” Wozniak whispered, his tone warm and parental. “Are you all right?”

“They hit me.”

“Who hit you?”

“The men you sent me after.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Wozniak threw a look at his crew and then leaned in toward Jasper. “Are they, well, taken care of?”

“No.”

“No?”

“They got away.” Jasper reached into the pocket of his two-sizes-too-big shoulder-padded blazer, produced the SD card, and offered it to Wozniak. “But I found this.”

“Is this…?” Wozniak examined the card. “Is this the card?”

“Probably.”

“Did you look at it?”

“I don’t have a camera.”

Wozniak informed the crew he’d pick things up in an hour and took a ride with Jasper in his gilded elevator. Wozniak arrived with Jasper at his office quarters and told Jackson to hold his calls. He instructed Jackson to keep an eye on Jasper, entered his office, walked over to his desk, inserted the SD card into his desktop computer, and sat down.

He opened the card.

Saw a single MP4 file stored on it.

Clicked it open and hit play.

Wonziak leaned in toward the monitor.

He watched the footage.

The more the video played, the more his eyes widened in response to what he saw.

Wozniak played it back again to confirm what he had seen, processed its content, and saw an opportunity to pivot and use what he now had to his advantage.

He stepped back out of his office.

Kicked at Jackson’s chair and triggered his unpaid assistant to shudder.

“Call up our friends in Sacramento,” Wozniak said.

“Y-yes, sir.” Jackson scrambled with his phone. “Who would you like me to connect you with?”

“Adam Rubek.” Enthusiasm welled up inside of Wozniak. “The Governor of California.” He turned his attention to Jasper who was on the couch, cradling his stomach. “Can you still find Blackwood and Holloway?”

“I can,” Jasper groaned, pouting as he sipped the Pepto Bismol bottle Jackson had given him minutes before. “I’ll figure out where they are. I’ll need a ride though. I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Jackson will take you,” Wozniak said. “And aside from the card, did you search the apartment it was in?”

“Yes.” Jasper nodded. “I looked at a laptop and a separate hard drive that was in there right before I ran away. There was nothing on them—in terms of this video you are looking for, I mean.”

“Find Blackwood and Holloway. Get it done.” Wozniak, swelling with enthusiasm, shot his fists in the air. “Because I think we just figured out how to finalize our tax-exempt status.”

48

Seated on the hood of the Charger, Dean and Holloway stared at the Hollywood sign a half mile off to their right.

“Haven’t been up here in a while,” Dean said. He inspected the bullet graze on his calf, his scraped up arms and hands, and a few slashes on his face from the windows they crashed through. “Gotta give it credit. As filthy as this town is, it looks pretty when the sun sets.”

Holloway looked down at the bleeding knife wound in his hand. He used a T-shirt he had found on the back seat to wrap it up. Rolling up his shirt sleeve, he saw a finger-sized hole, a superficial wound on his right tricep.

“We got lucky back there,” Holloway stated. He looked around at the parking lot tucked away in the hills, an isolated area save for Dean, himself, and his Charger. He was still on the lookout for any lingering threats. “Two more minutes in that apartment for the both of us, and we would’ve bought the farm.”

Dean, gingerly touching the area around the wound on his leg, lowered his pant leg and lay back on the hood. “Where the hell is Freddy?” He looked at his watch. “He should have been here by now.” He dabbed at the two-inch cut across his cheek. “I’m leaking like a faucet here.”

“Who the hell was that guy at the apartment?” Dean wondered.

“Looked like the lead singer for the Talking Heads,” Dean said.

“Be serious.”

“How the heck should I know, Hollow?” Dean sat up. “It’s easy to lose track of the nut jobs in circumstances like this the second they stop going off the rails. Hitmen and goons are a dime a dozen.”

“How did he find us? I mean, we showed up, had our little moment with those two guys and,” he snapped his fingers, “boom! There he was.”

The corner across from my office.

The guy in the suit.

Shit, that had to be him.

“He was following us,” Dean said. “Back at the office, right before we headed out to Valenti’s, I was pretty sure I saw the guy across the street.”

“How’d he get a line on us?”

“My offices are listed on the web, Hollow. If someone sent him after us, if the guy is a pro, then it wasn’t hard for him to start piecing together a trail.”

“At least we got Tucker and Billy off the playing board,” Holloway said. “Would’ve been nice to ask ’em a few more questions to figure out who sent them, but c’est la vie.”

“You think they were with the Awakening?”

“I don’t think so.” Holloway leaned back against the windshield, the burnt ginger shades of the sun washing over him. “It’s gotta be someone else.”

“They found that card.”

“They did.”

“And we still don’t know what’s on it.”

“No, we do not.”

“This sucks.” Dean slammed his fist on the hood. “It’s⁠—”

“Completely fucktangular,” Holloway cut in. “On all sides.”

“What?”

“Completely fucktangular.”

“I heard you, but…” Dean swung his legs off the hood. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve been saying it for years, DB.”

“You have?”

“Yeah,” Holloway said. “Don’t you remember? I said it all the time back when we were in the unit.”

“Damn.” Dean shook his head, his mind roaming. “I thought I was the one who came up with that.”

“Sounds like you stole it, brother.”

“I thought I remembered everything,” Dean said. “But I completely forgot you were the one who coined my catchphrase.”

“That’s your catchphrase?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“You need a better one.” Holloway flicked his hand, batting the comment aside. “Scratch that. You don’t need one at all. This isn’t some third-rate Joel Silver movie from the ’90s.”

“Feels that way sometimes.”

“Either way, the takeaway here is that you should cut back on the sauce.” Holloway tapped the side of his skull. “Does a number on the brain after a while.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Betty Ford.” Dean climbed off the hood, stuck his head and arm through the passenger side of the Charger, and turned on the radio, “It’s Not Enough” played at a low roar through the speakers. “And yeah, cutting back might help before it gets serious.”

“Sounds like you’re already there.”

“You know what, Hollow?” Dean held up a hand. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting into this whole who’s faring better with their physical crap. Yeah, I throw back a few more than I should, but every once in a while it happens.”

“Thought you were in recovery.”

“What?” Dean, stomach knotting, jerked his head toward Holloway. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You’re in recovery,” Holloway said, digging out his pack of Lucky Strikes. “I saw it in your file the Awakening forwarded to me. I breezed past the ex-wife and kids bit, but⁠—”

“Pump the breaks there, Jersey.”

“Look, man,” Holloway raised his hands, waving a conversational white flag. “We all have problems. I’m just trying to sympathize.”

“I think you mean emphasize,” Dean said. “If you recall the convo we had back in the car a few hours back, you should consider refraining from criticizing me from such a fragile position.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t exactly need to read between the lines with you, Hollow.” Dean walked around the front of the car and approached Holloway. “You got a wife and a kid who know fuck-all about what you really do for a living. That, I might add, consists of you beating folks up and assisting organizations like the goddamn Awakening with extortion and blackmail⁠—”

“You’re right,” Holloway cut in, red hues tinting his complexion. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Then don’t bring it up again, man.” Dean dismissed Holloway with a wave. “This cyclical-ass conversation is giving me the shits.”

Dean walked around and jumped back on the hood.

The pair, saying nothing, stared longingly at the horizon.

“You know,” Holloway said, “I hear stories about all these vets. The guys with podcasts. The Special Forces dudes with protein drinks and workout apps and⁠—”

“What’s your point?”

“I dunno.” Holloway paused before continuing. “I guess people preached to us all our lives about being tough, taking no shit, and grinding our teeth through whatever adversity we faced. Honestly,” he lit a cigarette, “I thought I had that down pat. I mean, you and I were both the best of the best for a while, but…” He ceased speaking, focusing on nothing but his soothing, nicotine delivery system.

Dean studied the city.

The buildings.

Thought about how many people were trying to solve their own personal problems, navigating their way from one day to the next.

“It’s all bullshit,” Dean said, “this whole tough-without-consequences thing you’re talking about.”

“We’ve met plenty of tough guys,” Holloway said. “Those red-blooded, alpha male cliches exist for a reason.”

“We need guys like that. I believe that, but no one likes to talk about the other half. Not all of us are the put-your-head-down-shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of breed.”

“The first half would call that other half pussies,” Holloway said.

“Fuck all that.” Dean said. “Think about it, Hollow. Half the guys we served with, the dudes who saw the same heavy shit we did, are screwed in the head after their time in the unit. Anyone who downplays or dismisses the trauma, including these podcast guys you’re talking about, are either one-in-a-million exceptions or, in some cases, textbook sociopaths hiding behind a Dexter Morgan level of confidence and self-control.”

“You’re saying all Army cats are nuts?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Dean looked at his scraped up hands. “I’m saying maybe we are. We saw too much, did too much, and wasted years of our lives avoiding coming to terms with it.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“Because I thought I had it down pat,” Dean said. “I quit drinking. I straightened out. I met a nice woman and thought I put all of this”—he pointed to his lacerated face—“behind me, this attracting madness like flies to a flame. But it never stays permanent.”

“Nothing in life is permanent, DB. Nothing’s certain either.” Holloway took out his phone and examined the picture of his wife and daughter. “I still remember the day the doctors said my daughter was coming into this world healthy and without complications.”

“What do you mean?”

“Muscular dystrophy,” Holloway said. “My daughter has it.”

Dean, frowning, said nothing.

“Thought I’d get out of doing all this private contract stuff a few years back, but,” Holloway took a drag of his cigarette and blew it out through his nostrils, “bills keep piling up. We live in a free market economy⁠—”

“Not really.”

“Right, not truly, but the point is that cash is a prerequisite for everyone in this country. You simply can’t float without it.” Holloway tapped the ash of his cigarette. “Anyway, after Holly was born, the family needed money, and we needed it right away. I couldn’t get a straight job by then, even though I wanted to. I’d been doing this kind of work too long, and people like those goons at the church were paying me good money to take out the garbage. It kept the lights on. I just kept telling myself I’d call it quits, but just when I thought I’d gotten to the point where I could back out and do somethin’ else, the second I thought I was out…”

Dean displayed a ’90s era, throaty Al Pacino impression “...they pull me back in.”

“You got it.” Holloway laughed. “And yeah, dickhead, to your point before, my wife doesn’t have a clue about what I really do. She thinks I drive famous people around all day. Bodyguard work. Stuff like that.”

“You think she’d be pissed?” Dean said. “You copping to her that you do stuff like you’ve been doing?”

“I dunno,” Holloway said. “But after this whole debacle, I think the time’s come to fess up. Like you were preaching on your end, I guess I’ve been running from my problems instead of facing ’em.”

“You know…” Dean took a beat, “all my life I’ve seen these action movies where some main character goes through this whole ordeal and experiences this big character arc once he navigates his way through to the other side. Moment of awakening and coming to terms with himself or his past or whatever.”

“But you didn’t have that action hero catharsis,” Holloway said. “I mean, if I’m tracking you here.”

“I mean, does anyone in life?” Dean shrugged. “Do they ever just have one moment like that? I guess now that it’s been a few hours since I had a drink, maybe I’m thinking you don’t have a one-and-done moment—you have to have a series of them. You don’t live through some shit, screw your head on straight, and then simply walk downhill the rest of your life.”

“Because life ain’t a book,” Holloway said. “It isn’t a movie.”

“Damn sure feels like it.” Dean peeked over his shoulder. “Hell, we had a whole run with one of those third act, end-of-your-life kind of guys Patrice O’Neal talked about one time. Christ, that shoulder-padded goon we bumped into reeked of prototypical movie villain.”

“This ain’t a book or movie, DB,” Holloway said. “And back to my point, what I was saying was that in some ways, all of us—every human being on this planet—don’t have a moment of catharsis that makes us feel better for the rest of our lives. If anything, you could make the argument that we’re all perpetually screwed up for the entirety of our lives. In one way or another.”

“So,” Dean faced his buddy, “what’s the solution?”

Holloway opened his mouth.

A car horn honked in the distance.

When both men turned, they eyed Freddy behind the wheel of his Toyota Camry. “Private Eyes” by Hall and Oates pounded out of his speakers.

49

Holloway and Dean hopped off the hood of the Charger and walked over to the Camry that was now parked next to the Charger. In the driver’s seat, Freddy was snapping his fingers synchronously and singing with the music, his vocal range wildly out of tune as he attempted to hit the high notes of “Private Eyes” without success.

Dean tapped his knuckles on the windshield.

Freddy killed the engine.

“Fellas!” the kid said, sliding out of the car with two plastic bags in his hand. “Your boy Freddy has…” He squinted, noticing the blood and cuts on Dean and Holloway. “Yo! Did you guys get into it again or what?”

“Not exactly.”

“Daaaamn.” Freddy walked over and placed the bags on the hood of the Charger. Holloway rifled through the bag with a bottle of peroxide, a bottle of iodine, clothing, super glue, gauze, neosporin, and extra strength ibuprofen.

“Are those cuts in my shirt?” Freddy asked.

“Yes,” Dean said, pulling off the shredded Rick James shirt before handing it over to Freddy. “Didn’t have a chance to wash it.”

“The hell, man!” Freddy, holding the shirt in his hands, sighed and tossed it on the hood of the Camry. “This wasn’t cheap.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“What did you do to it? You crash through a window or something?”

“Kid’s observant,” Holloway said, removing his shirt so he could clean his wounds. “I’ll give him that.”

“What happened?” Freddy nudged Dean who was in the process of removing his own clothing. “Like for real?”

Dean, bottle of peroxide in hand, nearly covered his body with the contents. “Remember what I said about weirdos coming out when stuff gets weird?”

“Yeah, man.” Freddy shrugged. “Like two to three times an hour whenever we go through events like this.”

“Well, stuff is getting weird,” Dean said, sharp pinpoints of pain registering throughout his body as the antiseptic did its work. “And the weirdos are coming out.”

“Figures.” Freddy stood at attention—a dutiful grunt indicating he was ready to go into battle. “So what do you need from me?”

“That phone.” Dean snapped his fingers at Holloway who tossed him a tube of neosporin. “Did you jailbreak it?”

“I did indeed.” Freddy pulled out the device. “Took about five seconds to look through everything. Did you know this guy Valenti got banned from like every single dating app on his phone? Dude was sending women pictures of his⁠—”

“Freddy,” Dean growled. “Did you look through the important stuff?”

“Right. Yeah.” Freddy stood beside his boss and unlocked the device. “So check this out.” He thumbed through text after text. “Our guy Jimmy had a lengthy correspondence going on with Nikki Caimi right up until he died.”

“About what?”

“The SD card with this video on it that y’all are looking for,” Freddy said, angling the phone toward Dean so he could read the texts. “If you scroll through the messages there, you can see a bunch of back-and-forth between them. They were chatting about some video they recorded.”

“About Aimes?” Holloway said, squeezing neosporin onto the wound in his hand before wrapping it with gauze.

“Yep.” Freddy nodded. “Looks like Nikki and Jimmy recorded a video of him at a party three weeks ago.”

“Do they mention anything about the content of the video?” Dean said, reading through one text after another.

“No, not really.” Freddy tapped the phone. “Nikki was pretty stoked about whatever it was though. Sounds like they met up a few times to view it. If you keep reading through the texts, you can also see that both were worried about storing digital backups of this video. They talked for a while about keeping only one copy of it. One time these kids in junior high somehow got a hold of a video on my phone of me doing the Gangnam Style dance and blasted it all over Facebook, so I get it.”

Dean, not acknowledging Freddy’s comment, viewed text after text between Nikki and Jimmy. These partners in petty blackmail crime were seemingly worried about being hacked or storing the video in a place where it could easily be discovered.

“It looks like they got Robbie Aimes on video,” Freddy said. “It’s, and I quote, of him doing something ‘wild at the party.’ From what I can make out, Jimmy captured the event on some kind of older camera—a Nikon, from what it says in the texts there. And after Jimmy recorded the video, he made not one but two copies of it.”

“Did he say where the first copy was stored?”

“That,” Freddy winked, “is where stuff started to sour between Nikki and Jimmy.”

“How?” Holloway asked, using the roll of paper towels in one of the bags to rub the sweat off his face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Jimmy…” Freddy motioned to the phone, “made some calls to a few different numbers, a few 916 area codes in the past two weeks.”

“Hmm. 916,” Dean said. “What the hell was Jimmy calling Sacramento for?”

“It appears like Jimmy was actually a pretty decent detective when he put his mind to it,” Freddy said. “A week after he recorded the video of Aimes, he was coordinating with Nikki to upload the footage they got of him to her YouTube channel. They were planning on using it to boost her subscribers and, in turn, her revenue. But Jimmy appeared to get a wild hair up his butt.”

“Define wild hair.”

“Jimmy,’ Freddy said, “managed to work the phone and get himself a direct line to the immediate members of Adam Rubek’s staff—aka the Governor of California.”

50

“Shit,” Dean said, browsing through data on Valenti’s phone, confirming, like Freddy said, that Valenti had gotten in touch with members of Adam Rubek’s staff.

“I think we can assume that whatever’s on that video,” Freddy nodded at the phone, “seems to be of great concern to our great Governor of California. You see, after Jimmy got in touch with people inside Rubek’s inner circle, a bunch of phone calls were exchanged between him and members of Rubek’s staff, according to the call logs I found on the phone.”

“Did you catch any names?” Holloway said. “Did you check who the phone numbers were registered to?”

“I did, but I didn’t get any names. Just a name for a private security company called Northwater. At first I thought it might’ve been a name for a band, but then I realized how stupid that was.” Freddy held up a finger. “There was a single voicemail on his phone, though, from one of the numbers Valenti called. Some Southern dude left it.”

Dean swiped through the phone’s contents.

Found a voicemail.

Hit the play button and put the device on speaker.

“Mr. Valenti,” the voice said. “Give me a call back at this number when you can. We’d like to discuss this image you mailed to our offices.”

“Oh, hell,” Holloway said. “That’s Tucker. That’s why he and Billy were at Valenti’s apartment. Son of a bitch, God rest his soul, “worked for Rubek.”

“That’s why you guys are all messed up,” Freddy said. “Right?”

“Right.”

“Y’all can never walk in anywhere without getting shot at, can you?”

“Freddy,” Dean said, sliding his legs through the fresh jeans his assistant had brought him. “It happens so often, I start to get concerned when I walk into any given place and someone doesn’t shoot at me.”

“Okay, Last Action Hero.” Freddy grabbed Valenti's phone and continued swiping through it. “Now back to what I was saying. The day Valenti died, he spoke to someone at the same number as the guy who left the voicemail—Tucker apparently—shortly before he purchased a single ticket to the Mets-Dodgers game at the stadium.”

“I guess Valenti sent him some kind of hard copy photo in the mail.”

“Possibly,” Freddy said. “Valenti also sent a single text to this Tucker guy’s number before he showed up at the ball game. Kind of dumbass, leaving a paper trail on his part, but it helped a lot in stringing together a narrative.”

Dean took the phone.

Scrolled.

Located the final text that Jimmy Valenti ever sent.

The message read, Reminder. There are two copies of this video I am bringing. Do not attempt to contact the authorities. If anything happens to me, the other copy will be distributed through proper channels.

“Well, there you go,” Holloway grumbled, slowly slipping on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red flannel. “Valenti made a rendezvous with Tucker at the Dodger game. He picked a public place to show Tucker the video, and after he did⁠—”

“Valenti took off, and Tucker and whoever else was with him chased him down,” Dean said. “Whatever plans Valenti had to extort Rubek went south, and Rubek’s people tried to strong-arm him into handing over both copies he had of this video.”

“Then what?” Holloway said. “They just killed Valenti in front of 40,000 witnesses?”

“Well, something went wrong. It’s possible that an accident played out while all this went down.” Dean took a second to mull over the information. “Okay, so let’s recap what we know here for the sake of clarification.”

“We know that Jimmy and Nikki made a compromising video of Robbie Aimes,” Holloway said. “And something had to do with Governor Rubek. Maybe Aimes was, well, involved with Rubek. Maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to. It could be anything. Either way, the Governor of California, the alleged Vice Presidential candidate for the upcoming election, can’t have any last-minute scandals.”

“In this day and age?” Dean smirked.

“Depends what’s on this video, I guess,” Holloway added. “Then Nikki and Jimmy decide to use this video of Aimes as content for Nikki’s page.” Holloway dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his heel. “Something to boost up her YouTube numbers, to really get her some recognition and a following. But Jimmy had a change of heart when it came to his plan with Nikki.”

“Jimmy decided,” Dean said, “to back out of his deal with Nikki and use the video as blackmail against the Governor of California. It’s bold and stupid all at the same time.”

“Considering the nature of Jimmy and Nikki’s relationship,” Freddy chimed in, “based on the texts I read, the two of them didn’t exactly have a functioning or healthy rapport with one another. By all accounts, they hated each other. As for Jimmy, he was a bit in the red on his finances—homeboy had twenty grand in credit card debt, two months back rent, and only $200 to his name. So it sounds like he was trying to pull an 877-CASH-NOW with Rubek.”

“Valenti fucked up,” Dean said. “It was a stupid move done completely out of desperation.” He looked at Freddy. “We’re sure Valenti had two copies of this card?”

“Yep.” Freddy wiggled a pair of digits. “Two.”

“And he had one copy of the SD card with him,” Dean added.

“But not the one Tucker and Billy found back at Valenti’s apartment,” Holloway said. “And we can assume it probably got taken by our shoulder-padded friend.”

“Wait,” Freddy wrinkled his nose. “Who y’all talking about now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said. “And stop saying y’all. “You’re a kid from Nevada, not a construction worker in Texas. We just need to figure out where this other card is.”

“So where is the other one?” Holloway said. “What do you think happened to it?”

“It could be anywhere.” Dean forked the phone over to Freddy. Dean paced the parking lot, trying to think. “All we know is that we’ve got a video of Robbie Aimes—something that involves Adam Rubek—out there in the wind somewhere, and it’s got the interest of both the Awakening Center and the Governor of California.”

“Maybe Valenti ditched the card at the stadium right before he died.” Holloway stroked his chin contemplatively. “Maybe he lost it. Maybe he dropped it.”

“Maybe he stored it away,” Freddy suggested. “Maybe when he knew that Rubek’s people were after him, he put it somewhere for safekeeping.”

“Unless we go there and scour through the stadium, we’ll never know for sure,” Dean said. “It’s not really an option.”

“Then what should we do?”

“We go to Aimes directly,” Holloway said, loading up the cylinder of his Astra with six new rounds. “We talk to him, see what he knows, and go from there. We don’t have much in the way of choices here.”

“Damned if we do,” Dean commented, “damned if we don’t.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of those scenarios,” Freddy commented. “I read a fiction book like that on Amazon. Only one I ever went out my way to leave a review on. I gave it three stars. It was a little plodding, but not bad overall.”

“Well, teacher with an opinion, those kinds of cases are kind of my forte.” Dean clicked his teeth. “Getting close to Aimes is gonna be tough. He’s a high-profile individual, and with everything going on, we can bet that whatever security he’s got will be beefed up. It’s gonna be a bitch trying to track him down. Who knows where he’s holed up.”

“I do,” Freddy said.

Holloway snapped his head around.

Dean did the same.

“You do?” Holloway said. “How?”

“Social media is king nowadays, man.” Freddy took out his phone. “Everyone’s recording every minute of their lives and blasting it out there for public consumption. Before I got here, I pulled up Robbie Aimes’ TikTok and Insta. He just recorded a video of him at a film shoot close by. He uploaded the video of where the shoot was taking place and everything.”

“Where?” Dean said, press-checking the rounds in his 1911.

“Hollywood Boulevard,” Freddy said. “This place called Playhouse Hollywood.”

51

As Zelada glided out from behind the steering wheel of his Crown Vic, he took in the scene outside Jimmy Valenti’s apartment complex. He clocked at least a half a dozen patrol cruisers. Yellow tape secured the front and side of the building. Curious onlookers crowded outside the crime scene tape. Patrolmen were scattered throughout—questioning witnesses, taking statements, snapping pictures. A detective from Zelada’s precinct loitered along the east side of the building, staring up at the busted windows on the fifth floor.

“Bowman,” Zelada called out, waving to the female detective. “Talk to me.”

Bowman—5’11”, broad-shouldered, clattering her thumbs on her cell phone—greeted him with a nod. “Neighbors reported shots fired,” she said. “Someone got into it in one of the apartments up there.”

“Which one?”

“5C.”

“5C?” Zelada tilted his gaze up toward the fifth floor. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve got the gold badge like you do,” Bowman said. “They wouldn’t have given me the job if my powers of retention were shoddy.”

“5C is Jimmy Valenti’s apartment.” Zelada and Bowman walked to the alleyway and noted some shattered glass, blood, and bullet casings scattered along the pavement. “Same guy who fell off that railing at Dodger Stadium the other night.”

“I’m thinking someone he knew might’ve ransacked the place,” Bowman said.

“You think?”

“Valenti got busted once for possession back in 2019,” Bowman said. “He had a little less than a gram of coke on him. His old man back in Philly pulled a few favors. He knew an appellate court judge out here who’s chummy with Judge Togioka.”

“Yeah.” Zelada nodded, staring up at the broken windows. “I caught that in his file. Togioka ended up putting Valenti through a diversion program instead of slapping him with a hefty sentence. Valenti tested clean when he had his follow-up, but the same thing happened again in 2021. Valenti got caught with another gram. Again, his pops hit up his buddy, so Valenti ended up getting probation. He either stayed clean or got clever after that.”

“I’m thinking maybe Valenti’s dealer or his friends found out what happened to him at the stadium,” Bowman said. “Maybe someone tried to roll in and then tossed Valenti’s apartment looking for cash, stuff to pawn, whatever.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe someone else showed up, or the people who were already there got into it about who got what.”

“Pretty thin,” Zelada said. “Hope you’re not going all in on that idea.”

“I’m not sold on it, but I’m entertaining the theory until we find something that points us in a different direction.”

“Witnesses?”

“One.” Bowman pointed a finger at a Latino woman on the other side of the yellow tape. “Paola Baron. She lives in the complex across the street. Out her window, she saw two guys run out of the alley, hop in a car, and take off not long after the shots went off. A minute or so after that, she said she saw another guy.” Bowman huffed. “A fantasma.”

“Fantasma,” Zelada said.

Spanish for “ghost.”

Zelada extended his hand to Paola Baron, a short woman in her late sixties with a wizened expression and a perpetual frown that reminded the detective of his mother.

“Mrs. Baron,” Zelada said. “Would you walk over here with me?” Zelada leaned against his Crown Vic. “You told the police officers who spoke to you that two men ran out of that alleyway?”

“Sí.” Mrs. Baron nodded, her posture stiff, her eyes flinty—a woman who held little to no trust in the PD. “Gringos.”

“Two?”

“Sí.”

“¿Dijiste que también escuchaste disparos?”

You said you heard gunshots?

“A lot of them,” Mrs. Baron said. “Over a dozen. Probably a submachine gun.” She shook her head. “Dejé Juárez para alejarme de esta mierda.” I should just walk away from all this shit.

“Entiendo.” I understand. Zelada gestured to the apartment. “And after you heard the shots, you heard glass breaking?”

“And men shouting.”

“About what?”

“I couldn’t hear what they were saying.” The woman jabbed her bony finger toward the alleyway. “Then I saw them running. They were…” She made a motion to her attire. “All bloody and cut up. After that they got in a car⁠—”

“What kind of car?”

“A big one. It was black. Maybe a Mustang. A Cadillac or something.” Mrs. Baron shrugged. “No estoy segura.” I’m not sure.

“After they left,” Zelada said, “you said you saw another man?”

“Sí.”

“What did he look like?”

“Alto.” Tall. “Muy pálido.” Very pale. “Salió lentamente.” He walked out slowly. “Fue entonces cuando me escapé de la ventana.” That’s when I ran away from the window.

“How was he dressed?” Zelada asked. “What was he wearing?”

“A suit,” Mrs. Baron said. “With shoulder pads. Like from the ’80s.” She shuddered like a chill had blown through. “Gringo son of a bitch looked like the white Richard Ramirez. Pretty sure he wasn’t blinking either.”

As Zelada processed the scene in front of him and Mrs. Baron’s testimony, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Bowman’s theory about drug dealers and ransackers didn’t fit. His gut, that same intuitive instinct that had helped him close out over forty cases in his twenty-year career, was telling him that he knew the two men who had hotfooted their way out of the alley.

“Paola,” Zelada said, taking out his phone. “I want you to look at a picture for me.” He unlocked the device, Googled an image, and angled the screen toward her. “I want you to tell me if this man is one of the men you saw running away from the building.”

Mrs. Baron put on her reading glasses.

She squinted.

Leaning in closer to the screen, she took a moment to assess the photo, looked up at Zelada, and nodded.

“That’s him,” she said. “Definitely.” She tapped her finger on the display. “He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, I think.”

Zelada gave the woman a once-over.

He peered down at his phone.

He took a screenshot of the photo he had shown Mrs. Baron—a color photo of Dean Blackwood taken by the press at the Long Beach docks after a shootout he had with the Sarkissian crime family several years before.

52

Dean stared down at his hand. Felt his throat clench as he realized his hand was trembling—but it wasn’t from nerves. It wasn’t a byproduct of adrenaline wearing off.

You’re withdrawing, asshole.

Dean made a fist and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

You haven’t had a drink in maybe six or seven hours.

“Hollow,” Dean said, looking over at his buddy behind the steering wheel. “We gotta pull over.”

“For what?”

“You’re gonna trip out.”

“Why?”

“I need a drink,” Dean said, his head throbbing, his hand shaking inside his pocket. “I’m starting to come down a bit here.”

“You’re joking.” Holloway turned right down Riverside Drive and cut an infuriated glance at his partner. “Oh, that’s rich.” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “With everything going on right now⁠—”

“Don’t.”

“Here, right now, you gotta start getting the shakes on me?”

“Hollow!” Teeth gnashed, Dean rolled down the window for some fresh air to assist with his nausea. “Look, I’m not a fan of this anymore than you are, but unless you want me puking and doubling over on you in the next hour, I need to get ahead of this.”

“Unbelievable.” Holloway scanned the street through his windshield. “You know, I’m starting to think we may be off with this whole ‘hero in an action story’ shit we’ve been talking about.” He pulled into an Arco gas station and stopped beside a pump. “The main characters in those things don’t have to stop off for a nip so they can get to the third act.”

“Obviously,” Dean said, popping open his door, “you’ve never seen Die Hard 3.”

“McClane technically sobered up in that one.”

“Fuck you.” Dean, feeling his twitches intensifying, got out of the car and turned toward the convenience store. “I’ll be back in a second.”

If he didn’t have a drink in the next five minutes, Dean felt like he’d drop dead. He cursed at himself under his breath for being so goddamn reckless.

Nice job, fucko.

Inside the store, Dean located the refrigerator section with beer, swiped a Corona tall boy, and paid for it at the register.

You really did it this time.

He headed into the bathroom, went inside, and locked the door.

You just couldn’t keep your shit together.

Dean popped the top, took three hefty swigs, and pressed his back against the wall.

You gotta spiral and spiral and go from one of these goddamn things to the next without making any changes.

A minute later, Dean’s shakes, nausea, and sweats started to taper off. For a quick beat he felt better that his body had been given what it needed, but once he caught sight of his red-glazed eyes in the scratched-up mirror, he felt hollowed out.

“You’re a bad cliché, Deano.” He placed his tall boy down and held onto the sink, staring at his reflection and not liking what was looking back at him. “You’re a burnout prototype.” He leaned in closer to the mirror. “What the hell are you gonna do with yourself?”

You’ve got no purpose.

You’re not suicidal, thank God for that, but you’re not making any progress here.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” the voice of Woody chimed in. Dean looked over at the pocket-sized figment of his imagination taking a leak at the urinal. “John McClane’s got an arc. Jason Bourne’s got an arc.” The leprechaun zipped up his fly. “You, however, do not.”

Dean hung his head.

Took another sip of his tall boy.

“Figure this out, man,” Dean said to the mirror. “You can’t keep living like this.”

53

Holloway, checking his watch, saw that Dean had been inside the convenience store for close to ten minutes. “We’re wasting time here,” he mumbled. “Get your drink and get out of there, DB.”

The black Audi that had just pulled in behind Holloway honked its horn to indicate that his Charger was blocking his access to the pump.

Holloway waved out the window.

Pulled straight ahead to a parking spot.

Cast a look at the convenience store and saw no sign of Dean.

Turning the radio on to kill some time, Holloway surfed the stations, landed on KPPX, and heard the DJ say—in his words—a “head-banging hit from 1983.”

Holloway wanted a cigarette but had enough common sense to not light up at a gas station. He realized he was grinding his teeth.

You’re a hop, skip, and a jump away from being just like Deano in there, Mikey.

He sat back in his seat.

You’re addicted to those goddamn cancer sticks like he’s addicted to the sauce.

Doing some quick math, Holloway realized he had been smoking for close to a decade—started right after he left the Rangers.

Why did I start?

He squinted.

Who offered me the first one?

The more Holloway thought about it, the more his memory started to clear up. It was 2015, after his first therapy session with Dr. Gilroy.

“Shit,” Holloway whispered, recalling the exact moment he began smoking.

He remembered what was going on in his head at the time.

He had bummed a cigarette from a guy outside the clinic—the same fucker who found out he was a Ranger and gave him his first freelance gig as a “security consultant.”

Dean was right.

I’m running from that thing.

Holloway put his focus out his window, toward the ground—at the water puddle near his left front tire.

In the puddle, Holloway saw the reflection of something underneath the Charger’s front side frame—something blocky, something foreign, some kind of device with a blinking red light nestled in the center.

Hold up.

Holloway opened his door, slipped out, crouched down, and peeked at the vehicle’s undercarriage.

Shit.

He reached under, grabbed the device, ripped it off, and held it in his hand, giving it a closer inspection.

“Fuck,” Holloway grumbled, the soft beep of the device coupled with the little red light reminding him of similar gadgets he had seen in the past.

Goddamn thing is a GPS tracker.

Holloway poked his head up over the hood like a gopher.

Dean walked out of the convenience store.

“Knock ’Em Dead, Kid” by Mötley Crüe thundered through the Charger’s speakers.

Holloway spun to his right.

Gave a sidelong look at the black Audi.

Saw the same rake-thin, shoulder-padded, end-of-your-life assassin who had thrown the knife into his hand back at Jimmy Valenti’s apartment. The man was assessing him with a pair creepy, unblinking eyes as he slid out of his car.

54

The first thing Dean saw when he stepped out of the convenience store was Holloway, veering around in front of his Charger and dropping down on the pavement as he drew his Astra Terminator.

The next thing he saw was the same son of a bitch—the pasty-faced, shoulder-padded fuck nugget who had sliced his cheek with a butterfly knife. The prick was six paces behind the Charger, toting not one but a pair of Glock 17s in his hands that were extended outward toward the car.

Dean ducked.

Whipped out his 1911.

Flicked off the safety and then moved to the left toward a Tesla parked in front of the convenience store. He aligned Shoulder Pads’ head in his weapon’s sights.

You got him.

Dean glided his finger along the trigger.

Take the shot and⁠—

Shoulder Pads twisted right.

When the man was mid-turn, Dean pivoted, leaned with his shoulder, and ducked behind the right side of the Tesla. Shoulder Pads locked his sights on Dean and fired off six shots in rapid succession as Dean was halfway through the process of squeezing the trigger.

Three of Shoulder Pads’ bullets struck the Tesla—the hood, the roof, the driver’s side window. The other three shattered the sliding glass door that led into the convenience store.

“Hollow!” Dean shouted as screams from innocent bystanders erupted throughout the Arco station. Then six more bullets sprayed everywhere, showering Dean with shards of glass.

Holloway looked over the hood of the Charger and saw Shoulder Pads marching forward and advancing on Dean.

Holloway whipped back the hammer of his Astra.

Zeroed in on Shoulder Pads.

Fired a shot.

Ducking down right before Holloway took the shot, Shoulder Pads swung his Glocks around and emptied his last seven rounds into the Charger. Three shots pinged off the trunk. The last four went through the side windows and windshield, one grazing the hood an inch from Holloway’s face.

Holloway ducked.

Cursed under his breath.

Flashed a look at Dean who was squatting down near the Tesla. Holloway heard Shoulder Pads reloading his Glocks.

The gas station sat on the corner of a busy intersection with a steady flow of passing cars and pedestrians. Any stray bullet could easily strike a person or a gas pump and set off a dangerous reaction.

“Hollow!” Dean shouted, catching the gaze of his partner hunkered down by the hood of the Charger.

Dean patted his chest.

Raised his fist.

Motioned with it to the Audi to signal that he was going to provide cover fire. Then he made a chopping motion with his hand, signaling that he wanted Holloway to flank Shoulder Pads.

Holloway nodded.

Dean got into a crouch.

Taking quick deep breaths in and out, Dean peered around the Tesla, raised his weapon, and unloaded all eight rounds into the Audi. Tight groupings. Millimeters apart. Two shots in, Dean saw Shoulder Pads raise his arms in an L-shaped pattern, directing the Glock in his right hand in Dean’s direction and the other one at Holloway.

Dean dropped back into cover behind the Tesla.

Holloway followed suit with the Charger.

Shoulder Pads, disregarding caution, fired both his weapons blind at Dean and Holloway, rattling off twelve shots in total. Several rounds bored into the left side of the Tesla and the right side of the Charger, the rest straying and clipping the windows and tires of nearby cars parked at the station.

“Fuck,” Dean grumbled, ducking back into cover as he ditched his magazine and slapped in another. “Psycho son of a bitch.”

He took a quick glimpse inside the Tesla.

Saw the owner curled up in a fetal position on the back seat.

Shouted at Holloway to offer him cover fire as he opened the driver’s door of the Tesla, got in, and grabbed the shirt of the guy in the back seat.

“Dude! Dude! Dude!” the guy shouted, his hands held up over his head. “Please, don’t kill me. I’ve got a pitch meeting over at Warner in twenty minutes.”

“What’s the pitch?” Dean said.

“A reboot of my dad’s movie.” The guy in the back seat, some scrawny prick with multicolored hair, poked up his head. “The Blues Brothers. I’m calling it The Blues Sisters.”

“Are you Max Landis?”

“Yeah.”

After Dean reached around and punched Max Landis square in his ferret-like face, he caught Holloway through the corner of his eye. He was lying down, pumping the Audi full of lead.

Dean pushed up on the little stalk on the steering column, and the Tesla silently but swiftly backed up. He turned the car 90 degrees and pressed on the brake. The vehicle’s left side was now perpendicular to the front of the Audi.

Muzzle flashes flared on Dean’s left.

With both hands, he stuck his 1911 out his shattered window.

Unloaded his entire magazine into the Audi.

Saw Shoulder Pads—crimson smeared across his right shoulder—hightailing it to the convenience store, firing both Glocks wildly over his shoulders before ducking inside.

Dean pushed down on the little stalk, and the Tesla went forward. He swirled left and arced completely around the pumps before stopping behind the Charger.

Holloway, having fetched his bag of supplies and gear from the Charger’s trunk, opened the Tesla’s back door, hopped inside next to the wannabe film producer, and yelled at Dean to drive.

55

As emergency sirens shrieked in the distance, Dean pushed the little stalk down again, and the Tesla shot out of the Arco station. Dean made a right onto Lankershim and zig-zagged down back streets to evade the authorities who were closing in on the gas station.

“How’d he find us?” Dean said. “How the hell did that guy know where we were?”

“There was a tracker on the car,” Holloway explained. “I saw it underneath the Charger while you were inside.”

“A tracker?”

“The guy with the shoulder pads must’ve put it there when he was scoping us out back at your office. Weird little fucker has been keeping tabs on us this whole time.”

“Well, at least we shook him.” Dean checked his mirrors. “Would’ve preferred killing him and being done with it, but oh well.”

“You shot him though,” Holloway said, stepping over the Tesla owner and climbing onto the passenger seat. “You clipped him in the arm.”

Dean nodded. “I saw.”

“You got the guy driving the Audi too.”

“Who was driving?”

“I don’t know. But you shot him in the head. Twice.”

“Oh God,” Max Landis grumbled, stifling a stomach heave with his fist. “Could you turn on the A/C?”

“Fuck off, Landis,” Dean hollered. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for every single movie you ever wrote, and I’m using the word wrote very generously with you.”

“Please, I⁠—”

“Shut up!” Dean punched the steering wheel as he scanned the road behind and then ahead of him. “We gotta ditch this car. We’re in the weeds now. After the cops pull the CCTV footage from the store, our faces and this Tesla are gonna be all over the news and X and every other goddamn thing.”

“What’re your thoughts about getting a couple first-class tickets to Detroit and lying low for a couple weeks?” Holloway smirked.

“You stole that line.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Max Landis held up his hand. “You did,” he butted in. “That’s from Lethal Weapon. The first one.”

“You sure?” Holloway jerked his body around, gawking at the Tesla owner. “How do you know?”

“A guy I know is pitching a reboot of it to Warner Bros.”

“Didn’t they already do a remake?”

“Yeah, but he wants to do an all-female version⁠—”

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ…” Holloway thrust his thumb over his shoulder. “Of all the people you had to carjack, you opted for Kathleen Kennedy’s kid brother back there.”

“He’s worse than that. Believe me.”

“How so?”

“This back here is Max Landis.” Dean pointed toward the back seat. “He’s John Landis’s kid. He got caught fondling and abusing a bunch of women. He’s also the guy who scribed several of the shittiest movies I’ve ever seen. Not sure how the hell he’s still working around this town.”

“Because I’m committed to my craft,” Landis argued. “Because people can see through my faults to my talents. Because you can never extinguish the flame of an artist⁠—”

Holloway twisted around, socked Max Landis in the mouth, and knocked him into a slumber.

“Thank you,” Dean said as he took a right down Barham. “Now that that’s over, we need to rally here. We gotta think of a play.”

“There’s gonna be an APB on us within the hour, DB,” Holloway emphasized.

“I know.”

“Then that kind of puts a kink in our plans now, don’t you think?” Holloway, double-checking himself for more wounds and finding none, rested back in his seat. “Man, this is so ass-backwards. Of all the shitshows I had to buy a ticket to, I got front row seats for this unmitigated absurdity.”

“Can, I…” Max Landis said, regaining consciousness from the back seat. “Can I write that down? That’s a killer line right there.”

Dean sighed.

Holloway groaned.

A few blocks later, Dean and Holloway got out of the Tesla, took Max Landis’s phone, threatened to come back and break his kneecaps if he didn’t stay put for a full hour, and then called Freddy.

56

By the time the police arrived at the Arco station, Jasper had already made his exit. As soon as he saw the Tesla speed away, he ran outside, looked inside the Audi, and saw Jackson Branson’s brains splattered all over the windshield.

He pulled Jackson’s corpse over onto the passenger seat.

Then got behind the wheel and took off.

Six minutes and a phone call later, he pulled into the garage of a tract-style home in Burbank.

Waving Jasper into the garage was a portly white guy named Mickey—one of Jasper’s sister’s many “contacts” she had accrued over the years. When the Audi was completely in the garage, Mickey thumbed the garage door closed and started gathering cleaning supplies.

Jasper, red-faced, slipped out of the Audi and cradled his injured arm. Mickey, acting as though Jasper wasn’t even there, called out over his shoulder to someone inside the house. Seconds later, a sixteen-year-old kid rushed through the door that led into the garage, his eyes flinty, a can of Red Bull in his hand. He placed it on the Audi’s hood and then helped Mickey load Jackson’s corpse into the trunk.

Jasper went into the house.

Staggered into the living room.

Walked past the television that was halfway through a broadcast of Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction.

Teeth gnashed, Jasper took a right, stepped into a bathroom, and closed the door. He stripped off his shirt and surveyed the cluster of medical supplies he had requested from Mickey on the ride over. It was enough to clean and stitch up the wound where the bullet had grazed his arm.

Crying and mumbling how stupid he was, Jasper went through the process of dousing, stitching, and wrapping the quarter-inch-deep, three-inch long graze on his right arm. He gave the field dressing a once-over, was satisfied that he had done the best he could, and then pulled out his cell and plugged in his sister’s number.

It rang once.

Twice.

On the third ring, Linda answered.

“Sweetie?” she said. “Are you crying?”

“I’m sorry.” A blubbering Jasper threw up his hands. “I can’t do anything right.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m so stupid.” Jasper kicked the lid of the toilet down and sat. “I’m an idiot.” He struck himself twice in the face with his fist. “I’m a stupid, stupid idiot!”

“I can hear you hitting yourself, honey,” Linda said, her voice steady and measured. “Don’t do that. Take a breath.”

“I’m not hitting myself.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m a…” Jasper dropped his mouth open, weeping like a child who had stubbed his toe. “I’m a fucking dummy!”

“Don’t curse, honey,” Linda said. “You know better than that. And don’t you dare say mean things like that about yourself. Now, are you calling from that burner I gave you?”

“I am.”

“Very good.”

“I’m sorry, Linda.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I messed up.”

“Breathe deeply,” she instructed. “Take a moment and count to ten. I need you to tell me what happened. Tell me how you messed up. I promise you, I’ll figure out a way to fix it.”

Jasper breathed deeply.

Counted to ten.

Speaking through choppy breaths, he managed to tell his sister about Pat Wozniak and the assignment he’d been given. He told her about Dean Blackwood, Mike Holloway, and everything he had accomplished—and failed to accomplish—up to that point.

“Don’t worry,” Linda said cooly. “We’ll get this fixed. Where are you now?”

“Mickey’s.”

“Okay, stay put there. I’ll be on my way there in a moment.”

“Where are you?”

“Reno.”

“Reno?” Jasper ripped a piece of toilet paper off the roll and dabbed his eyes. “That’s so far.”

“I have a friend who can fly me into Burbank on a private plane,” Linda said. “I’ll be there in a couple hours. Until then, just sit tight. As soon as I’m there, we’ll fix this thing up good and proper. I’ll call Mr. Wozniak in the meantime and let him know I’m going to be making an appearance.”

“Okay…” Jasper sobbed as he spoke. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a good job.”

“You did do a good job, honey.”

“But I didn’t finish what I was supposed to do.”

“We’ll finish it together,” Linda said. “Now…” Her tone ticked down an octave. “What were the names of these men Mr. Wozniak sent you after?”

“Dean Blackwood,” Jasper told his sister. “And Michael Holloway.” He wiped away the snot under his nose with the back of his hand. “I was supposed to get rid of both of them.”

“And we will, baby boy,” his sister said. “I promise you that.” She sighed deeply, reassuringly. “Together. Just like we used to.”

57

The coastal wind blowing in from the sea whistled through the palm trees that dotted Adam Rubek’s oceanfront property. The governor raised his nose, the saltwater-kissed air caressing his tanned skin and air-drying his sweat-beaded brow. As refreshing as it was, as opulent as the view was from his balcony, he felt a lack of appreciation. He had lived on the property for close to a decade, but taking into account all the highs and lows he had endured since then, it didn’t enthrall him the way it used to.

Back when his wife was still alive, Rubek looked forward to his weekends at this property. He and his wife, Victoria, lived for the escape, for the holiday soirees they would throw during Christmas and New Year’s for their fellow California elites. But once Victoria died, things changed.

Rubek changed.

So did his son, Josh.

Their father-son relationship became strained—personally as well as professionally. There was a lack of cordiality, even in the most basic of senses. Life became work. Work became life. There was nothing else but that and that alone. Rubek didn’t know what was going on with his son’s day-to-day journey. He didn’t have the slightest clue. He understood full well that he was failing to keep a finger on that pulse, but he was simply too busy.

Rubek was about to reach the apex of his career, one that could essentially tee him and Josh up to be set for life in more ways than one.

“I want you,” Vice President Olivia Valasquez said to Rubek three weeks prior, “to be my running mate. I want you on the ticket.”

The level of enthusiasm Rubek had when the call came in instilled in him a level of bliss he hadn’t experienced since Victoria died. If the polling was accurate, Valasquez would win in a landslide, and in eight months, Rubek would be hugging the limelight with power brokers who hadn’t so much as given him a second glance during his tenure as Governor of California.

But then he got a call from Jimmy Valenti—some actor with zero equity who was toting delusions of grandeur that he would one day be the next Jean-Luc Godard. He was a fucking nobody who somehow, some way, managed to get some kind of dirt on Rubek that would fuck the whole thing up before Vice President Valasquez made the announcement.

Rubek thought he had it under control.

Tucker pledged to sort it all out, but the redneck shitkicker went and got himself killed.

The governor panicked.

He hoped, like most people when situations were out of their control, that the issue would die with Tucker and Valenti—but it didn’t. Just shy of twenty-four hours after Tucker started the process of cleaning up the mess, Pat Wozniak, CEO and CFO of the Awakening Center, called and claimed that he was well in the loop on what was going on. He stated that if Rubek wanted the problem to go away, a face-to-face meeting with him was in order.

For the entirety of his position as Governor of California, Rubek had managed to side-step anything in the way of interaction with what the nation viewed as the cult leader of the twenty-first century, Pat Wozniak. But in two minutes’ time, according to the guard at Rubek’s front gate, he was about to not only shake the man’s hand but invite him in for a cup of tea.

Standing on the veranda, gazing out on the ocean, Rubek nursed his Cuban coffee. He heard the front door open. He could make out the footsteps plodding across the marble vestibule, but he didn’t turn around.

“Governor!” Pat Wozniak declared, making his entrance through the swinging doors behind Rubek. “What a wonderful property you have here.”

Rubek, making no attempt to force anything in the way of a smile, angled around and offered his hand. “Mr. Wozniak,” he sneered, shocked that the man was at least a foot shorter than he was. “Welcome.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Governor Rubek.” Wozniak motioned to the man in the formal suit who had escorted him in. “I was just remarking to your staff here what a magnificent compound you have.” He winked. “It’s a shame it took this long to receive an invitation.” He clapped Rubek on the back. “Nevertheless, it is good to be here. And it is great to finally connect with you.”

“The affection is one-sided, Mr. Wozniak. And the invitation was given with a considerable level of reluctance.” Rubek downed the last of his coffee, handed the cup to his majordomo, and started pacing. “And for the sake of time, which will be brief, I’d like to ask that we get right to whatever it is that prompted this encounter.”

“I have to say,” Wozniak’s bleached-tooth grin faded, “I was expecting a bit more pomp and circumstance for these proceedings. After all, you and your late wife were known for your hospitality and extravagance.”

“Cut the shit, you fucking midget! And don’t ever mention my wife again.” Rubek, his complexion flooding with crimson, bent over and stuck his face a few inches from Wozniak’s nose. “If you’re expecting me to put on airs for a conversation that’s clearly going to amount to something in the way of blackmail, you’re fuckin’ dreaming.”

Wozniak paused.

He straightened his back.

Reaching out, he smoothed out Rubek’s cream-colored cotton shirt as his face began to darken.

“All right,” Wozniak said, the chipperness of his tone replaced with sinister undertones. “You wanna cut the shit? I’ll cut the shit. You and I both know that you and your mirthful little squad of grunts have been tearing through LA trying to throw a blanket over this—well, let’s call it an ‘obstacle’ that Jimmy Valenti thrust in your path.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Everything.” Wozniak raised his little shoulders. “All of it. By now, several of your men have been laid waste to, and the item you sent them to look for—which, it turns out, I have also been looking for—has conveniently seen our paths converge.”

“Cut the excess,” Rubek growled. “I’m not in the mood for taking a long walk here.”

“You’ve been looking for a video that Jimmy Valenti stored on an SD card,” Wozniak declared. “Like I said, I’ve been looking for that same video. In a fun twist of fate, that video contains footage of my client, Robbie Aimes. I assume you’ve seen it.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t seen the video?”

“No, motherfucker,” Rubek said. “I haven’t seen the video.”

Wozniak’s jaw went slack. “Well, I’ll be...” He huffed. “I thought you knew. I figured Valenti would have shown it to you.”

“Well, that’s not the case.”

“Then what do you know about the video?” Wozniak asked. “How did it come to your attention?”

“A week ago,” Rubek averted his gaze, “my staff told me Valenti had contacted my office in Sacramento. They said he forwarded a still image from this video to members of my security detail.”

“What was the image?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you look?”

“Life during my twenties was very…” Rubek’s vocal cords felt like they were clenched. “Colorful. I partied long, and I partied hard, so I could only assume whatever Valenti had on me was something to do with some drug-fueled romp from two decades ago that I fail to remember.”

“You were the proverbial partisan of frat house romps, Governor.” Wozniak snickered. “That comes as no surprise when taking into account your pedigree. You were born with a silver spoon jammed so far up your ass that you’ve tasted platinum every day you’ve been alive.” He waved his hand through the air. “But that’s neither here nor there. The topic of discussion here is this video.”

“Valenti contacted my staff about it several weeks ago,” Rubek repeated, annoyed. “Then he sent the image from the video. Whatever was on the video, I don’t know, nor do I care. But my team felt it was enough to warrant taking action, so I gave them the green light.”

“Green light how?”

“A meeting was arranged with Valenti and my people at Dodger Stadium.” Rubek crossed his arms. “Valenti said he would show them the video in exchange for a payoff.”

“But your men chose to silence him.”

“Things took a turn.” Rubek picked at his fingernails. “After Valenti showed my men the video, they tried to strong-arm him into handing over all the copies he had.”

“Took a turn?” Wozniak knitted his brow. “Your people threw him over the railing on the top level of the stadium.”

“He fell.”

“Well, however it went down, the end result was that Valenti died.” Wozniak’s eyebrows touched. “That was the end of the ordeal for him…but not for the video.”

“The SD card Valenti showed my team at the stadium went missing right before he died,” Rubek said. “They searched his body. They searched the morgue and his apartment. They couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“That was where my man came into play,” Wozniak said. “My people.”

“How so?”

“Well, as fate would have it, this same video, as I mentioned before, appears to involve my client Robbie Aimes.”

“Aimes?” Rubek said. “The action film actor?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know him.”

“No, you do not.”

“So what the hell does he have to do with all this?” Rubek threw up his hands. “How does he factor in?”

“Governor Rubek,” Wozniak said, reaching into his pocket. “Perhaps we’re wasting time talking about what’s on the video. I think we’re at the point that it’s best if I simply show it to you.”

He took an SD card out of his pocket.

Held it up.

Minutes later, Wozniak, standing behind Rubek at his office desk, watched with gleeful delight as the Governor viewed footage of the video on his laptop.

As the video played, Rubek’s skin paled.

Wozniak’s slanted smile grew.

Two minutes later, Rubek slammed his computer shut, pushed away from his desk, and grabbed several framed photos—cherished moments of his life and career—off the walls.

“I…” Rubek said, refraining from throwing even a furtive glance at his computer, “I didn’t know.” He held up his hands defensively like he was warding off an incoming attack. “I had no idea.”

“Painful to watch, I’m sure,” Wozniak said, ejecting the SD from the computer. “But now that you’ve seen it, the discussion now needs to pivot to damage control. As of right now, my…” he laughed “sibling duo of wet work artists are in the throes of cleaning up this mess. At any point, I could call them off, and the men they are after, the same men who killed members of your security detail, will most likely go straight to the police with what they’ve learned. By then, your family’s name will be the focal point of every major media outlet in the country.”

A sheet-white Rubek, his shallow breaths causing his chest to rise and fall, sat down on the couch near the door.

“In a few days,” Wozniak went on, “Vice President Valasquez will name you as her running mate. It’s the first time since 1864 that a Democrat will be running on the ticket with a Republican presidential candidate. The circumstances are quite uncommon, but as we both know, the nature of the political world nowadays is astonishingly unpredictable.”

“Please,” Rubek said, his voice tinny. “Just…tell me what you want.”

Wozniak walked over to the governor, stuck his hands in his pockets, and bent over, lording over him. “And though no candidate is free of scandal or compromise, this footage,” Wozniak pointed to the SD card in his hand, “if it were to ever surface, would obliterate your chances of ever becoming Vice President. The way I see it, this little video may very well end your career as you know it.” He placed his hand on top of Rubek’s head, ruffling his hair. “And you don’t want that. For you. Or for your son.” He paused. “Do you?”

“No.” Rubek shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Well, then I think it’s safe to assume that you’re willing to play ball with me.” Wozniak stepped away, moving about the office as though it now belonged to him. “If you do that, we can consider this whole video a dead issue, and you can go on to have a flourishing career over in DC.” He flicked a look toward Rubek. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Rubek nodded. “That’s what I want.” He turned up his eyes. “Now tell me what you want.”

“So many things,” Wozniak said. “Enough items on a wish list that it’s going to take you years—most likely the rest of your life—to fulfill them all. First, I want you to get the ball rolling with your cronies at the IRS to secure the tax-exempt status for the Awakening Center. That’s at the top of the list. Past that, well, I guess we’ll have to treat this whole thing as a when-I-call-you-answer kind of arrangement.”

Rubek, drying his tears with his shirt sleeve, said nothing.

“This next line,” Wozniak continued, “is a bit on par with a Bond villain. But taking into account the Hollywood backdrop here, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it.”

Rubek met his gaze.

Wozniak brought his nose an inch away from the governor’s face and pulled back his lips into a gargoyle-like sneer. “I own you now, Rubek,” he hissed. “You are in my pocket. And for the rest of your life, my organization will benefit from having the next Vice President and the resources of the White House at our disposal.”

Rubek nodded in agreement.

Wozniak clapped his hands together. “Outstanding,” he guffawed. “My God! Listen to me. I’ve been hanging out with actors for so long, I think I’m starting to get this whole arch villain thing down pretty well. Don’t you?”

58

With every cop in the city on the lookout for Dean and Holloway, Dean knew of only one place to go. The fact that it was the only spot to lay low pissed him off to no end. He knew the owner of the house would browbeat him, chew him out, and call him a careless idiot, but what else were fathers for?

“You sure this is a good idea?” Holloway asked, trailing Dean as they got out of the Uber and walked up the steps to the porch of a bungalow-style home besieged by palm trees. “I mean, the way you make your old man out…”

“It’ll be fine.” Dean examined the cuts, scrapes, abrasions, bandages, and dried blood on his arms, face, hands, and leg. “He’s a retired cop.” He pressed on one spot of the doorframe and dug out a key. “Put on Magnum Force and palm him a Budweiser, and he’ll whistle his way past the graveyard ’til sundown.”

Dean slipped the key into the lock. Before he could turn it, the front door swung open. His father, a .44 Magnum in his hand, thrust out the barrel, cocked the hammer, and threatened to plug holes in both of them.

“Ho!” Dean swatted the business end of the weapon away from his face. “Dad! What the hell are you doing?”

“Deano?” Donald Blackwood narrowed his milky, cataract-stricken eyes and tried to assess his son. “That you?”

“No, it’s Gary Cooper.” Dean swiped the weapon away from his old man. “For the love of—” He held it up for a closer examination. “Is this a .44?”

“It damn sure ain’t a BB gun.”

“What the hell are you carrying around a cannon like this for?”

“It’s my house, isn’t it?” Appearing ten years older than he was, Donald shuffled his way into the living room. “And last I checked, this is America. I don’t gotta answer questions on my own stoop about my Second Amendment rights.”

“Unbelievable.” Dean safetied the weapon, put the key back in its secret spot, and motioned for Holloway to step inside. “I swear on Mom’s grave.” He closed the door and fastened the locks. “With your shoddy eyesight and bunked back, you’re gonna blow a hole in the ceiling or into the UPS guy if you keep lugging this thing around.”

“Give me my gun back,” his father said, plopping down on a recliner with decades of wear and tear. “And don’t speak ill of your mother.” Donald snapped his fingers and outstretched his hand. “Come on. Give it back.”

After taking the rounds out of the Magnum, Dean inspected the empty cylinder, spun it, and slapped it back in place. “Here you go.” He put the weapon on his father’s lap. “Let’s keep it empty for a bit so you don’t accidentally shoot off one of your balls.”

“Wise ass.” Donald fetched his Coke-bottle glasses from the food tray beside him. “I was finna get a nap in here the second you knocked on the door.”

“Finna?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Pop, you gotta stop hanging around Freddy. You’re starting to sound like a layabout Gen-Z-er.”

“I like that kid.”

“I’m sure you do,” Dean said. “The two of you hang around here all day pounding family-sized bags of Lays and ripping through Eastwood movies. You’re a match made in heaven.”

“What are you doing here, kid?” Donald replied, signaling at Holloway. “And who’s this piece of shit?”

“Hospitable family,” Holloway remarked. “Christmas around here must be a riot.”

“You should’ve been here last Thanksgiving,” Dean said under his breath. “Pop squeezed off a .38 round into the turkey after he overcooked it.”

“Hope you enjoyed that bullet-riddled bird,” Donald smirked, “because that was the last I’m ever making dinner for you ungrateful clowns.” He put on his glasses and blinked his eyes, his jaw slackening as he took in his son’s tattered, unkempt appearance. “Oh God on high!” He leaned forward in his recliner. “What in the hot friggin’ hell did you get into this time? You look like you dove head first through a plate-glass window.”

“Good observation.”

“What happened to you two? What did you do?” Donald turned up his heated gaze. “And don’t lie and say you haven’t been drinking. You reek like a Russian arms dealer.”

“Pop…” Dean leaned down close to his father’s face. “Do you really want to know? Or do you want to kick back and cite plausible deniability when the cops inevitably come by?”

A grim-faced Donald looked away, palmed the remote, and kept his lips sealed.

“Hollow,” Dean said, guiding his buddy toward the hallway that led to the back of the house. “My old bedroom is in the back. Second door on the right. Find a change of clothes for both of us. We’ll get ourselves cleaned up and head out.”

Holloway checked the time on his watch. “We should get rid of our cell phones in the meantime. The cops are probably scouring through that footage of the gas station by now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to ping our location already.”

Dean fished out his cell phone and handed it to Holloway. “In the closet in my room, there’s a duffel. I’ve got a couple Faraday bags in there. Power down the phones, and put them in one of the bags. There’s also a burner phone in a blister pack in the same bag. We’ll use that in the meantime in case we need to get a hold of anyone.”

“Copy that.” Holloway groaned and cracked his neck. “Becky’s rung me up three times already, man. I don’t know how I’m gonna explain this to her.”

“It’s your family,” Dean shrugged. “Your life. I hate to be a prick, but that’s on you to figure out.”

“Well, you’re right on both counts.”

“We’re wasting time here, bubba.” Dean nudged him down the hallway. “We need to get moving.” He leaned into Holloway’s ear. “While you’re at it, check the safe in the study. It’s next to the bookshelf. The combo is 12-17-54. We’ll snag some of my dad’s hardware in there before we head out.”

While Holloway took care of the phones, got the clothes, and visited the safe, Dean wandered into the kitchen. He turned on the faucet, waited until the water was good and hot, and then splashed some on his face.

Dean heard his father enter the kitchen. Here we go. The old man’s about to offer his opinions.

59

“Well,” Dean’s father said, strolling into the kitchen as Dean rinsed his blood-stained hands. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Pop…” Dean closed his eyes. “Not now.”

“What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But you are in trouble.” Donald scowled. “Right?” You’ve always been a magnet for trouble, kiddo. Ever since you were little.”

“Dad…” Dean balled a fist. “Don’t.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Even if it is, so what?”

Donald opened the fridge and snagged a bottle of Budweiser. “You’ve got a wild, self-destructive streak in you.” Donald twisted the cap of his Budweiser. “And you’re not the only one who suffers because of it. Hell, right when I was reconnecting with my grandkids, their mothers up and split with ’em because you kept coming home looking the way you do right now.”

“Dad!” Dean kicked the cabinet. “Just back off, okay?”

Silence held sway for several moments.

Dean looked at his father.

Donald, gaze turned down, rapped his knuckles on his beer bottle. “You need anything? You look like you’ve been through one hell of a rough patch there.”

“I mean it.” Dean held a fist against his forehead. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I’m just asking if you want a Tylenol or something, slick.”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

While Donald nursed his beer, Dean finished washing his hands, dried them, and opened the fridge. He grabbed some sandwich meat, mayo, and bread.

“You, uh…” Donald began, his voice trembling. “You talk to the kids?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “No, I haven’t talked with the kids.”

“They okay?”

“As far as I know.”

“What about Layla?” Donald took a seat at the kitchen table. “And Claire?”

“What about them?”

“I’m trying to get a sense of how my family is doing, Deano.” Donald hunched over the table. “That’s all.”

“Well, I don’t have any updates for you on that,” Dean told his father as he set about making a pair of sandwiches. “They’re scattered all over the map at the moment. Kind of hard to keep tabs on them.” He grabbed a spoon from the drawer. “To be real with you, they don’t want me keeping tabs on them at the moment.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Deano, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Now you wanna talk,” Dean smirked. “Five seconds ago you were having a ball biting my head off.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Donald stood up and walked toward Dean. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. All I’m hearing is what I get secondhand from Freddy.”

“Take what that kid says with a hefty grain of salt there, Pop.” Dean tossed the mayo-slicked spoon into the sink, grabbed his sandwich, and took a bite. “I’m fine. My buddy and I back there are just sorting some things out at the moment.”

“Like what?”

“Do you really wanna know?”

“Yeah.” Donald stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I really wanna know.”

It took just two minutes for Dean to tell his father the story about Jimmy Valenti, Nikki Caimi, the SD card, and how the LAPD, the Awakening Center, and the Governor of the Great State of California were tearing Los Angeles apart to track him down, along with Holloway and the SD card. He filled a glass with water, sat down, finished his sandwich, and downed the entire glass of water.

“Jesus,” Donald whispered. “You really do know how to pick these cases.”

“Despite my better efforts,” Dean said. “If I had a nickel for every time I went through this…” he counted on his fingers, “I guess I’d have about thirty cents by now.”

Dean’s father flashed a sideways grin. “You’re a SoCal version of that Jack Carr character.”

“Funny you should bring that up.”

“How so?”

“I was thinking of something similar,” Dean said. “Past few days, I’ve been entertaining the idea that I’m living out the plot of a third-rate action movie or thriller book.”

“You are drinking again.”

“I’m having a moment of clarity here, Pop.” Dean looked at his father. “For the sake of the point here, let’s humor the idea that I am a character in an action movie. It’s fitting when you think about it. Every year I get myself mixed up in these kinds of adventures. But as the main character of this little franchise, there’s one thing I’m failing to do.”

“Which is?”

“Learn,” Dean said. “Progress. Evolve. Mature.” He sat back in his chair, gazing longingly at a blank spot on the kitchen wall. “All I do is go from what feels like one prolonged action sequence to another, and all I’ve got to show for it is a series of new scars and contusions.”

“You, uh…” Donald smoothed his eyebrow with his fingers. “You’re looking for that whole—what’s it called—character arc moment or something.”

“You got it.”

“Dirty Harry never had one.” Donald shrugged. “Heck, you could argue some of these heroes don’t need a character arc. Plenty of these tough guys in the film canon never did. They had their scruples and their talents. That’s all they needed. They never needed a breakthrough moment or whatever.”

“Well, I’m not Dirty Harry.” Dean stood up and wandered over by the window above the sink. “And I’m starting to wonder if I’m aimlessly wandering through my life without any real motivation, goal, or reward. I’ve got two kids I don’t see, a pair of exes, and a collection of dour memories composed of fistfights and car chases. If this were a movie, all my exploits would be regarded as nothing more than a protracted, adrenaline-charged, blue-blooded male audience crowd-pleaser.”

“If this was a film,” Donald chimed in, “then the critics and fans would say you’re going all meta on your own story at the moment.”

“I am.” Dean nodded, his eyes skimming Echo Park Lake out the kitchen window. “Look, I’ve gotta make a change here, Pop. I need to start figuring things out instead of wallowing in…” he shrugged, “whatever it is that I’m wallowing in. I gotta move forward.” He threw up his hands. “I’m just at a loss of what that looks like.”

A few moments ticked by.

A car horn honked in the distance.

The chuff of the A/C rattled in the hallway.

“I, uh…” Donald began, “I’ve been having some problems myself lately.”

Dean turned around. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

“Really?” Dean tamped down his urge to smile, completely baffled by his hardheaded father’s admission. “Since when?”

“A few months,” his father said. “After what happened with the Sarkissians, my house arrest, and my…” he sighed, “heart thing I developed a few years back, your sister Sheila recommended I get some counseling.”

“Sheila told you that?” Dean smiled. “I’m shocked you went for it.”

“She didn’t give me much choice.” Donald fiddled with the label on his Budweiser bottle. “I think I came at her a little hot the last few times we spoke over the phone. She went from dropping subtle hints about talking to someone to telling me she outright refused to talk to me anymore until I got some therapy. So I did.”

“Is it helping?”

“I think so,” Dean’s father nodded. “I’m starting to realize that I never came to terms with a few things in my life. Your mother’s passing was a big one. That’s a given.” His hands trembled. “But I think the biggest, whatever they call it, ‘trigger’ was what happened to your brother.”

Dean recalled the car speeding down the street.

His brother Tommy getting mowed down by it.

The years he spent angry and outraged and gunning for the guys who were responsible for the whole thing.

“We got ’em, Pop,” Dean said. “All of ’em. We got justice⁠—”

“But we didn’t get closure,” Donald butted in. “Am I happy that the Sarkissians and all those other fuckers responsible for Tommy’s death are locked away? Of course I am.” He gestured to his son. “I know you are too.” He paused, staring down at his wilted hands. “But you and I spent twenty years being angry. We chewed up a third of our lives stewing in rage and indignation because of what happened to your brother.” He looked up at his son. “Let’s be honest—we never came to terms with that. It ate us up. It’s still eating us up.”

Dean, feeling like his legs were about to give out, took a seat across from his father. He thought about grabbing a brew from the fridge, but the notion of a drink—for the first time in months—made him feel nauseous.

“Think about it, kid,” Donald went on. “You live that way for too long, it affects every facet of your life. It impacts your health. Your mindset. Even worse, it affects every member of your family.”

“I came to terms with that, Pop,” Dean said. “I did.”

“I don’t think you did, son.” Tears welled up in Donald’s eyes. “And I blame myself for you turning out the way you did. I was supposed to set an example for you, and I failed. I failed completely. When you boil down all the lessons I imparted to you, all I taught you was how to shoot, run, and be angry. Look at what that did in the long run. I’m not trying to be hard on you. I’m simply saying that maybe you and I really haven’t found closure with certain things, at least not in the way we should’ve.”

Dean said nothing.

His father met his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Donald said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I should have been a better father. I should have protected you. I should have taught you better. Maybe if I did, none of this would have ever happened. That’s why I come at you the way I do. The more I think about how angry I get with you, the more I realize I’m angry with myself.”

“You should be angry at how things turned out for all of us,” Dean replied. “And you’re right. I don’t think I ever really faced what happened with Tommy. All I did was run from it. I guess after all these years, it finally caught up with me.” He motioned to the Budweiser in front of his father. “I’ve been avoiding dealing with it any way I can.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“I still think we can get out of this.” Donald reached over and patted his son’s hand. “There’s still time. Knowing we’ve got a problem is solving half the problem.”

“Not bad, Dad.” Dean flexed his brow. “If this were a movie, they’d call this a breakthrough moment between father and son.”

“Right.” Donald sniffed. “Really Last Crusade type of shit.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “According to my shrink, there’s something called ‘the shadow self.’ It’s pretty much the part of our minds filled with all the unresolved crap we never came to terms with. Apparently, everyone has it. We’re all running from something. I’ve got it. You’ve got it.” He shot his chin toward the living room. “Heck, I’m sure your friend out there does too. Once my therapist dropped that on me, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“I think about it too,” Dean said, “and probably will even after I get through this whole thing.”

“Well, action hero.” Donald cleared his throat. “If this is a film, what’s the next scene?”

Pounding erupted on the front door.

Dean shot up out of his chair.

His 1911 in his hand, he mumbled to his father, “The action scene,” and he flicked off the safety on his weapon.

60

Peeking through the peephole of the front door, Dean saw Benny Zelada. The detective was pacing the stoop outside, his phone pressed to his ear and mumbling something to whoever he was speaking to.

“Shit,” Dean hissed as he retreated back into the kitchen. “Of course it’s him.”

“Him who?” Donald said.

“Benny Zelada.”

“Benny Boy Zelada?” Donald shot a look toward the front door. “My old rookie?”

“Yep.” Dean, turning in a circle, quickly slapping together a plan. “He’s probably onto us after what happened at Jimmy Valenti’s apartment.”

Knuckles struck the front door again—more fervent, less patient.

“Okay.” Dean turned his father around. “I need you to spin some bullshit to him, Pop. He’s checking to see if we’re here.”

Dean and his father headed down the hallway. Holloway poked his head out of the study. “What’s up?”

“Cops are outside,” Dean whispered.

“Peachy.”

“No kidding.” Dean grabbed his father by the shoulders. “Keep Zelada busy while Holloway and I duck into a room somewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Donald held up his hand. “I did this for decades, kiddo. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m serious.” Dean signaled down the hallway. “Do not let him come inside.”

“Just go,” his father said, shoving him down the hallway as the pounding on the front door intensified. “Go, go, go.”

Dean and Holloway ducked into the study, closed the door, and hid in the closet.

Dean heard his father clear his throat and shout toward the front door. “Coming!” He prayed that Zelada wouldn’t insist on doing a walk-through of the premises.

“Easy does it,” Dean whispered, standing nose to nose with Holloway inside the cramped chamber. “Hopefully, the old man can shoo him away.”

“Christ, DB.” Holloway waved his hand in front of his face. “Is that bologna?”

“I made a sandwich.”

“You didn’t make me one?”

“I was getting to it.” Dean pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet.”

They waited.

Dean heard the front door creak open.

“Benny!” Donald Blackwood greeted. “The heck are you doing here?”

“Captain,” Zelada said, offering his hand. “How are you?”

“Decent. Yourself?”

“I’m all right.” Zelada threw a look over Donald’s shoulder. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Donald motioned to his recliner. “I was just getting ready to zonk out in front of the TV.”

“I, uh…” Zelada smirked. “Thought I heard you talking to somebody.”

“It was probably the TV.”

“Really?” Zelada squinted, crooking a finger past Donald’s shoulder. “Sounds like the TV’s off there, hermano.”

“I switched it off before I answered the door.” Donald puffed up his chest to take up more space in the doorway. “What’s going on, kid? What can I do for you?”

“Well, Donald,” Zelada took out a stick of gum, tore it in half, and stuck one of the halves in his mouth. “I think you might have a pretty good idea why I’m here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Zelada’s eyes tapered. “Really.”

Dean and Holloway, pressed up against each other in the cramped closet, listened as Zelada grilled Donald Blackwood.

“Yo,” Holloway whispered. “You got Tic Tacs on you?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “Why?”

“Your breath smells like shit.”

“Shut up.”

“For real, I’d rather get arrested than smell your breath for one more second.”

“Hollow…” Dean held up a fist. “I swear to God.”

“Donny,” Zelada said, spacing his feet apart. “I’m sure you caught wind of what’s going on with Dean.”

“Nope.” Donald shrugged. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Is that so?”

“You want me to repeat it six more times for clarity, Benny Boy?”

“Look, hombre.” Zelada placed his hands on the doorframe and leaned in. “Your kid’s caught up in some pretty heavy shit right now. I’ve got an eyewitness report that your boy was at the scene of a crime a few hours ago.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Benny,” Donald said. “You should know better than to run with a theory based on eyewitness testimony alone.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Why don’t you divulge it to me?”

“Why don’t you let me inside so I can make sure Dean isn’t here,” Zelada pressed. “There’s a lot going on, and I don’t have time to⁠—”

“Benny,” Donald cut in, “unless all you’re working with here is a request in lieu of a warrant, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“I see.” Zelada pushed off the doorframe, stood back, and eyed the windows on either side of the door. “So you’re gonna stick with the story that he’s not here, I’m taking it.”

“I am,” Donald said. “Because he’s not.”

“What if I did get a warrant?”

“You wanna waste time finding a judge that’ll sign off on it, be my guest.” Donald nodded over his shoulder. “I’ll be throwing back beers and watching Steve McQueen flicks in the meantime.”

“Donald…” Zelada sighed. “Don’t do this, boss.”

“Call me Captain, you little prick,” Donald said. “All the time I’ve put into the department, I earned it.” He stepped out onto the front porch. “And you’ve got a lot of balls coming here making demands, especially after that assist I gave you with your brother⁠—”

“Captain—”

“If it wasn’t for me,” Donald pressed on, his complexion tinted red, “you’d still be doing patrol in Boyle Heights. I made you, kid. The brass would’ve reamed your ass after that shit you pulled, but I went to the mattresses for you. You got not only justice for your brother but a career because of me, and don’t you ever forget that.”

Zelada said nothing.

Donald held his gaze.

The detective then took out a card, reached around Donald, stuck it in the doorframe, and backed away.

“Your kid’s in a lot of trouble, Don,” he said. “There’s a chance I can help him, but he’s gotta come in and tell me his side of this story. Knowing this family the way I do, I’ve got a feeling he’s gonna try to blast his way out of this one. If he goes that route,” he turned and walked across the porch, “I won’t be able to help him by that point.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Donald said as he backed into the house. “Always good to cross paths with you, kid.”

He slammed the door shut.

He locked it.

A beat later, Dean and Holloway, like a pair of meerkats, stuck their heads out the door of the study.

“We good?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” his father replied as he picked up on Benny Zelada’s cruiser pulling out of his driveway. “He’s gone.”

61

Afull hour went by before Dean decided it was safe enough to leave. Dressed in a fresh pair of jeans, Nike Bruin sneakers, and a David Lee Roth T-shirt, Dean adjusted the bag filled with Holloway’s gear, handguns, ammo, protein bars, and a burner phone. He thanked his father once again for running interference.

“I mean it, Dad.” Dean shook his father’s hand. “I know I’ve asked for a lot here.”

“Just get this thing finished, okay? Zelada or someone else is bound to come back here with a warrant before too long.” Donald gently patted his son’s cheek. “I’ve got a good mind to turn you in for going rogue like this.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I kind of want to see you stick it to both the PD and the Awakening Center on this one,” Donald said. “Not to mention the Governor of California. Besides, you’re my kid. I can’t turn you in. You’ve also got a solid track record of pulling miracles out of your ass at the last second, so I’m sure you’ll think of some clever way to get yourself out of this.” He flicked a glance at Holloway. “And you?”

“Yes, sir?” Holloway said, dressed in a white tee, flannel shirt, and jeans.

“Take care of my kid.” Donald shook Holloway’s hand. “Get him back here in one piece.”

“I will.”

“And Deano,” Donald looked into his son’s eyes. “Think about what we were talking about. Hell, maybe when this is all finished, we can pick that conversation back up.”

“Will do.”

“Be good.” Donald offered his son the keys to his Ford Focus. “Try not to wreck it.”

“I’ll try.” Dean held up the keys and jiggled them. “No promises.”

His father nodded.

Dean replied in kind.

Then Dean followed Holloway out, did a quick scan of the neighborhood, hopped in his father’s Ford Focus in the driveway, and backed out.

“Hollywood, here we come,” Holloway said as he fastened his seatbelt on the passenger seat. “What’s the name of this place Freddy said Robbie Aimes was at?”

“Playhouse Hollywood.” Dean checked his mirrors and backed into the street. “Let’s see if we can get anything out of Aimes.”

“How’re we getting in?”

“Freddy’s gonna come in handy on that.”

“How?”

“Kid’s got some friends in the business.” Dean drove to the stop sign, toggled his turn indicator, and turned right. “I called him on the burner right before we left. Freddy has a buddy who does production assistant gigs. He’s working on the set we’re going to right now. Freddy said he pulled some favors, whatever that means, and got us in as background artists.”

“Oh, great idea!” Holloway said. “Instead of hiding our faces, we’re gonna choose to show them even more.”

“We just need to get as close to Aimes as we can. We’ll find him, talk to him, and see if that leads us anywhere.”

“And if that produces shit,” Holloway looked at Dean, “what then?”

“Well,” Dean laughed, “then we’re fucked.” He linked up with the freeway on ramp to his right. “Unfortunately, it’s all we’ve got to work with at the moment. If Aimes is a bust, we’ll have to consider either turning ourselves in or running as far away as we can.”

“I’m not doing either of those things.” Holloway stared out his window. “I’ve got a family, DB. I’ve gotta get back to them. I’m in too deep here.” He shook his head. “All because I said yes to one too many of the wrong jobs.”

“Same.” Dean eased into the traffic flowing steadily on the freeway. “Had a whole conversation with my old man about that.”

“Yeah,” Holloway fiddled with his seat, leaning back. “I overheard you guys talking. Your pops brought up that ‘shadow self’ thing. That was Carl Jung.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“I overheard somebody mention it one time.” Holloway nodded. “It proposes this idea, in shitty layman’s terms, that we’re all running from unresolved shit in our past. Should’ve been in the room with you guys when you were talking about it. Think your old man was onto something there.”

“So,” Dean said. “What’re you running from, Hollow?”

“Let’s save the confessions and hugs for the end of the third act, DB.” Holloway took out his Astra, checked the rounds, and slipped the weapon in the side of his jeans. “Right now, I wanna go to Hollywood.”

“Sure thing, buddy.” Dean eased his foot down on the gas. “Tinseltown it is.”

“That was dumb.”

“Yeah.” Dean admitted. “Jack Reacher probably would’ve said something cooler.”

62

Two blocks from Playhouse Hollywood, Dean parked his father’s Ford Focus in a $20 flat rate lot. If something happened and he couldn’t get back to it, he’d just pay the fee to get it out of a tow yard after it inevitably got hauled away.

Dean and Holloway got out of the car and strolled down the sidewalk. “All right,” Dean said, checking his watch. “Freddy’s gonna meet us right outside the set. He’s linking up with his production assistant buddy right now who’s gonna take us inside.”

“This whole plan of going in as background actors is stupid. I’ve got a fake badge.” Holloway motioned to the bag over Dean’s shoulder. “We could just flash it to whoever’s on set and⁠—”

“And what then, Holloway? Tell them we’re the LAPD? That we want to talk to Aimes? Turn it into a whole thing? Run the chance of someone trying to vet our fugazi credentials and get our asses kicked off the set, maybe even arrested, before we have a chance to talk to Aimes?”

“What about cops?” Holloway said, strolling beside Dean down the sidewalk. “Don’t they have a handful of them on site for these film shoots?”

“They probably have a couple, yeah.”

“I trust you see the problem with that.”

“These guys are off-duty cats.” Dean nodded at the trailers, canopies, and a slew of catering, wardrobe, lighting, and camera trucks jammed together in the middle of Wilcox Avenue straight ahead. “They’re loafers. All they do is patrol the set to make sure the paparazzi doesn’t try to get inside. They won’t be on the lookout for us.”

“You sure?”

“A hundred percent certain? Not really.” Dean checked his watch again. “I’m just clinging onto a bit of wishful thinking here.”

Not far from the plastic barricades set up around the set, Dean saw Freddy near what looked like a craft services table. He was conversing with a guy in camo shorts, a black T-shirt, and a ballcap. The guy had a radio clipped to his hip, the cord leading up to an earpiece tucked snugly in his ear.

Swingin’.

Dean whistled with two fingers.

There’s our in.

Freddy, spotting Dean, motioned for his production assistant pal to follow him, ducked under the barricade, and hustled over. The kid was chowing down a bag of beef jerky in one hand and chasing it down with a Red Bull in the other. Dean zeroed in on Freddy’s bulging pockets, probably filled with candy bars and chip bags he had swiped off the craft services table.

“Yo! Yo!” Freddy called out before taking another swig of his Red Bull. “I was worried you guys wouldn’t make it.”

“Hey, kid.” Dean pointed to the phone sticking out of his protege’s shirt pocket. “You better be using a burner like I told you to.”

“I am,” Freddy groaned. “I locked my real phone in that bag back at the office, like you said. Had to bail on a convo I was having with a Bumble swipe, thanks to you.”

“You’ll get over it. She probably doesn’t deserve you anyway.” Dean put his focus on the PA. “Freddy, is this your boy?”

“Nick Bolton,” the PA said, fiddling with his radio. “You guys are…” He leered at the wounds still prominent all over Dean and Holloway. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Friends of mine,” Freddy explained. “This here is my boss, Dean Blackwood. I need you to get him inside the set. He wants to talk to Robbie Aimes.”

“Aimes?” Bolton huffed. “That’s a tall order, man. That prissy little tool has been moping around in his trailer when the cameras aren’t rolling. Guy’s got a giant stick up his ass about something at the moment.”

“By the way,” Holloway commented. “How did you pull off getting us roles as background players? I mean, this isn’t the old days of Hollywood. It’s not exactly as easy as snapping two fingers.”

“Well, Nicky here,” Freddy said, smacking his bag of jerky on the PA’s back, “owes me 450 bucks from the last poker game we played at his place. I told him we could call it even if he got you guys in here for me.”

“You play poker?” Dean asked.

“Wednesdays and Saturdays.” Freddy winced. “I got a social life too, man. It’s not all about you.”

“Look,” Bolton said, leaning in close. “You guys need to be cool while you’re in there. If anyone finds out I let you in, I’m gonna be in deep shit.”

“Where’s Robbie Aimes?” Holloway asked.

“He’s inside.” Bolton pointed his finger toward the building on the corner, smack dab on Hollywood Boulevard. “They’re rehearsing the scene right now.” He patted his radio. “Pretty sure they’ll start rolling cameras soon, so if you guys want to get in there, you better get in there.”

“Why don’t we just send Freddy in?” Holloway nodded to the kid. “We can get him to lure Aimes out and⁠—”

“That would be a bust,” Freddy explained. “I already walked right up to Aimes and tried to talk to him, and he told me to go blow myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch Reckless Endangerment again. Whoever made up that old saying was right—never meet your heroes, man.”

“I don’t like this.” Holloway’s expression puckered. “This is on-the-fly, seat-of-your-pants bullshit.”

“You got a better idea?” Dean said. “If you do, I’m all ears.”

“Is this what you do all the time? This making-it-up-as-you-go nonsense?” Holloway shook his head.

“More often than not.” Dean handed Freddy his go-bag for safekeeping. “If you’re looking for something in the way of a more traditional procedure, you’d better go read a Harlan Corben or James Patterson novel.”

“Dean’s more like John Wick with a bit of McClane peppered in,” Freddy chimed in. “It’s fun, but I get how it can be exhausting for some people.”

“I swear to God…” Holloway clenched his fists. “If someone utters another literary or pop culture reference, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Holloway and I will take it from here,” Dean told the PA. “All we need is five minutes with the guy.” He turned toward the barricade. “And the sooner we get in there, the better.”

“Hold up a minute.” Bolton pressed a palm into Dean’s sternum, realized his mistake, and quickly pulled his hand away. “You guys can’t go in there like that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a period piece. It’s all 1980s wardrobe. You guys need to snag some stuff from the wardrobe department if you’re gonna blend in.”

“What are they shooting?” Holloway asked. “What’s the movie?”

“Another shitty remake.” Bolton rolled his eyes. “Second one I’ve worked on this month. I’m starting to think we’re at the tail end of good or original ideas. They’re doing interiors here in LA before they go on location to Florida next week.”

“I could care less,” Dean commented. “As long as it’s not another reboot of Miami Vice, it’s no sweat off my ass.”

Bolton squinted.

Freddy stifled a laugh.

Dean asked them both what they thought was so goddamn funny.

63

Dean was now dressed in a pastel green polyester suit with the sleeves rolled up. A layer of concealer on his face covered his injuries. Holloway sported a pinstripe shirt under a lavender-hued blazer. Together they swaggered side by side onto the set of the remake of Miami Vice.

“So fucking stupid,” Dean mumbled, shaking his head, surveying a club space that had been retrofitted to look like a neon-soaked club on South Beach. “This is the second time they’ve remade this show.”

“Are you surprised?” Holloway adjusted his oversized collar. “Honestly, I think the biggest offense here is that Vin Diesel is producing this abomination.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Let it go.”

“Look, they already remade it once with Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx.” Dean held up his hands. “That was a solid art house film. Maybe it wasn’t for conventional audiences, sure, but⁠—”

“Hey, DB.” Holloway grabbed him by the arm. “Remember what you said about Jack Carr? About him wasting pages and word counts talking about gear when there’s more important stuff going on in the background?”

Understanding that he was making the same mistake, Dean nodded, clenched his teeth, and said nothing more.

“All right!” a booming voice called out over a megaphone. “We’re gonna roll here in a second. Let’s get all the background into place, please.”

Scanning the set for signs of Aimes, Dean spotted the director—he was fairly certain it was David Gordon Green. He was assuming his position in front of a series of monitors to the left of the camera—aka, video village.

“Green?” Dean whispered to Holloway. “The guy who did the sequel to The Exorcist? Goddamnit! That motherfucker needs to stay in his lane.”

“Bro,” Holloway leaned into his ear. “Enough.”

Fighting every urge to throw a shit fit over what he considered an appalling waste of studio resources, Dean—after being wrangled by the background coordinator—was guided to the dance floor in the center of the club. The space was packed with over fifty extras dressed to the nines in vintage ’80s clothing—leather jackets, acid-washed jeans, peplum dresses, power suits. There was an interesting variety of hairstyles—feathered, Jheri curls, side ponytails, mohawks, and the side-part “boyish” look.

“I want you guys to dance in place here,” the background coordinator said, talking at a breakneck speed. “Act really coked up. Very ’80s. Like you used to do when you were teenagers.”

“The fuck?” Dean replied. “How old do you think we are, man?”

“Just dance, okay?” the sweating, overworked coordinator barked before turning to address the other extras. “Listen up, everybody!” He clapped his hands several times. “The lead actors are going to walk through when the director yells ‘action.’ The whole scene is Crockett and Tubbs looking for a drug dealer. When they walk through, they’ll nudge people on the dance floor aside. At one point, they’re gonna stop and dance for a quick second. Don’t talk to them. Don’t touch them. All you guys need to do is dance. That’s it.”

“DB,” Holloway said as the coordinator retreated to video village. “Careful how much you gyrate your hips while you’re cutting up the floor, okay? We spin around too fast, our guns are gonna fall out of our waistbands.”

“Copy that.” Dean craned his neck, scouring the area near the cameras. “We’re actually in a good position here. If Aimes walks past us, we can mumble in his ear or something.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know.” Dean, realizing how insane that plan was, felt the urge to have a drink. “I guess we’ll have to improvise.”

What can I say to this guy?

What’s gonna get his attention?

Dean scoured through the list of people he had interactions with during the case and thought of Nikki Caimi—the woman who kick-started the whole ordeal he was involved in. He tallied the odds were three-to-one that mentioning her to Robbie Aimes would get his attention.

A few moments later, the coordinator shouted, “Background, action!”

Over the house speakers, the lush, layered synthesized intro of Billy Ocean’s “Stay the Night” started to play.

A few seconds later, David Gordon Green yelled, “Action, Robbie and LaKeith!”

On Dean’s left, through the hazy cold ice cloud that some SFX tech had created, he saw Robbie Aimes and LaKeith Stanfield—Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs—strolling with an indifferent coolness onto the dance floor.

“LaKeith Stanfield as Tubbs?” Dean remarked, dancing in place next to Holloway. “Okay, that’s pretty solid casting. I’ll give them that.”

Dean tracked Robbie Aimes, watching as the actor puffed his chest, flashed a smirk, and kept his body angled toward the camera. Moving in rhythm to the music with the actor playing Tubbs, the pair made their way onto the dance floor, smirking, grinning, and hamming it up as they danced with several extras, broke off, danced some more, and kept moving.

“Here we go,” Holloway said. “He’s coming right up to us.”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “I see him. Now’s our chance.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna drop a pair of names on him,” Dean said. “Five bucks says his head will turn when I do it.”

Dancing next to Holloway, Dean suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at how silly they looked. He waited until Robbie Aimes crossed in front of him.

The actor cruised past him.

Dean took a step toward him.

Then he whispered, “Nikki Caimi says hello.”

Robbie’s head whipped around.

They locked eyes.

Robbie’s mouth fell open.

David Gordon Green yelled, “Cut!” and ordered all the actors to go “back to one.”

64

“Okay. Great,” David Gordon Green spoke into his megaphone. “That’s good. Looks great. Let’s take it back to one. Everyone reset.”

The music shut off.

The background actors stopped dancing.

LaKeith Stansfield went back to his first mark.

Robbie Aimes studied Dean, his complexion paling significantly despite the copious amounts of makeup caked on his face.

“Dude…” Robbie said, his eyelids twitching. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Nikki Caimi,” Dean replied.

“What?”

“Jimmy Valenti.”

“The fuck—?” Robbie glanced around the dance floor. “What the hell is this, man?”

“Tell the director you need to take five, Robbie. We have to talk. It’s in your best interest—unless you want that video you’ve been looking for to get out in the open.”

Robbie said nothing.

Dean shrugged.

Holloway stepped in, pulled open his lavender blazer, and let the grip of his Astra peek out of his waistband.

“David!” Robbie shouted. “I need five.”

“Robbie,” the director threw up his hands. “We need to⁠—”

“I need five, goddamnit! Just pitch your fucking remake of The Princess Bride to Foxx or something while I take a breather.”

Robbie motioned at Dean to follow him and walked off the set.

Dean and Holloway trailed after him.

They stepped out of the club and held court next to the fleet of trailers outside.

“Listen,” Robbie said, holding up his hands. “I don’t know what this is, but⁠—”

“We know about the video,” Dean cut in. “About Jimmy Valenti. About Nikki Caimi. And for the sake of cutting through needless exposition here, we’re two guys with a vested interest in finding out what’s so special about this thing that’s got half the power players in Los Angeles killing everyone in their path to get their hands on it.”

“For chrissakes,” Robbie groaned, leaning against a wardrobe van. “I thought this was over. Pat said⁠—”

“Pat Wozniak?”

“You know him?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” Holloway said. “Wozniak was the one who hired me to look into this whole thing. That was before he sent some whacked-out goon to try to take my head off.”

“I don’t…” Robbie said, shaking uncontrollably. “Pat said⁠—”

“What’s on this video people are looking for, Robbie?” Dean inched closer to the actor. “What did Nikki Caimi have on you?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you lie to me again, I’m gonna curb-stomp you right here in front of God and the rest of the world.”

“I don’t know!” Robbie shouted. “I mean it. Goddamnit, Wozniak said the video was gone, that it was all dealt with. He told me that right before I headed over here to the set.”

“It’s not over, Robbie,” Holloway said. “There’s a second copy of the video out there somewhere. It’s stored someplace on an SD card.”

“There’s a second copy?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Dean smiled. “And whatever is on this SD card, it’s got something to do with Adam Rubek.”

“Josh’s dad?” A shock-stricken Robbie hindered a gasp. “Oh, fuck! How does he⁠—?”

“Wait,” Dean butted in. “What do you mean ‘Josh’s dad’?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I…” Robbie blinked his eyes. “I must’ve misspoke.”

“The fuck you did,” Holloway said. “You said ‘Josh’s dad.’ You didn’t say ‘who?’ or ‘what?’ or even ‘the governor.’ You said ‘Josh’s dad.’ What do you mean by ‘Josh’s dad’?”

“Please,” Robbie’s lips trembled, his eyes glossing over with tears. “Don’t let him get involved in this.”

“Who?”

“Josh.”

“Robbie,” Dean reached out and grabbed the actor by the arm. “Slow down. Tell us who you’re talking about.”

“I can’t do this.” Robbie stripped off his blazer, threw it down, and started to walk backward. “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. This is making me crazy. I’m losing my fucking mind!”

“Robbie,” Holloway said. “Hold up a second.”

“No!” Robbie spun around and broke off in a sprint. “I can’t do this. I need to leave. I’m done. I can’t!”

“Robbie—”

“No!” The actor ran in a flat-out sprint toward the sidewalk. “I wanna go home. I need to go home!”

“Goddamnit,” Dean hissed as he and Holloway gave chase. “Robbie, wait!”

“Leave me alone!” Robbie shouted, running down the sidewalk toward the intersection, tearing at his hair and clothes as he turned up his head toward the heavens. “I want to go home!”

“Kid, you’re gonna⁠—”

A quick beat later, Robbie stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard. The front of a pickup truck speeding down the street slammed into him, the actor’s body bending at an unnatural angle before it slipped under the truck’s chassis and was trampled by the tires.

Dean froze.

Holloway did the same.

Horns honked.

A woman close by screamed.

“Shit,” Dean hissed, watching as blood pooled around Robbie’s broken arms, legs, and torso. “This ain’t good.”

65

Running as fast as they could away from the scene, Dean and Holloway ditched their wardrobe jackets and hollered to Freddy who was camped out by the craft services table.

“Kid!” Dean shouted. “Let’s go.”

“Dude!” Freddy angled around, a cup of frozen yogurt in his hand, his mouth in the throes of dissolving a generous dollop. “They’ve got four flavors⁠—”

“Move your ass!”

Freddy, holding the bag with Dean and Holloway’s clothing, sprinted after the pair as he dug out his car keys from his pocket.

“Take a left at the end of the block,” Dean’s protege said, now right behind them. “I’m parked by a meter.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Oh, crap. Is that Aimes over there on the⁠—?”

“Yes,” Dean snapped, grabbing the bag of clothes from Freddy. “Just keep running.”

A block later, Dean, Freddy, and Holloway arrived at Freddy’s Toyota Camry and piled inside.

“Damn it!” Freddy pointed to the parking ticket on his windshield. “I forgot about the meter.”

“Drive, kid,” Dean barked from the passenger seat. “Go!”

Freddy pulled away.

Made a U-turn.

Kept driving—per Dean’s instructions—toward the direction of the closest on ramp.

“What happened?” Freddy asked as soon as they were on the freeway. “Did Aimes get run over?”

“He did,” Dean said. “He flipped out on us when we started asking questions about the video. Pretty sure his brain broke.”

“I can understand why,” Holloway commented from the back seat.

“Well, I’m about two steps behind him.” Dean cranked up the A/C. “We didn’t get anything useful out of Aimes. And now we’ve been spotted at not one, not two, but three crime scenes in the greater Los Angeles area in under twenty-four hours.”

“Crazy when you think about it,” Freddy said. “That’s like Guiness Book of World Records kind of odds.”

“Okay. Enough,” Holloway cut in sharply, poking his head through the front seats. “We need to figure out what he meant when he said ‘Josh’s dad.’”

“Well, that’s easy,” Dean replied. Governor Adam Rubek has a son named Josh. He took out his phone and did a quick Google search. “Josh Rubek, Adam Rubek’s son, according to the web. He’s fifteen. Apparently, he’s the only kid Rubek has.”

“What does that have to do with our thing?” Holloway asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’re doing nothing but wasting your 5G here.” Holloway sat back in his seat. “Knowing that Josh Rubek is the son of Adam Rubek doesn’t get us any closer to the second copy of this video.” He looked at Dean. “We’re fucked, man. It’s over. We’ve got no other plays to make here.”

“No.” Dean said nothing for a moment, his head throbbing because his body was screaming for a drink. “We don’t.”

“Then what do you propose we do?”

“We need to run.” Dean closed his eyes. “If we turn ourselves in, we’ll either go to jail or get killed on the way there. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Wait,” Freddy cut a quizzical look at his boss. “Are you saying we lost?”

“Yeah, kid.” Dean put his focus out his window. “We lost.”

66

Aquarter of the way through The Bridge on the River Kwai, Donald Blackwood heard the chime of his doorbell. Rising from his recliner, certain it was Zelada with a warrant in his hand, he protracted the process and trudged to the door.

“That was fast, Benny Boy,” Donald said as he unfastened the locks and opened the door. “Who’d you get to sign it? Judge Woosley or⁠—?”

Seeing that the caller wasn’t his old rookie, Donald clamped his mouth shut. In stark contrast to Zelada, the Hispanic detective who grew more distinguished as the years went by, his caller was a petite blonde woman . She was dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck, her penetrating blue eyes and sharp features evoking the striking essence of Debbie Harry in her prime.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” Donald replied.

“I’m Linda.”

“Hello, Linda.”

“Are you Donald?” She tilted her head to the side. “Blackwood?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Me.”

“On behalf of who?” Recalling that he left his .44 back in the living room, Donald silently berated himself for losing his touch.

“I represent Mr. Wozniak from the Awakening Center,” Linda said. “And I’d like to have a word with you.”

“About what?”

“About who,” she specified. “Your son, specifically.”

“That a fact?” Donald, his hand gripped firmly on the door, prepared himself to throw the thing shut and make a move for his gun. “What’d he do this time?”

“He upset my brother.” Linda looked to her left and curled her finger, motioning for someone to approach. “He was very mean to him.”

“Sounds about right.” Donald grinned. “The kid’s got a talent for pissing folks off.”

“Well, I don’t take kindly to people upsetting my brother.” Linda flashed an understated smile to whoever was beside her. “Jasper, honey, come here.”

“I don’t want to,” a delicate and restrained voice responded. “I’m still mad.”

“I know you are.” Linda beckoned for the unseen man to come to her side. “Please, come here.”

Donald, eyes widening, leaned back as an imposing man with boyish looks and apathetic eyes stepped over beside his sister. The shoulder-padded oddity had his head turned down. His right arm was in a sling. He was biting his fingernail, cowering by his sister who reached over and rubbed circles on his back.

“All right,” Donald whimpered. “Who are you people?”

“We’re not going to linger on formalities or frivolous exchanges here, Mr. Blackwood.” Linda reached behind her back. “I want your son and the man he’s with, Michael Holloway. And the best way to get to him is…” She raised her eyebrows, leering at Donald like she wanted him to finish the statement.

“Is to get to me,” Donald replied, thinking about making a move for his .44 but knowing he wouldn’t get there in time.

“Yes,” Linda nodded as she produced a pearl-gripped Walther PPK, eased back the hammer, and lazily pointed the business end at Donald’s sternum. “And if you have any juice or orange slices for my brother, I’d greatly appreciate it. He’s a bit hungry at the moment.”

“Boxed juice,” Jasper said. “If you have some.” He looked at his sister. “Can I watch TV?”

“Ten minutes,” his sister stipulated. “No more. It’ll rot your eyes, baby boy.”

“Okay.”

Linda waved the gun around.

Jasper peered eagerly at the television in the living room.

Donald, moving aside, motioned for them to enter.

“Damn it, Dean,” he whispered under his breath as Linda pressed the Walther into his side. “Why do you always gotta flag down the weird ones?”

67

Dean scanned the motel parking lot and unclipped his seatbelt. Freddy pulled into a parking spot right outside his room at the Village Motel in Atwater. Judging the coast clear and seeing no signs of law enforcement, Dean got out of Freddy’s rig and grabbed his bag.

“Home sweet home,” Freddy announced as he unlocked and nudged open his motel room door. “Mind your step. Didn’t think I was gonna have any company.”

“Oh, come on, Freddy,” Dean muttered, signaling to the pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, and fast-food wrappers scattered throughout the room. “This place is a sty.”

“Sorry, dude.” His protege tossed the room key on his bed. “I didn’t think anyone was coming over.”

“What card did you use to book the room?”

“The one you gave me,” Freddy said. “That backup one with the bogus name on it so no one could trace it back to you. I promise I’ll clean this place up before I leave”

“Look.” Dean took a breath, cooled off, and positioned himself in front of the kid. “Forget it. After Holloway and I piece together our exit plan, I’m gonna go away for a while.”

“I thought you were just venting.” Freddy’s expression soured. “You didn’t really mean it when you said you were skipping town, did you?”

“Hey,” Dean flinched, still coming to terms with accepting defeat. “This is over. I screwed up. I can’t salvage this one. By now, half the cops in LA are looking for me and Mike after what happened with Robbie Aimes.”

“Then talk to them! Tell them what’s going on.”

“We’ve got no evidence and nothing but our word, buddy. All we can do now is split and lay low for a while.”

“I’m going back to Jersey,” Holloway said. “I’m grabbing my family and hopping on a plane. I’m getting as far away from the States as possible.”

“But…” Freddy took a pause. “But what about me? What am I gonna do?”

“You’re going back to the PI office after Holloway and I exfil out of LA,” Dean explained. “In a few hours, maybe less, the LAPD is gonna come looking for you, my known associate.”

“No way.”

“They’re gonna ask you questions, Freddy,” Dean continued, “and you’re going to tell them everything that happened. You’re going to give them everything they want. You’ll be a cooperative witness, and they’ll most likely spare you any charges because of it.”

“I can’t do that.” Freddy’s mouth slackened. His color paled. “I’m not turning on you like that, boss.”

“You don’t have a choice, buddy.”

“Fuck that!” Freddy backed away, wagging a finger at his mentor. “Not after everything we’ve been through.” He looked at Holloway. “Look, there’s gotta be something we can do here. We gotta⁠—”

“Freddy!” Dean said, “I’m sparing you, my father, my kids, and the rest of my family from going through any more of this insanity. I can’t keep dragging all of you through the mud because of me. I love all of you too much to put you through this anymore.”

“You…” Freddy lit up. “You’re saying that you⁠—?”

“Yeah, pal.” Dean smirked. “But don’t ruin the moment by making me say it again.”

“Well, damn.” The kid timidly shrugged his shoulders, hints of crimson flooding his complexion. “I love you too, boss.”

“Oh, God,” Holloway groaned. “You guys…” He motioned to the door. “Please, we’re wasting time here.”

“Back off it, bruh,” Freddy snapped back, wiping the tear off his cheek. “We’re having a moment here.”

“You gotta follow through on this plan, kid,” Dean instructed Freddy. “It’s important.”

“What about you? How are you gonna get out of here?”

“I’ve got a few contacts I’m still in good standing with that I can hit up. I’ll get on the first plane out of here and hunker down for a while. I need to figure some things out, not only with this case but with myself too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I just said.” Dean took out his wallet and palmed it to his assistant. “I can’t keep living like this. I gotta hit reset and start driving in a different gear.”

“Are you coming back?”

“I’m coming back.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure, pal.” Dean patted the kid on his arm. “But I will. I promise you. Just stick to the plan until then. Tell the cops everything they want to know. Tell them what we found, what we learned.”

“With the juice that the Awakening has,” Holloway cut in, “I’m not sure if it’s going to make much of an impact. Plus, with Adam Rubek being involved and all that…” His voice drifted.

“Freddy,” Dean said. “Make sure you talk to a detective named Zelada before you talk to anyone else. Soon as we’re gone, you should look him up. You can trust him. If anyone is gonna take stock in what you’re saying, it’s him.”

“DB,” Holloway said, pointing to the bag of clothes. “Get dressed. Ring some people up. I wanna be out of here in fifteen.”

“And Freddy,” Dean told his protege as he fished out his jeans and Van Halen shirt from the bag, “I need you to get in touch with Layla, Claire, and the kids as soon as things cool off a bit.”

“Okay,” Freddy squinted. “What am I gonna tell them when they ask where you are?”

“That I’m gone.” Dean squeezed his shirt with a firm grip. “That I'm sorry for everything that happened. That I should’ve…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. That I should’ve done better.”

“Very eloquent.”

“Flower up the language for me a bit then. And make sure you stress to them that I’m okay. Tell them I need to figure things out for a while before I can come back.”

“Come on, man.” Freddy shook his head. “Don’t make me the messenger here.”

“Kid…” Dean peered deeply into his protege’s eyes. “You’re the only one I can trust. Same goes for my father. I’ll need you to keep an eye on him until I come back around. You got it?”

“Yeah.” Freddy’s lips pursed dryly. “I will.”

“I can count on you?”

“You can count on me.” Freddy tensed his face. “You sure you wanna do this?”

I have to.

I can’t stay here.

Maybe this is a sign I need to make a change.

Maybe this is a gift.

This could be the chance to think things through and start fresh.

“I am,” Dean said as he donned his regular clothing. “It’s the way it has to be.” He tossed the set wardrobe on the bed and faced Holloway. “Next item on the itinerary is how we make our exit. There’s a guy I know—Lee Fox. He’s a friend of Freddy’s uncle. He flies freelance all over the country. We get in touch with him, and he can hook us up with a flight somewhere.”

“Fine with me.” Holloway rolled up the sleeves on his flannel shirt. “As long as there aren’t any more hiccups, I’m game.”

Dean’s burner phone rang.

He pulled it out of his pocket.

Whoever it was, he knew it wasn’t a call he wanted to take.

68

“Hello?” Dean answered.

Silence followed.

Five whole seconds.

It was deafening.

“Mr. Blackwood?” someone finally answered. “Dean Henry Blackwood?”

It’s a woman.

Dean placed the call on speaker.

Sultry voice, but I don’t recognize it.

“Who is this?” Dean said, trading off glances with Holloway and Freddy.

“My name’s Linda,” the caller replied. “I’m with my brother, Jasper.”

“Who?”

“He’s the one you shot in the arm at that gas station.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Dean flicked a look at Holloway. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s upset.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

“That’s unkind.”

“Fuck your brother,” Dean replied sharply. “And fuck you, too, Linda. Unless you’ve got something to say to pique my interest here, I’m ending the call.”

“I have your father with me,” she said. “Is that captivating enough for you?”

Dean slumped his head.

He heard the phone change hands.

A second later, his father’s voice entered the conversation.

“Deano,” he said. “I’m all right.”

“Dad…” Dean’s grip on the phone tensed to the point that the plastic creaked under the pressure. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“This deranged vixen here pistol-whipped me pretty good, but⁠—”

Metal thwacking against flesh resonated through the speaker.

Donald howled.

Dean made a dash for the door, but caught himself mid-stride.

“I just pistol-whipped him again,” Linda announced over the speaker. “Pretty sure I broke his nose.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Take it easy. What do you want?”

“It’s pretty simple. If you and Mr. Holloway turn yourself in to me, your father will be dropped off and released at a secure location.”

“Our lives for his life.”

“Very good,” Linda sighed. “Given the ordeal you’ve put yourself through already, I’m certain you want this issue to be brought to a swift resolution as much as I do.”

Think, damn it.

Dean rapped his fist softly against his forehead.

She’s going to walk you into a blitz.

No way dad is going to make it out of this alive.

A thought struck him and lit up his eyes.

Son of a bitch.

He decided to bluff.

That actually might work, you silly son of a bitch.

“Midnight,” Linda continued. “We’ll meet at Griffith Park Observatory. You’ll turn yourself over to me, and you’ll refrain from calling the police.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” Dean repeated. “As in the opposite of yes.”

“You’re turning down my proposal?”

“I’m offering you a new one.”

“That’s not how this is going to pan out, Mr. Blackwood,” Linda said. “This is the only deal I am offering⁠—”

“And I’m offering you the second copy of the SD card your people have been looking for,” Dean broke in. “Right now, it’s in my possession. If you wish to turn down my conditions for where and when we’ll meet, you can gamble on having this thing uploaded and turned over to the authorities simultaneously.”

Holloway bowed his head.

Freddy mouthed, What the fuck?

Dean pressed a finger to his lips and waved them off from making any noise.

“You have the SD card,” Linda said. “I find that a bit far-fetched.”

“Like I said,” Dean replied, “you can take a chance that I’m bamboozling you, or you can agree to meet at an alternative location of my choosing.”

“Where?”

You know where.

It’s the only place.

It’s public, there are cops, and we can get people’s attention if things start to go bad.

“Call me back in three minutes,” Dean said. “I’ll have the location for you then.”

“No games, Mr. Blackwood,” Linda replied. “If you toy with me⁠—”

“Linda?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if this sounds like a phone hanging up.”

Dean ended the call.

His heart throbbed inside his rib cage.

His palms were glazed with sweat.

His knees wobbled like he had just gotten off a tilt-a-whirl.

“Dude,” Holloway said, his complexion sheet white. “What in the actual fuck?”

“Shut up a minute.” Dean held up his finger. “I think I know what we need to do here.”

“Boss,” Freddy joined in. “As hot as that woman sounded over the phone, I’m pretty sure you’re flirting with danger and not a date here.”

“We can’t let them make the demands on where and how this exchange is going to go down,” Dean said. “We need a level playing field.”

“Where?”

Dean took a beat.

Thought through his plan.

Nodded his head and committed himself to going through with it.

“An actual playing field,” he grinned. “Dodger Stadium, to be exact.”

69

“You’re fried,” Holloway said. “Why in the hell would we go to Dodger Stadium to engage in a trade-off with a duo of kooks?”

“It’s public,” Dean explained. “The place is crammed with cops and people. This Linda chick and her brother will have a hard time making a scene there. Worse comes to worst, we shout out to the cops and get them to intervene. There’s a game tonight. Place is going to be packed.”

“I, uh…” Freddy began, “I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the obvious here.”

“Which is?”

“The SD card. Unless you failed to mention to me that you do have it on you, then you don’t really have it on you.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what are you gonna do when this Linda chick finds out you were bluffing?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dean said. “We’ll have to go in there without weapons too. There’s no way we’re sneaking hardware in past security. Same goes for Linda and her brother. That’s a level playing field right there.”

“Boss,” Freddy shrugged, “how are you gonna swing getting into the game? The tickets are digital now, and the only way you’re gonna get your hands on a pair of last-minute passes is through one of the online scalpers, and they’ll charge you out the butt for it.”

“That burner phone you have,” Dean motioned to the device in the kid’s hand. “It’s a smartphone, yes?”

“Yeah, it’s an Android.”

“Install the Dodgers app on it. Once you do, find somewhere online to get us a pair of tickets. Use the card you paid for this room with. Find a pair of tickets, any seats you can find, and pay whatever the scalpers want. I need you to get us inside that stadium.”

“Got it.” His assistant clicked open his phone and typed away. “Freddy’s on it.”

“DB,” Holloway said. “This is a shit move, pal.”

“Not exactly ideal, no.”

“You can’t go to a hand-off like this with just your dick in your hand. You need to pick a better spot.”

“Well, the stadium,” Dean said, “is the last place Jimmy Valenti was before that second SD card got lost. You told me back at the Hollywood sign, and I quote, ‘Maybe Valenti ditched the card at the stadium right before he died. Maybe he lost it. Maybe he dropped it.’ If we go there, we can take a stab at trying to find it.”

A sickly-looking Freddy, slipping down onto the bed, held his head in his hands. “Boss, the chances of finding that thing are a hundred-to-one at best.”

“So is getting my father and us out in one piece.” Dean took out his 1911. “But I’m not going to turn my back on trying, no matter how shoddy the odds are. And I can’t explain it but…” he paused, “something tells me that card is still there somewhere, that maybe Valenti really did stash it at the stadium once he knew he was being chased. No one found it after he died. He was a fool, yeah, but he wasn’t a complete and utter moron.”

“It’s a big ballpark, man,” his protege stated. “If you had a whole day to look through it, which you don’t, odds are you’d never find it even if Valenti stashed it there. It’s probably in a trash can somewhere. Chances are it’s not there at all.”

“You’re probably right,” Dean said, squinting, his brain working overtime. “But there’s a way for us to check to see if Valenti ditched, misplaced, or stowed it away.”

“How?”

“We get into the security section of the station,” Dean explained. “We check the footage of the night Valenti died and track his movements right up until he plummeted to his death.” He looked at Holloway. “We use that fake badge of yours to bluff our way in and have whoever’s on duty allow us to scour through the footage.”

“Shitty plan, Hoss,” Holloway said, leaning against the door, appearing completely spent of his energy. “I thought your little plan back at that film set was the epitome of ad hoc, but this is another level.”

“We’ll have a contingency plan in place.”

“What’s that look like?”

“We’ll get Freddy to pop in to a store somewhere close by and purchase an SD card we can use to present to Linda and her brother.”

“Boss,” Freddy said. “Odds are they’ll have something on them to put the card into once you give it to them. They’ll want to verify what’s on it.”

“They will.”

“And they’ll probably kill your dad once they find out there’s nothing on that card.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Holloway grabbed Dean’s arm. “Don’t do this, man,” he pleaded. “Think of a different way.”

“This is the way.” Dean drew back his arm. “But you don’t have to go. You’ve done enough already. I can go by myself. I’ll forward you Lee Fox’s info. You can split right now and be on a plane in the next couple of hours.”

Holloway said nothing.

Freddy’s lips were sealed.

Dean handed over his 1911 to Freddy.

“This is what’s gonna happen,” Dean said. “I won’t think any less of you guys if you don’t go along with me. In fact, if you do go,” he laughed, “I’ll start to worry that you’re just as crazy as I am.”

Swallowing hard, Freddy held his head high, stuffed the 1911 into the go-bag, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m with you all the way, chief. Just tell me where you want me.”

“Did you get the tickets?”

“Yep.” Freddy passed over the Android. “Nosebleed seats. You’re out 200 bucks, but I got a feeling you’re gonna stiff the credit card company on the bill now that you’ll either end up in jail or splitting town once this is over.”

“I absolutely am.” Dean pocketed the phone. “Now I need you to go down the street,” he instructed. “I spotted a Best Buy a half-mile down the road when we were coming in. Get an SD card and another prepaid phone, and bring them back here. When that’s done, stay right here with all my stuff until I call you. If I don’t ring you up by the time the game at the stadium is over, you go straight to the police.”

“Copy that.” Freddy moved to the door. “I’m on it.”

A moment after Freddy left, Dean faced Holloway. He could see the man mulling things over, the strain on his face palpable.

“Two against one,” Holloway said, his back to Dean, “is not ideal conditions.”

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “I know.”

“You’re gonna need backup.”

“I do.” Dean inched closer to his old Ranger buddy. “But I’m not going to ask you to put yourself in that position. You’ve got people waiting for you to come back home.”

“So do you.”

“They’re not here anymore, Hollow,” Dean said. “Not anymore.”

“For now,” Holloway replied. “There’s still a chance you can patch things up with your family. I’d give you better odds at that panning out than this current predicament.”

A few seconds ticked by.

Holloway took two steps forward.

Dean awaited the man’s answer.

“I owe you one, DB,” Holloway said. “Actually, I owe you several. After what happened a few years back,” he shrugged, “I think it’s high time I start living by this ‘never leave a fellow Ranger behind’ credo.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ll make it back to them.”

“You said it yourself, Hollow,” Dean said. “The odds here of everything going the way we want are shit.”

“It’s like what James Reece’s character in the Jack Carr novels always says.” Holloway grinned. “Never tell me the odds.”

“Han Solo said it first.”

“For real?” Holloway squinted.

“Yeah.”

“You think Carr stole that line?”

“I dunno,” Dean grinned.

“Well,” Holloway palmed Dean his Astra. “This isn’t a Jack Carr novel—for better or worse.”

Dean nodded.

Holloway did the same.

Dean’s burner phone rang. Linda wanted an update on where Dean wanted to meet. Without delay, Dean simply said, “Dodger Stadium.”

70

Zelada held up his phone with a picture of Dean Blackwood on it. “Is this him?” he asked the production assistant, putting the phone in front of his face. Zelada motioned with his chin to the film set off Hollywood Boulevard that was now marked off with caution tape. “The guy you said snuck onto the set?”

“Yeah,” Nick Bolton the PA said, gawking at the reporters, news vans, and crowd that had gathered near the area where Robbie Aimes had gotten plowed over by a truck. “That’s him.”

“You said he was here with another man?”

“Yeah, and they both looked like they had been beat up.”

“Beat up?”

“Scratched up,” Bolton specified, gesturing to his face. “They looked all pulpy. Like they jumped out a window or something.”

Zelada locked his phone and pocketed it. “What about this other person you mentioned? You told me his name was Freddy?”

“Well, Freddy Bazz, he’s a pal of mine. He stopped by the set to say hi. These two guys he was with were…” Bolton tapered his eyes. “Well, I think he knew them. I had my back turned and⁠—”

“Nick.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re lying,” Zelada said. “I’ve been talking to you for ten minutes, and your story gets more inconsistent each time you retell it.”

“I—”

“Tell me the truth.” Zelada crossed his arms. “I’ll give you one last shot to explain what happened. I’ve been looking all day for this man you positively identified in that photo. He’s been causing problems all over town, and I need to find him before anything else happens. And if I end up being a second behind him before the next disaster breaks out, I’m holding you responsible.”

Nick hesitated.

Took a breath.

Once he collected himself, he confessed to Zelada about helping his friend Freddy, who wanted him to let Dean Blackwood and the other guy sneak onto the set as extras. He explained how he provided them with a wardrobe to blend in. He also reluctantly admitted to overhearing a tense conversation that took place between Dean, his pal, and Robbie Aimes. The heated exchange, the way Nick presented it to Zelada, mentioned the Governor, Pat Wozniak, and an SD card. That was right before Aimes bolted like a bat out of hell into traffic.

Zelada had Nick tell him the story again.

He took notes and drew big black lines under the buzzwords Governor, Wozniak, and SD card before instructing the production assistant to stay put.

Zelada walked out of earshot.

Pulled out his phone and notepad.

Then he proceeded to place a call to his captain.

“It’s Benny,” Zelada said into his phone. “We need to put an APB out on Dean Henry Blackwood and another individual.” He referenced his notes. “Six-one. Black hair. Receding hairline. East Coast accent.” He flipped the notepad closed. “Float this to the other divisions. Put in a call to the LAPD so they can keep their eyes peeled for these two guys. We need to find these sons-a-bitches, and we need to find them now.”

71

With hope his only weapon, Dean approached the left field gate entrance of Dodger Stadium. The booming swell of 40,000 fans gearing up for the game rattled his ears. The venue harkened memories of his childhood.

Been a long time, Blackwood.

The breeze chilling his skin, he felt Holloway pressed tightly behind him in the crowded line of fans waiting to enter. He gazed past the gate toward the tunnels feeding into the stadium.

Might be the last time you ever step foot in here again.

“Looks like they beefed up security after what happened with Jimmy Valeneti,” Holloway noted. “There’s cops posted everywhere.”

Dean nudged Holloway. “Hey! You got that fake badge with you?”

“In my pocket. I’ve got a pair of them. They’re platinum glazed with a gold-like paint, so the metal detectors shouldn’t pick them up.”

Doing a visual sweep of his nearby surroundings, Dean noted paired-up uniformed officers parceled out every 30 to 40 feet as far as he could see.

“We’ll give the cops a wide berth,” Dean said, pulling his ball cap down over his forehead. “As soon as we’re inside, we’ll do a quick sweep of everything and then make our way to security.”

“Cops are gonna be there, won’t they?” Holloway commented. “We might get busted before we even get to the door.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“What about Linda and her brother Jasper?” Holloway took out the pair of cheap aviator sunglasses he purchased at a gas station before arriving and slipped them on. “Think they’re inside?”

“Probably.” Dean held up the Android he took from Freddy and presented the digital tickets to an attendant who motioned them both through the gate. “Anyone with any semblance of intelligence in a situation like this would’ve gotten to the stadium very early.”

“Chances are Linda and Jasper have separated and gone in different directions,” Holloway nodded to the stadium. “This place is large enough that one of them will most likely head to the top level for a clear line of sight while the other one positions themself somewhere in the middle.” He shot Dean a look. “Your pops will probably be with whoever is up top.”

“That’ll be the brother.”

“You think?”

“Most definitely.” Dean nodded. “Linda’s taken charge now. She’s gonna be the one who makes the rendezvous to pass off the SD card. I’ll be the one who meets with her while you get eyes on Jasper. The guy isn’t exactly inconspicuous, so it will be a lot easier than finding Waldo.”

“What happens when you give Linda the bogus card?” Holloway asked. “You know she’s going to radio her brother and have him terminate your father at that point.” He clenched his teeth. “Hell, DB, for all we know, your old man isn’t here. Linda could’ve stashed her brother and your old man somewhere miles away from here.”

“Fat chance.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I was very explicit when Linda and I spoke,” Dean emphasized. “I told her I wanted evidence that my father was on site the second we met up. She’s going to prove, probably by video, that my dad is not only alive and well but inside the stadium.”

“Hopefully.”

“Hopefully.”

“This sucks.”

“Yep.” Dean’s hand twitched, his body and mind imploring him for a sip of booze. “I picked a hell of a time to quit drinking, didn’t I?”

“Same here.” Holloway gnashed his teeth. “Opted out of buying a pack of smokes back at that gas station when we were filling up Freddy’s ride. Really starting to feel it now.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“Likewise, brother.” Holloway cracked his neck. “Likewise.”

The two men shuffled forward in the next line, four people away from passing through the metal detectors. They both angled their faces away from the gaggle of cops who were keeping a close eye on the fans filtering through the gate.

“After we make a pass at security and get the call from Linda,” Dean half-whispered to Holloway, “you and I will deploy separately. You’ll scour the top levels. I’ll hang back and take my time getting to Linda.”

“What if we do get eyes on where Valenti stashed the card?” Holloway asked. “What then?”

“One step at a time.”

“Deano…” Holloway sighed deeply. “I hope you’re acknowledging the very likely outcome here that Linda and her brother are about to turn this whole thing into a giant friggin’ fiasco. When they do, we’ll have a fourth of the LAPD dogpiling on top of us.”

“You got the burner phone Freddy gave you?”

“Yeah.” Holloway took out the prepaid phone from his pocket. “I got the SD card he bought too.”

“Give it to me.” Dean took possession of the empty card, looked it over, and stuck it in his left pocket. “And keep a close eye on your cell. If something goes wrong, I’ll tell you to bail. You can make a quick exit from the stadium and make your way to Burbank. Lee Fox is at the airport there. He’s on standby ready to take you out of here in a moment’s notice.”

“Deano…” Holloway paused. “You sure about this?”

“No.” Dean laughed, took out his phone and wallet, and placed them in the tray on the conveyor belt that passed through the scanners. “But my father’s in there, and I’m going to get him out. If something does go wrong, make sure you steer as clear of any civilians getting caught up in this thing as you can. We don’t need any more collateral damage.”

“You’re awfully calm about your dad being so close to dying.”

“Because this has happened before. This is the second time someone’s kidnapped a member of my family.” Dean moved away from Holloway and headed toward the walk-through metal detector. “Twice.”

Holloway flinched. “Twice?”

Trying not to think about the time his son was kidnapped, Dean signaled with two fingers over his shoulder. “Two times.”

He walked through the metal detector.

Holloway went through next.

As soon as they were cleared by security, Dean and Holloway approached the tunnel on their right, walked through it, and made their way into the stadium.

All right.

Dean slipped on a pair of Ray Bans he swiped from Freddy.

Batter up, Blackwood.

72

As Dean pushed his way through the steady flow of fans into the stadium, he caught the scent of grilled Dodger dogs, hints of Budweiser, an essence of Tajin spice and lime, and the rich fragrance of garlic fries.

“Shame,” he mumbled, eyeing the vast number of fans heading toward their seats. “Haven’t been to a game in years. Kind of a downer that I came back under these circumstances.”

“Reminisce on it later,” Holloway told him, the pair moving through the well-kept walkways of the Reserve Level concourse. “We’re on the clock here.”

Dean saw the field on his right. A team of four groundskeepers were scraping the infield dirt, moving in sync as though it were—and arguably was—a coordinated dance.

He observed the home team warming up.

Heard the organist manipulating the keys.

Caught sight of the glowing LED displays throughout the stadium. The DodgerVision board by left field was showcasing highlights of the current season.

“Okay,” Holloway said. “Where’s the security control room? The command center?”

“Pretty sure it’s over there.” Dean gestured toward the main concourse. “You got those fake badges on you?”

“In my pocket.”

“Give me one of them. And let’s move.” Dean checked his watch before taking the badge from Holloway. “Linda’s going to call us before too long.”

After navigating their way through a maze of tunnels and staircases—making sure at all times to not make contact with any cops—Dean and Holloway arrived at the command center nestled between a pair of luxury suites on the Executive Club Level. A security officer stood outside the door, and—to Dean’s delight—there were no cops in sight.

“All right,” Dean mumbled to Holloway, catching the gaze of the scrawny, white security guard sporting a navy blue jacket. “Let me take the lead here.”

“You’d better pull some top-tier Daniel Day-Lewis shit here, bubba,” Holloway replied. “I’m talking about Academy Award level acting.”

“Can it.”

“Don’t blow it.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean assured Holloway. “I’ll give you a solid character name and everything.”

The security guard narrowed his eyes.

Dean held up the badge.

Holloway did the same with his.

“Excuse me,” Dean said. “I’m Detective Shane Givens. LAPD.” He gestured to the door leading into the command center. “Who’s watching the monitors right now?”

The guard, furrowing his brow, flashed an expression composed of fear and concern. “I…” He nodded to the door. “Our normal people, I guess. Is something wrong?”

“I need to speak with whoever’s on duty,” Dean explained. “We’re following up on the incident that took place here a few nights ago.”

“Oh, yeah.” The guard nodded, his eyes widening. “Oh, shit. Yeah. The guy who fell and⁠—”

“That’s right.”

“What…?” The guard stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

“A woman was assaulted that night,” Dean explained. “Her attorneys are claiming that the individual who fell over the railing knocked her down during the course of the events. We want to check any and all recordings you have on hand to verify her claims.”

“Yeah. Sure.” The guard unclipped the radio from his belt. “Let me check with my superior⁠—”

“Son,” Holloway said, “were you here the night this incident took place?”

“Uh…” The guard lowered his radio. “Yeah, I was.”

“Then we need to question you too.”

“What for?”

“This woman claimed that shortly after she was assaulted, a guard groped her as he was helping her up. A guard matching your description,” Dean added. “White. Tall. Shoulder-length hair.”

“The fuck?” The guard held up his hands. “Hey, man. That wasn’t me!”

“We need to question every guard on duty,” Dean said. “Can you tell us where you⁠—?”

“Look, man…” The guard punched a code into the panel on the wall and whipped open the door. “I didn’t touch anyone. Check the monitors. Look at the feed yourself. Please, I wasn’t there when all this happened. I didn’t do anything.”

“Thank you.” Dean pocketed his badge, patted the guard on the arm, and walked into the command center. Holloway followed him in. “If you wouldn’t mind coming with us to review the footage, we’d appreciate it.”

“Won’t take long,” Holloway said. “We just need to be thorough.”

“Of course.” The sheet-white guard walked into the room. “Anything I can do to help.”

Dean leaned into Holloway’s ear. “Not bad?”

“Yeah.” Holloway winked. “Quick thinking.”

73

The security control room was a jumble of monitors, all displaying varied angles of the stadium’s interior. Rows of flat-screen panels lined the walls, showcasing live feeds from cameras in the parking lot, concourses, and seating sections. A beer-gutted officer sat at the central console, scrutinizing footage from various cameras, his eyes flicking from one monitor to the next.

“Excuse me,” Dean greeted, presenting his badge. “I’m Detective Shane Givens. LAPD.” He motioned to Holloway. “This is Officer Jack Goff. We need to review footage from the incident that took place a few nights ago.” He waved his hand in a circular motion at the monitors. “You know, the…”

“Right.” The officer at the console nodded. “Everyone’s been clenching their teeth here after what happened.”

“Do you still have footage on hand from that night?”

“Hundred percent.” The officer worked the keyboard and mouse. “We’ve had to play it back for your people a few times in the past couple of days.” He huffed. “It was wild, man. That guy who fell over the railing must’ve been on something. He was pushing people and acting all⁠—”

“We just need to see the footage,” Dean cut in. “We want to start from where this guy⁠—”

“I’ve got it all cued up for you.” The guard nodded to the monitor in front of him. “The first cops who came by here a few days ago had me piece together a timeline from this guy running out of the luxury boxes on this level all the way to him falling over the railing. It’s pretty seamless,” he smirked. “It’s actually got me thinking about being a film editor.” He glanced at Dean. “After I edited this stuff, I starting writing a short horror film that’s a direct sequel to Killer Klowns from⁠—”

“Buddy,” Dean said. “What’s your name?”

“Andy.”

“Andy…” Dean pointed to the screen. “The footage, please.”

“Right.” Andy pushed his chair back, hit a button, and motioned to the displays. “Check it out.”

Moving closer to the monitor, Dean saw piecemeal footage of Jimmy Valenti rushing out of the luxury boxes on the same level they were currently on. The playback cutting—like Andy claimed—was seamless between shots.

“He ran around for a while,” Andy narrated. “He ran up the levels instead of down, as you can see here.”

“Yeah.” Dean squinted, watching Jimmy Valenti move farther up the stadium in the footage. “I can see that.”

“At one point,” Andy continued, “he went into Section 13.” He tapped his finger on the monitor. “Right here. The guy actually stopped running, sat for a minute, and then took off again.”

Holloway looked at Dean.

Dean met his gaze.

The pair then saw, as Andy stated, Jimmy Valenti slipping onto a seat in Section 13 on the Top Deck near the third base side.

“DB,” Holloway whispered, pointing at the monitor. “Look at that. The footage is a little grainy, but do you see what I’m seeing?”

Dean spoke in a low voice, just to Holloway. “He’s screwing around with something under his seat. He’s crouching down in front of his seat and fiddling with something on the leg. Hot damn. It looks like he stuffed the thing behind the leg there.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I can.” Dean turned to Andy. “Who else has seen this footage?”

“The cops.” Andy shrugged. “That’s it.”

“Did anyone from the Governor’s office look at it?” Dean asked. “Anyone from his security detail?”

“The Governor’s office?” Andy squinted. “No.” He held up a finger. “Actually, yeah. Some dude in a polo and a guy with no neck tried, but the stadium police wouldn’t allow them to see it. They were really pushing their luck with that one. Cops had to practically haul them out. They were trying to throw their weight around, but they didn’t have badges. You don’t have clearance, you don’t get shit.”

“Hollow,” Dean whispered. “That SD card might still be behind the leg of that seat.”

“Maybe.” Holloway made a move toward the door. “Only one way to find out.”

The pair dashed out of the room.

Andy called after them.

The guard by the door pulled out his radio and put in a call to his superior.

74

“Igotta give it to you, Deano,” Holloway spoke through sharp breaths, racing with Dean up the staircase to the Top Deck. “You certainly have a talent for pulling these things off.”

“Yep.” Dean patted the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve. “I certainly have my moments.”

They navigated their way toward Section 13 on the third base side. With each second that passed, Dean sensed the incoming call from Linda was mere moments from happening.

Think fast.

Look alive.

Find that fucking thing!

“Come on, laddie!” Woody whispered. Dean gnashed his teeth when he heard the little bastard’s voice. “You’re running out of time.”

Not now, dickhead.

Cold sweat slicked Dean’s body, his fingers trembling and head throbbing from the early stages of alcohol withdrawal.

I’ll deal with you later.

“Hollow,” Dean said, navigating his way to the row where he saw Jimmy Valenti sit down. A trio of people were sitting there, chowing down on Dodger dogs. “Over there.”

They approached the seat.

Holloway flashed his fake badge.

Dean instructed the group to momentarily vacate their seats.

“It will only take a second,” he said, kneeling down by the seat. “We just need to check for contraband here.”

He felt around the seat’s right leg—found nothing.

He fumbled with the left leg, his fingers grazing a hardened, stale lump.

“Hold up,” Dean grumbled. “Think we’ve got something.”

He pinched what felt like gum.

Peeled it off the back of the leg.

Stepped back and held what appeared to be a small ball of chewing gum in his palm.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said, grinning as he peeled apart several hardened pieces of gum molded around an SD card. “Jackpot!”

“You got it?” Holloway leaned in for a closer inspection. “That’s it?”

“We got it.”

“Un-freaking-real.” Holloway chuckled and clapped Dean on the back. “Now you can ditch the fake card.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

Dean’s burner buzzed.

“Because…” He pulled out the phone, took a second to breathe, and slipped the SD card in his right pocket. “I’ve got an idea. It’s schizophrenic, but so is every plan I’ve ever slapped together.”

“Fails to instill me with confidence,” Holloway said.

Dean answered the phone.

Linda immediately provided him with a location.

After terminating the call, Dean instructed Holloway to locate his father and then navigated his way to Section 116 on the Reserve Level.

75

As the first inning of the game began, Dean arrived at Section 116. His right hand was in his right pocket where the real SD card was. His left hand hung down at his side, ready to throw a punch or claw at the face and eyes of anyone who attempted to put a hand on him.

He scanned the backs of the fans’ heads in front of him.

Studied each of them.

Hadn’t the faintest clue what Linda looked like.

He slowly made his way down the concourse.

Dean threaded his way cautiously through the crowd, turning in circles to look for someone who fit the description of a femme fatale straight out of a pulp fiction novel.

“That’s it!” Woody said. “That’s the genre we could classify your life story as. You’re a pulp fiction action novel hero, my boy!”

“Fuck off, Woody,” Dean whispered. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Excuse me,” a steamy, sensual voice spoke from behind Dean. “You don’t have time for what?”

Dean spun around.

Saw a woman in black jeans and a black turtleneck face to face with him.

“Linda?” Dean asked.

“Dean,” the woman replied, adjusting the strap of her purse. “Or do you prefer Mr. Blackwood?”

“Who gives a shit?” Dean spaced his feet apart. “Where’s my father?”

“Let’s take a walk.” Linda nodded to the concession stand. “Neither of us wants to cause a scene here.”

“My father,” Dean pressed. “Show me that he’s alive like we discussed, or I walk.”

Linda took a beat.

She sighed.

Then she pulled out her phone from her purse, dialed a number, waited, and then held out the screen so Dean could see the live FaceTime call. His father was seated in what appeared to be the Top Deck of the stadium.

“Pop,” Dean said. “Are you⁠—?”

“My brother’s with him,” Linda cut in as she ended the call and pocketed the phone. “Neither of us were able to bring weapons in here, but Jasper doesn’t need anything but his bare hands to snap that old man’s neck once I tell him to.”

“You two are quite the pair,” Dean commented. “You don’t happen to know what the Freudian term is for siblings engaging in what amounts to an Oedipus complex with one another, do you?”

“Watch it.”

“Fuck you.”

Linda’s steel blue eyes shimmered with lethal intent. “Walk with me.” She made a circular motion at the crowd. “This whole thing is gonna go tits up if either of us does something inane here.”

“By all means. After you,” he bowed mockingly.

The two strolled through the Reserve Level concourse, Dean making sure to stay close to Linda. He scraped the legit SD card in his right pocket with his finger, thinking about the empty one Freddy had bought in his left pocket. He quickly strung together a plan.

Bluff her, Deano.

Make up a story.

He made a fist around the SD card in his right pocket.

Find a way to con your way out of this.

“So,” Dean said, “you’re Linda.”

“Mmhmm.” The woman nodded. “I’m Linda.”

“Fake name, I take it.”

“Point in fact, it is.”

“Where’d you come up with it?”

“Linda Ronstadt,” she said. “The singer.”

“Ah, not bad.” Dean snickered. “What’s that song?” He mulled it over. “Ah, right. ‘You’re No Good.’”

He sang the chorus.

Linda hummed along with him.

“What about the name Dean?” she said. “Who chose it? Your mom or your dad?”

“Do you really care?” Dean tilted his head to the side. “Or are you just being polite?”

“Neither,” Linda said. “I’m a sociopath. We’re not really big on catering to the feelings of others.”

“A self-aware sociopath.” Dean raised one eyebrow. “That’s a new one.”

“Mr. Blackwood?”

“Yes, hon?”

“The card,” Linda said. “I want to verify that you have the video in question.”

“Once I hand it over,” Dean cut a look at another concession stand on his right, “you’ll need to release my father. That was the deal.”

“You really don’t have a variety of options here, to be honest. You turn over that card, your father might live or he might die.” Linda shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Had a feeling this might happen.”

“Frankly, Dean, I think your claim to having this SD card is false,” she said. “But whatever the outcome of this affair may be, you are well aware that Mr. Wozniak won’t allow me to allow you to survive.”

“I could’ve guessed that.” Dean smirked. “And compliments to you for not throwing an Instagram filter over what my immediate future looks like. For a self-proclaimed sociopath, you’re extremely courteous.”

“Hand over the tape.”

“It’s a card.”

“Hand over the card, Mr. Blackwood.” Linda stopped, turned, and extended her hand. “Now.”

“Sure thing.” Dean kept his hand in his pocket, putting his plan into motion. “I’ll give you a copy of the card.”

“A copy?” Linda got in his face and tensed her jaw. “What do you mean?”

“I made two copies, babe.” Dean popped the genuine SD card out of his right pocket. “You didn’t think I was going to walk in here with just a single copy of this thing, did you?”

“I was betting on you not having it at all.”

“Well, you bet wrong.” Dean gestured toward the other side of the stadium. “I have a man waiting in the wings right now. If something happens to my father or me, he’s going to take the second copy of this video directly to the police.”

“Malarky.”

“Good word use.” Dean tapered his eyes. “And if you want to keep testing me,” he pulled out his burner phone, “I’ll go ahead and make the call right now. Seriously, take the card.” He extended his hand outward, the SD card sitting in the center of his palm. “Verify it. I’ve got plenty more where this came from.”

Linda assessed the card.

She took it.

She pulled a Nikon camera out of her purse.

After loading the SD card into the camera, she selected the only video stored on the card, held the screen close to her face, and thumbed the play button.

Dean squinted.

He shuffled closer to the camera.

He witnessed footage of Robbie Aimes and Josh Rubek—the very young teenage son of the Governor of California—locked in a loving embrace. Moments later, Adam Rubek—Josh’s father and Governor of California—entered the room.

He proceeded to relentlessly beat the shit out of Josh until his face and body were bloody and he was unconscious.

76

Holloway, moving through the Top Deck of the stadium, peeked at his watch and tallied that he had been searching for close to ten minutes.

“Come on,” he whispered, scanning the faces of the crowd. Everyone was clapping as the end of the first inning drew to a close. “Where are you?”

He moved through the crowd.

Continued searching.

Worked his way through Section 309 all the way up to 318.

He found no sign of Jasper.

No trace of Dean’s father.

When Holloway arrived at Section 321, entertaining the possibility that Linda’s brother and Donald Blackwood might not be at the game, he did a scan of the middle section and caught a glimpse of a pair of men who piqued his interest.

Wait…

Holloway pinned his sights on an older gentleman seated next to a younger towering man whose arm was in a sling. The younger man’s hand was gripped firmly onto the forearm of the older gentleman beside him.

That’s them.

Holloway pulled out his phone.

Drafted a text.

Sent the words “found them” to Dean’s burner before creeping his way closer.

77

Dean watched thirty seconds of the video—Robbie and Josh undressing. The door to the room flying open as soon as they dropped their pants. Adam Rubek storming in to beat the hell out of his son.

Nikki Caimi and Jimmy Valenti somehow captured the affair.

Jimmy tried to use the footage as blackmail. What better way to do it than show the world how Rubek—their esteemed Governor and possibly the next Vice President of the United States—pummeled his son shitless until he was nearly unrecognizable.

Nikki hired me to stop Jimmy.

Wozniak intervened and tried to shut it all down, maybe use the footage for his own twisted means.

Then things went sideways and took every left turn imaginable after that.

Dean inched away from Linda, his head spinning, though he wasn’t sure how much of it was from thinking versus craving a drink.

“Grab a tall boy from concessions,” Woody suggested. “You’re gonna get shaky in a few minutes if you don’t.”

“Leave me alone,” Dean groaned, kneading his right temple with his fingertips. “I’m thinking.”

Linda, stuffing the Nikon in her purse, shot him a mystified look. “Thinking about what?”

“Nothing.” Dean blinked his eyes. “I’m talking to myself.”

“Are you…” Linda pointed to her temple and made a circular motion. “You know…” She flashed the whites of her eyes. “Flying over the cuckoo’s nest there?”

“More often than not.” Dean felt his phone buzz, took it out, and saw a text from Holloway confirming he had located Dean’s father and Jasper.

Get ready to move, he texted back. It’s about to pop off.

“Who’s that?” Linda said. “Your man in the wings?”

“Yes, it is.” Dean put the phone away. “Now give your brother the green light to let my father go.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head. “Not until we clear up this claim of you having more copies of this video.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

Dean signaled to Linda’s purse. “What happens to that video you just watched?”

“Why?” she said. “What difference does it make to you?”

“Simple curiosity,” Dean replied. “Call it the last wish of a man you plan on killing before he has a chance to walk out of here.”

“You got a flair for the dramatic.” Linda’s lips twisted into a grin. “Don’t you?”

“I get that a lot.” Dean nodded toward Linda’s purse. “Now what happens with that video?”

“Oh, the usual,” Linda said, “My employer will use it to blackmail the Governor of California.”

“Figures.”

“I’ll admit,” Linda reached into her bag, “the whole blackmail, extortion, and killing people to consolidate power and resources thing these power brokers engage in is as trite and hackneyed as it gets.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean said. “Clichés circulate for a reason.”

“That they do.” Linda reached in her purse, popped the cap on a tube of chapstick, and applied the balm to her lips. “But I’m used to dealing with guys like Wozniak. I’ve been a pawn in these kinds of power struggles for years.”

“Must get tiresome.”

“The pay makes up for the monotony.”

“You’re lucky,” Dean said. “Half the time I barely collect from my clients.”

“That’s a shame,” Linda replied. “Maybe you should have picked a better line of work.”

“All right. Enough.” Dean clenched his fists. “Let my father go.”

“I want the backups of the footage first.” Linda shot out her chin. “Prove to me you’re not blowing hot air about them.”

“Sure thing.” Dean produced the second SD card—the empty one—from his left pocket and held it up. “I’ve got a copy right here.” He pocketed the card. “But we both know that when I turn it over, you’re going to kill me and my father.”

“I am.”

“Then I guess we’re stalled.”

“Not really.” Linda motioned at a pair of cops fifty paces away down the concourse. “I’m going to shout out to those officers that you groped me.”

“Interesting,” Dean said, eyeing the police officers down the way. “That’d work out well for you.”

“Not so much for you.” Linda motioned with her hands like she was weighing the choices. “If you stay put, they’ll arrest you. If you run, they’ll do the same thing.”

“And the card?”

“Well, once I flag those boys down and call them over, I’m going to claim that you stole that SD card in your pocket from my camera because I got a video of you touching me. Once you’re in cuffs, I’m sure it won’t be too difficult to get them to hand over that card to me. Even if they don’t, I’ll just pickpocket it from you.” She raised her shoulders playfully. “It’s a win-win for me.”

“What about the other copies I might have?” Dean said. “What do you plan on doing about those?”

“I’ll find your man in the wings, kill him, and then track down whatever copies you may or may not have on hand,” Linda sneered. “If anything, I’ll be able to squeeze more money out of Mr. Wozniak for the effort. And I will find whatever copies are left. If you know anything about my track record,” she beamed, “you know I’m worth every penny.”

“Decent plan.” Dean cut a look toward the officers. “You slapped that one together pretty quickly.”

“I’m quite good.” Linda blushed and then winked. “In more ways than one.”

“I bet.”

“You ready?”

“As much as I can be.”

“Wanna go on three?” Linda said. “I’d be happy to extend you that courtesy at the very least.”

“Just go for it.” Dean angled his body toward the cops. “I have a last-minute play of my own here that I’m about to make.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“How provocative. Best of luck to you on that.” Linda waved frantically at the officers, feigned an alarmed countenance, and screamed. “Help!” She caught the officers’ attention. “Please! This man grabbed me!”

The officers began hustling over.

Dean pulled out his phone and dialed Holloway.

“Get my father,” he told his partner before he stowed away the phone and flicked a glance at the holstered weapon of the officer closing in on him. He would wait until the cop was an arm’s length away.

78

Dean spread his feet as the officers commanded him to freeze. They both had their hands resting on the grips of their holstered service weapons.

Dean looked over at Linda.

Put his eyes back on the officers.

Saw them split apart.

The Hispanic one on his left approached Linda.

The gringo officer on his right lumbered toward him with an outstretched hand.

Wait.

Dean felt the officer’s fingertips touch his shoulder.

Now!

“All right,” the gringo cop growled, preparing to take Dean into custody. “What the hell is going⁠—?”

Taking a step to his left, Dean rammed his elbow into Linda’s temple and watched her crumple. In one swift motion, he swiped her purse off her shoulder.

The Hispanic officer rushed in toward Linda and knelt down to assist her.

Dean took off running, Linda’s purse swinging in his hand. The gringo cop gave chase.

Dean retreated into a stairwell as the cop, weapon drawn, shouted at him and picked up his pace.

A mass of fans turned their heads and murmured as Dean streaked past them on his way up the stairs. Forcing his way through the crowd, he crashed into a pair of men carrying fistfuls of beer. Regaining his balance, he bolted to the top of the stairwell, hid behind a door, and waited. Five seconds later, the gringo officer reached the top, lifted his weapon, and turned left and right to clear his corners.

“Hey, yo!” Dean called out, swinging the purse outward toward the white cop’s face.

The cop swatted at the purse.

Dean charged.

Caught the man in the chin with a right jab.

The cop, in a daze, struggled to raise his weapon as Dean grabbed both his arms and forcefully drove them down, both now gripping the gun.

The two men’s arms became intertwined. Their feet were spread. The cop, his face pressed against Dean’s, commanded him to “let go of the goddamn gun!”

Dean grabbed the cop in a bear hug, snapped his head back, and then thrust it forward into the man’s nose. He heard it break. The officer tumbled onto his back as Dean climbed on top of him.

“Sorry, brother,” Dean hissed, striking his elbow once, twice, and then a third time into the cop’s face.

The officer collapsed.

His eyes snapped closed.

Dean took the man’s weapon—an FN 509 MRD-LE—press checked it, and took the Nikon camera out of Linda’s purse.

He turned up another stairwell, retrieving the SD card from the camera and storing it in his right pocket before ditching the Nikon and the purse. He bounded up the stairs toward the Top Deck.

Linda pressed a palm against her temple, cursing under her breath for Dean outwitting her. She batted away the hand of the Hispanic officer who was attempting to help her to her feet as he barked orders and codes into his radio.

“Ma’am,” the officer said, guiding Linda off toward an area next to a concession stand. “Are you all right?”

“Yep.” Linda simpered, shaking her head before she pointed over the cop’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

The officer shot a look behind him down the concourse.

He swung his eyes back around to Linda.

With her right fist, Linda delivered an upward blow into the cop’s nose, followed by a left hook that landed him onto his back.

“Incredible,” she remarked as she whipped the blacked-out officer’s weapon out of his holster and got her balance. “Didn’t think ‘made you look’ still worked.”

She hastened over to the stairwell and climbed two stairs at a time.

She cleared her corners with her weapon.

On her right she spotted the gringo officer who had followed Dean. He was on his back in a slumber, just like his partner on the downstairs concourse.

Linda pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed Jasper’s number as she made her way up another set of stairs to the Top Deck.

“Baby boy,” she greeted her brother as soon as he answered. “They’re coming.”

79

Holloway was so close to Linda’s brother and Dean’s father that he could touch them with a simple reach. In terms of plans, he didn’t have any. He decided to opt for putting the pale-faced kidnapper in a headlock, telling Donald to split, and thinking of the rest as he went along.

Slow and easy, Mikey.

Holloway sat quietly in the row right behind Jasper and Donald.

Do it fast. Do it quickly.

He readied his hands.

Moved closer to Jasper.

Saw Donald turn his head.

Before Holloway could execute the headlock, he heard Jasper’s cell ring.

Jasper took the call.

He shot up out of his seat and spun around.

Eyes wide, mouth open, Jasper caught sight of Holloway. His upper lip snarled as he spread his arms and puffed his sunken chest.

Two seconds passed.

Both men locked gazes.

Jasper dropped his cell, vaulted over his seat, and secured a grip on Holloway’s shirt.

“Shit!” Holloway exclaimed as Jasper pulled him into the aisle, the spindly arms and wide frame of the pale-faced killer enveloping him as he fell onto his back.

Fans shrieked.

Some scattered.

A few of the brawnier ones tried to intervene.

Jasper, now on top of Holloway, held him down, his right arm pressed onto his chest and his left knee on Holloway’s right arm.

Holloway clawed at Jasper’s face with his left hand. Despite Jasper’s scrawny frame, his strength—wherever the hell he was summoning it from—severely outmatched Holloway’s. He was like a mountain lion tackling a gazelle. The sheer power Jasper exerted was on par with a powerlifter.

“Goddamn freak,” Holloway said through clenched teeth.

“I’m not a freak!” Jasper screamed, pressing his weight harder into Holloway, forcing the air out of his lungs.

As three brutish fans attempted—without success—to wrestle Jasper off of Holloway, Jasper flicked his left wrist. A porcelain blade with a matching handle snicked out of the sleeve of his dress shirt. One of the three fans spotted it and cried out, “Fuck this!” before retreating back into the crowd.

“Get off him!” another fan shouted. “Someone get the cops!”

Jasper, keeping Holloway pinned to the ground with his right arm, gripped the blade in his left hand, the pointed end jutting out through his fist.

He whipped the knife over his shoulder.

Caught one the two men trying to subdue him in the face.

The other man backed away as Jasper thrashed the knife wildly to clear the area of any more encroachers.

By then, spectators were clearing out of the way.

Jasper tried to drive the blade downward and mumbled something to himself. His incoherent rambling reminded Holloway of Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man when he prattled on and on about what he was eating for dinner.

Jasper exerted more pressure on Holloway’s chest.

Holloway’s energy was depleting by the second, but he had the strength to block Jasper’s left arm and stop the rapid thrust of the knife.

The tip of the blade was inches from his throat.

“Come on,” Holloway whispered, his face red, his eyes bulging, thinking of his wife and child as he felt the blade touch his neck.

The point of the blade dug into Holloway’s flesh.

His limbs slackened.

Smiling gleefully, Jasper took a deep breath, raised the knife up again, and prepared to thrust the blade all the way into Holloway’s throat.

Holloway’s eyelids fluttered.

Then Jasper’s body pitched forward onto Holloway’s entire body. Someone’s fist had struck the back of Jasper’s head, causing him to loosen his hold on Holloway, who took the opportunity to wiggle out from underneath Jasper’s weight.

Jasper snapped his head around.

Donald Blackwood, now standing beside Jasper, raised his foot and stomped the heel of his boot into Jasper’s cheek.

The impact forced Jasper to roll over, and Holloway took possession of the knife.

In a stupor, Jasper got up on all fours and tried to shake it off as he pushed himself up off the ground.

“Wait…” Jasper held up a finger. “This isn’t fair⁠—”

Holloway swiftly thrust the knife into Jasper’s right shoulder.

Jasper howled.

He shot out his right foot, catching Holloway in the stomach. Holloway rolled in corkscrew fashion down the aisle, one of his ribs fracturing as he slammed into the concrete barrier below the railing.

Holloway turned his head.

Donald was headed toward Jasper, the handle of the blade still sticking out of his shoulder.

Turning around, Jasper twisted his hips and threw a right fist square into Donald’s cheek. The retired cop’s head jerked as he fell backward in the aisle, smacked his head against a concrete step, and lay on the ground immobile.

Jasper dug the knife out of his shoulder.

He approached Donald and raised the blade over his head.

“You can’t cheat like that!” Jasper hollered, turning to look at Holloway who was bounding up the steps, cradling a cracked rib.

“I was fighting with him!” Jasper squealed, standing over Donald with his knife still raised above his head. “You cheated!”

Donald had passed out.

Holloway was now 20 feet from Jasper who was holding the knife with both hands, even higher above his head.

“No!” Holloway cried out. “Don’t do it!”

Jasper’s nostrils flared.

He brought down the knife as a single gunshot cracked through the air, the bullet boring into the back of his head and coming out his forehead, dousing Donald and the people around him with blood, skull, and brain tissue.

Holloway paused in his tracks.

He watched as Jasper’s lifeless body crumpled and fell down the steps.

Holloway saw Dean standing at the top of the aisle holding a smoking sidearm tightly in his hands.

The gunshot reverberated through the entire stadium.

Alarms rang out.

The ballgame stopped.

The announcer shouted over the PA system, as calmly as he could, for the fans to make their way to the exits. The entire stadium throbbed with the electric pulse of 40,000 terrified fans who were certain an armed shooter was loose in the stadium.

80

Seconds after Dean fired the shot that took down Jasper, he heard the clamor of cops converging on the scene.

He looked to his left and saw four cops dashing toward him.

Glancing to the right, he saw three more converging on him with weapons drawn and at the ready.

After flicking a look at Holloway and his father who was now waking up, he lowered his hands, prepared to drop his weapon, surrender, and do his best to explain things once he was taken into custody.

Then another gunshot echoed throughout the Top Deck.

Dean ducked instinctively and took cover behind a pillar. He was positive the police were opting to put him down in lieu of taking him alive.

The cops dispersed, searching for the second shooter.

People were screaming and running.

Three more shots rebounded off the concrete walls.

“Shit,” Dean hissed, watching as two of the cops on his right and one on his left were cut down by a rapid series of shots.

He checked his rounds—sixteen left.

Scanned the concourse.

Observed the cops and fans taking cover.

A quick beat later, Dean saw Linda lifting up a sidearm and storming her way through the concourse, moving with the grace and speed of a cheetah as she fired at cops and fans alike.

“Psycho she-devil.” Dean’s jaw muscles tensed and his nostrils flared as he raised his weapon and attempted to line up a zig-zagging Linda between the sights.

He couldn’t find a clean shot. The panicked fans were blocking a clear line of fire. Linda squeezed off an occasional round to keep everyone subdued. The crazy woman moved in and out of cover, shooting as she ran to keep the cops at bay.

Stop her.

Take her down.

Dean heard a child cry.

A woman was bawling.

If you don’t catch her attention, the wrong people are going to get killed.

Dean glanced toward Jasper’s bloody body.

Saw Holloway limping and escorting his father to cover down the aisle toward the railing.

Go, damn you!

Dean took a breath.

Bring the fight to you.

“Hey, Linda!” Dean shouted. “I just killed your brother.”

Linda, 30 feet away and concealed behind a concession stand, ceased firing. Even from a distance, Dean could spot the dismayed, horrified expression on her face.

“Come on!” he shouted. “You and me.”

Linda craned her neck and searched for Dean.

Her eyes gaped wide as she spotted her dead brother instead.

“You motherfucker!” Linda howled. “I’m gonna eat your fucking hearrrrrrt!”

Shrugging and smirking, Dean took off toward the stairwell 20 feet away on his left. Linda bellowed and screamed at the top of her lungs as she popped off a couple of rounds toward a cop to keep him suppressed before turning her sights on Dean.

Linda fired three times in the direction of the stairwell.

One of the rounds clipped Dean in his left tricep. Another dinged the FN 509 in his hand, making it pop from his grip as he stumbled over his feet and scurried into the stairwell.

Linda was hot on his heels, raising her weapon to fire off a round, but she pitched forward when a bullet fired by one of the cops in the concourse caught her in the back of her left shoulder.

Dean planted his feet.

He sprinted toward Linda.

Bellowing out a primal war cry, he drove his body into hers, bolted her backward, and became entangled with her arms as they cascaded down the aisle toward the railing.

Dean kept a firm hold on her as they continued to tumble in a collective hug.

His body banged against each concrete step.

He scraped his palms.

His face.

His elbows.

His chin.

Dean and Linda landed on their feet, still connected and moving but not sure which way was up or down. Dean felt both their bodies slam into something, the air shooting out of his lungs as he saw the ground and sky reverse.

He knew what was happening.

It was completely unavoidable.

They were about to take a tumble over the railing—just like Jimmy Valenti—an ironic bookend moment to the whole affair.

81

Dean’s ears were rattled by the throaty cries and screams of the fans who were observing the ordeal. He felt his fingertips touch the metal railing.

He found a grip.

Held on tight.

Spewed out a groan as his body flipped over the railing, swayed back and forth, and then slammed sternum first into the concrete wall.

Dean glanced down at the Reserve Level, a drop of 50 feet, the fans below staring up at him with startled reactions.

He looked to his right.

Linda was right there beside him. She had somehow grabbed onto the rail and was holding on with both hands. Blood was dripping from lacerations on her face and forehead.

“You fuck,” she grumbled, her teeth caked with blood.

“Still alive, huh?” Dean said, feeling his grip on the railing slackening.

Linda swayed her body left and right. “This isn’t over.” She kicked at Dean as hard as she could, striking him in the hips, legs, and thighs.

Yes, it is.

Dean picked up the ruckus and radio chatter of cops closing in on their location.

This is it.

I’m going to prison.

My kids will see my face, bloodied and pulpy, all over the news.

That’s how they’ll always remember their father—the guy who did nothing but go from one crazy situation to the next at their own expense.

Dean peered down at the Reserve Level 50 feet beneath him.

Maybe I don’t have to.

An idea floated into his brain, the chilled breeze caressing his skin as he took a quick look at the apricot glow of the sunset beyond the stadium.

Maybe there’s a different way here…

“Blackwood!” Dean heard Holloway cry out. “Hang on!”

No.

Dean winced as Linda continued to kick him.

Don’t help me.

“All right, hon,” Dean said, thrusting his knee into Linda’s side, knocking the wind out of her as her right hand slipped off of the railing. “We’re going for a ride.”

Dean grabbed Linda by around her waist with his right hand and pulled her close to him.

“What are you doing, fucker?” Linda, struggling against Dean, tried to wriggle herself out of his grasp. “Get off me!”

“Mike!” he shouted out to Holloway. “Can you reach her pockets? Check them for me.”

He met Linda’s gaze.

He winked.

Dean saw Holloway lean over and pull the SD card out of Linda’s right pocket. Then Dean let go of the railing. Still holding onto Linda, they plummeted together toward the Reserve Level. Dean squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping that God or the odds would curry in his favor as the collective roar of the frightened spectators swelled in his ears.

“Dean!” Holloway called out, leaning over to the railing. Every attendant in the stadium was screaming to the point that it echoed and vibrated off the walls.

Holloway heard the impact.

The crowd fell silent.

Donald, now beside Holloway, peered down to the Reserve Level. They both saw Dean lying on top of Linda at the top of an aisle.

He was motionless.

Holloway couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

He wasn’t sure if Dean was alive or dead.

“Police! Police!” Holloway heard several cops yell, one after the other. Just as Holloway spun around, a mass of officers tackled him and Donald Blackwood to the ground.

The announcer instructed the fans to stay in their seats.

An entire sea of LAPD officers flooded into the aisles and rows with weapons drawn, barking orders and shouting over their radios.

Holloway, his hands now cuffed behind his back, was hauled to his feet and pressed face-first against the railing.

He glanced down.

Hoped that Dean was being arrested or tended to by the EMTs, but all he saw was Linda’s body lying in a pool of her own blood.

Holloway turned his head from side to side, taking a good long look around the Reserve Level to find Dean. His buddy had completely disappeared from sight.

82

Two hours later, night had descended on the city of Los Angeles. Holloway was seated in the back of an ambulance, rubbing his wrists and staring at the stadium bathed in a wash of red and blue emergency lights. An EMT was tending to his wounds.

Cops were everywhere.

Even the mayor had made an appearance.

The parking lot outside the stadium—packed with squad cars, ambulances, and a fleet of news vans—had become a makeshift command center. Holloway tallied that there were 200, maybe 300 people crowding the scene. It felt like half the city was there at ground zero…but Dean Blackwood, despite the efforts of the police, was nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” Detective Zelada said. Holloway turned to face him. “Your story holds up. At least so far.” He held up the SD card in his hand. “And I took a look at this thing you took from that woman’s pocket.”

“What was on it?”

The detective told him sordid details of the video contents—an affair between the actor Robbie Aimes and the young teenage son of the Governor of California. The sordid aftermath—caught on video—of Adam Rubek nearly putting his son in a coma.

“Sounds about right,” Holloway said. “Puts the past few days and everything that’s happened in perspective.”

“We’re sending people to Wozniak’s place as we speak,” Zelada explained. “We’ve also called up the PD over in Adam Rubek’s neck of the woods. Those two have a lot of questions to answer. Lawyered up or not, they better have some damn good answers for us.”

Zelada leaned against the ambulance, peering up at the news choppers circling above the stadium. “Things are about to get complicated. Coupled with the testimony you gave, I think we’re in for a long few weeks of⁠—”

“I get it.” Holloway nodded thanks to the EMT for bandaging his wounds and giving him something for the pain. “Did you call my wife?”

The detective nodded. “I did.”

“What’d she say?”

“She’s pissed.” Zelada dug a stick of gum out of his pocket. “Thrilled you’re alive, but she’s got a lot of questions for you. I’ve never heard anyone utter that many variations on the word motherfucker, but your wife was rattling them off like a drunken sailor.”

“Are they on their way?”

“We’re flying your wife and daughter to LA now,” Zelada explained. “You’re going to have to stick around for a while until we sort this mess out though. A lot of people want to talk to you.”

“I had an inkling.”

“You’re not under arrest. You didn’t harm anyone, save for that freak we bagged up and his sister.” Zelada knitted his brow. “By the way, we ran their prints through the database and got a hit on them about ten minutes ago.”

“No shit?” Holloway slipped out of the ambulance, flinching from the bruising his body had taken. “Who are they?”

“Freelance wet work professionals,” Zelada said. “They’ve worked all over the globe. The second we ran their prints, we got a hit through INTERPOL. As soon as that happened, someone from the State Department called us. Like I said,” he winked, “a lot of folks want to have a sit down with you, Mr. Holloway.”

“The CIA?”

“That’s the impression I got.” Zelada ripped the stick of gum in two and stuck half in his mouth. “I’m betting on you sidestepping anything in the way of serious charges as soon as they get here. That woman and her brother were high-value targets. I get the sense the authorities have been chasing them for years. They’ll want to have a chat with the man who assisted in taking them out.”

Near the edge of the parking lot, Holloway spotted Donald Blackwood. The old man was traipsing aimlessly through the lot searching for his son, his shoulders slumped, his body appearing to cave in on itself.

“So no sign of Dean?” Holloway asked Zelada. He saw Donald eyeing every corner, exit, and entrance. “You guys can’t find him?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Zelada crossed his arms, his tone brimming with skepticism. “You claim you don’t know where he went.”

“It’s a statement.” Holloway tapered his eyes. “Not a claim. And it’s as true as the sky is blue.”

“You have no idea where he went?”

“Zero.”

“Not a single clue?”

“No.” Holloway thought about Lee Fox and the chartered flight Dean may or may not have taken out of Burbank but kept it to himself. “Zip.”

“Look, I’m on your side here. I was two steps behind you guys for the past couple of days, so I have evidence of my own I’ve gathered that corroborates your story. After seeing that video, I’m betting on you being labeled a hero in lieu of a suspect. But if you’re withholding on me about Dean’s whereabouts⁠—”

“Detective,” Holloway shrugged. “I don’t know where the guy went. I’m not surprised that he bounced, considering what happened. I mean,” he gestured to the stadium, “he killed that woman and her brother. He fired shots in the middle of a crowded venue. After all that and the stuff that preceded it, he’s probably in deep shit, right?”

“Very deep shit,” Zelada said. “Dean has a talent for coming out the other side unscathed, at least in a legal blowback sense, but not this time. It’s possible these dudes from the State Department—put that name in quotes—will want to sit down with him too. But we have to bring him in to do that. If he’s gonna clear his name, we have to track him down.”

“He’s gone, man.” Holloway nodded toward the city of LA. “Wherever he is, he’s split for good. At least for a while.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“The guy said he needed to make a change,” Holloway said. “He said he needed to rethink some things.”

“I buy it.” Zelada paced the parking lot. “Last time I saw him, he looked pretty rough around the edges, like he was trying to figure some stuff out. If we can find him, if we can convince him to come in, he might be able to skate on this shit that he pulled. He has before.”

“I don’t think he wants to,” Holloway said. “I’m pretty sure Dean wants to take a long, hard look at himself in the mirror for a while before he decides to rear his head again.”

Holloway looked over at Donald.

The old man sat in defeat on the pavement of the parking lot.

Head turned up to the sky, Holloway heard the dull roar of an airplane, wondering if that was Dean on a flight taking him to some unknown part of the world.

“I’ll send you to the hospital to get checked out,” Zelada said. “You can rest up for the night. In the morning, we’ll get things moving on the debriefing process.”

“Take Dean’s old man there home,” Holloway requested, his focus on Donald. “That guy’s been through the ringer.”

“I will.” Zelada offered Holloway his hand. “I’d say good work, but…” He laughed. “You and Blackwood seriously fucked the chances of this ballpark opening back up anytime soon. A lot of Angelenos are gonna be pissed.”

“I’m from Jersey.” Holloway shook the detective’s hand. “Pissing people off is kind of standard practice for us.”

The detective saluted with two fingers.

Holloway returned the gesture.

Minutes later, a black sedan rolled up.

Two men in suits got out and spoke to officials from the LAPD.

After a short conversation, they were escorted over to Holloway.

The men in suits announced they were from the State Department. Holloway gave them a thirty-minute recap of what happened at the stadium and the events that preceded it. They promised he’d “be protected” and then asked him what his thoughts were on pivoting to a position under their employ.

Holloway said he’d consider the offer.

The men then asked if he knew where Dean was.

Looking up at the sky, Holloway said nothing, certain now that the aircraft he heard flying overhead a half hour earlier was his old pal heading off somewhere to figure out his life.

83

Six weeks later…

Holloway felt better than he had in years.

It’d been six weeks since he had a cigarette.

It had been four since he was cleared by the LAPD, thanks to the “State Department” running interference.

Two weeks had ticked by since Pat Wozniak had fled the country, and barely a week had passed since Holloway officially accepted the job from the very same “State Department” that cleared him of any wrongdoing.

“Private consultant,” the silver-haired guy from DC had told Holloway during their meeting at a hotel bar. “With your skill sets, we can put you to good use. After your testimony over this whole affair that Adam Rubek was involved in with Pat Wozniak, along with what you did during the course of that investigation, we could use a guy with your talents.” He slid an envelope over. “That right there is incentive. Pay or play. It’s a quarter of what we’ll be giving you annually.”

The money alone was enough for Holloway to commit and shake the man’s hand, but Holloway still had to sign off with his wife, Becky. She eventually relented after several weeks of chewing him out over what happened, after sitting with him through inquiry after inquiry about his years of being less than forthright about what he did for a living. But the money—much needed money for their daughter’s medical care—and the ability to move into a bigger house near DC were what sold her.

“Time,” Becky said several days before, “heals all wounds.” She had thrown a pillow at him and said, “But you’re still sleeping on the couch for a good chunk of it.”

Holloway, sipping his soda water, looked up at the television in the corner of the airport bar.

The channel—CNN.

The footage—a second in a long series of hearings about the scandal surrounding Adam Rubek and the dirty little deal he made with Pat Wozniak, who, along with his “church,” were also being dragged through a lengthy and exhaustive investigation by both the IRS and the Justice Department.

Fuck them.

Holloway ripped his focus off the TV.

To hell with the whole lot of them.

The phone on the inside of his blazer buzzed.

He fished it out.

When he saw an unknown number listed on the screen, he figured it was his new employer in DC. He answered it.

“Mike Holloway.”

“Howdy, bub,” Dean greeted. “What’s good?”

“Son of a…” Holloway nearly toppled off his stool. “DB, is that you?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“A non-extradition country.”

“How the fu—?” Holloway flicked a glance around the bar and then the terminal outside. “How’d you get this number?”

“Remember Lee Fox?”

“Yeah.” Holloway nodded. “That’s the guy you said was gonna fly you out.”

“Well, he’s ex-CIA,” Dean explained. “He’s got access to all kinds of neat toys. Wasn’t that hard to track you down.”

“Deano…” Holloway ticked down the volume of his voice. “Look, I⁠—”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Dean cut in. “I gotta bounce here soon. I was just calling to touch base with you. See how you’re doing.”

“I’m, uh…” Holloway smirked, “I’m all right. I took a gig with the Agency.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I guess my little stopover in LA doubled as some kind of audition.”

“Good for you,” Dean said. “How’s the wife feeling about it?”

“More money. Bigger house.” Holloway shrugged. “What’s not to like?” He switched the phone to his other ear. “By the way, I thought you should know, if you’re not in the loop already, that turning over that SD card to your buddy Zelada ended up faring in our favor.”

“Did you watch the video on the card?”

“I did.” Holloway put his focus on the TV. “Wozniak and Rubek are all over the news. Indictments up the wazoo are being passed down to them and all their cohorts.”

“That’s a big reason I wanted to get a hold of you,” Dean replied. “I got out of there so fast, I never had a chance to find out what happened.”

Holloway cut a forlorn gaze toward the terminal. “Wozniak is in the wind.” His tone became glazed with contempt. “Looks like he split town after everything that happened at the stadium. Turns out, a detective I crossed paths with—named Beldick—helped Wozniak get out of the country. Beldick was a member of the Awakening. Apparently, he’d been feeding Wozniak information for a couple years.”

“Beldick,” Dean said. “Yeah, I remember him.”

“Well, when Zelada found out Beldick was Wozniak’s inside man, LAPD Internal Affairs was all over it.” Holloway took a sip of his water. “But Beldick washed his mouth out with a .38 before they could file charges.”

“What about Rubek?” Dean said. “What happened to him?”

“He’s fucked. He tendered his resignation as Governor, but he’s still got a shitload of problems to deal with for the foreseeable future. Beating the shit out of his young son and having the proof on video is certainly fodder for a juicy criminal lawsuit—child abuse, assault, battery. No, things are definitely not over for Adam Rubek.”

“Do we know how the incident ended up on an SD card?” Dean asked.

“Pretty simple,” Holloway explained. “Jimmy Valenti, at Nikki Caimi’s request, was hiding in the closet, the door cracked open just enough for the lens of his camera to capture it all. Nikki paid him dearly to get that juicy gossip for The Hollyweird Buzz before he went behind her back and tried to blackmail Rubek.”

“What about Rubek’s kid, Josh?” Dean asked. “The one on the video with Aimes.”

“Zelada and I tried to do what we could to spare Josh Rubek from getting caught up in the scandal once the card got turned over. We knew what would happen to the kid once the story broke, but we couldn’t spare him from being part of this mess. It was way above our paygrade. For now, Josh is staying with relatives in Florida until things get sorted out.”

“Aimes is dead,” Dean said. “Josh Rubek’s life is over, and all because Nikki Caimi and Jimmy Valenti were selfish pieces of shit trying to boost their reputation.”

“It’s fucked up.”

“Very fucked up.” Dean sighed. “Unfortunately, everything in life can’t be tied up with a neat little bow.”

“It’s not like a movie, right?” Holloway smirked. “Dean Blackwood adventures aren’t exactly on par with cozy little fireside mysteries.”

“No,” Dean snickered. “They’re not.” He took a beat. “At least you got a sweet job. Your stock is going up. In terms of looking at things in a half-full sense, I’d put that one in the plus column.”

“What about you, DB?” Holloway asked. “Are you coming back?”

“Are the cops looking to cut a deal with me like the Agency did with you?”

“They, uh…” Holloway’s face puckered. “They’ve got a warrant out for you for a slew of charges.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiled. “I had a feeling my little encounter with Linda inside the stadium wouldn’t be easy to walk away from.”

“There’s a chance we can get the heat off of you.”

“How so?”

“You gotta come back,” Holloway said. “You need to have a talk with my people in the CIA. They’ve assured me if you⁠—”

“Sit down with them,” Dean butted in, speaking like he was crossing mundane items off a list, “agree to work with them, they’ll let me slide.”

“It’s a layup, brother.” Holloway widened his eyes. “If you give them what they want, if you talk with them, you can⁠—”

“I’m not doing that kind of thing anymore, Hollow,” Dean said. “I’m done with all that. I’ve been operating that way for years, and I’m tired of it. I need to recalibrate. I’m a booze-fueled magnet for chaos with a voice in his head. Those are problems I need to sort out before I step back into people’s lives again.”

“Voice in your head?” Holloway squinted. “Figuratively or literally?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean laughed. “All you need to know is that I’m working on it, and I’ll be back sooner rather than later.”

“What about your kids?” Holloway asked. “Your father? Freddy?”

“I’m taking care of it,” Dean explained. “I just sent word to Freddy. He’s going to hold down the fort and look after things until I come back. I’m making a tough choice here, but…” he paused several seconds, “it’s one I’m convinced I need to make.”

“I understand.” Holloway shifted his weight on the barstool. “I’m sorry, man. I feel bad that things turned out this way.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Dean replied. “You stuck with me. Far as I’m concerned, we’re more than even for any of the grudges I was holding against you.”

“You’re gonna come back though,” Holloway said. “Right? I mean, you can’t live on the lam forever.”

“I’ll be back eventually. For now, I need to get my head screwed on straight. I’m placing myself on the bench for a while. Knowing my people as well as I do, they’ll be all right,” Dean sighed. “I’ll have a lot of apologies to make and things to fix when I get back, but this is the way it’s gotta be.”

Holloway fell silent. He heard a plane’s motor kickstarting to life on the tarmac, imagining Dean on his way to some tropical destination to sort out his affairs.

“Guess there’s nothing more to say,” Holloway said.

“Guess not,” Dean replied. “Take care of yourself, Hollow Man.”

“You too, DB.”

“Actually, there’s one last thing I wanted to ask you,” Dean added.

“Yeah.” Holloway pulled out his wallet to pay for his drink. “Shoot.”

“You sound a little less hoarse than when we last spoke,” Dean said. “Did you quit smoking?”

“I did.” Holloway’s lips twitched into a grin as he handed the bartender his card. “A few weeks now.”

“Sounds like you did some deep soul-searching there.”

“I did.” Holloway knitted his brow. “I am. I found out why I started smoking after I thought long and hard about it. After our chats while we were working the case, I realized there were a few things I failed to resolve from years ago. That whole being selfish and ‘shadow self’ thing we were talking about.”

“What was it?” Dean asked. “What did you figure out?”

Holloway grinned.

Thought back to the conversations he had with his wife.

Recalled the series of events from his past—personal and professional—that he never dealt with until a few weeks ago.

“No,” Holloway told Dean. “No, I think I want to keep those things to myself.”

“But you’re working through them?” Dean asked. “You’re finding peace?”

“I am.” Holloway grabbed his bag. “You give me a call when you’ve done the same.”

“You got it.”

“Take care of yourself, brother.”

“Hooah.”

“Hooah.”

Holloway ended the call.

Got his card back from the bartender.

Shook his head.

Threaded his way through the terminal.

Caught his flight to New Jersey to pick up Becky and Holly and take them to a new life ripe with new opportunities.

“I knew I’d hear from my old pal Dean Blackwood again—sooner rather than later.”

84

JALISCO, MEXICO

“Yo, buddy!” Lee Fox called out. “You ready?”

A bearded Dean Blackwood, satellite phone in his hand, thumbed the end call button. “Yeah,” he shouted back to the pilot. “Let’s move.” He turned his head up, squinted at the sun that sizzled his neck, and kicked at the dirt runway as he approached the Cessna Citation M2.

“So,” Fox said, taking his phone back from Dean as he boarded the plane. “You ready?”

“You sober?” Dean—dressed in the jeans, boots, and floral Hawaiian shirt the pilot had given him—took a seat in the middle of the plane.

“Yeah.” Fox said. The silver-haired, three-day-stubble throwback from a bygone era of United States espionage closed the cabin door, locked it, and then held out his hand to show Dean it was steady. “Sober enough.” He rapped his fist on the red cooler stowed on one of the seats. “Got some brews in there if you want to crack open a couple.”

“Nah.” Dean clicked his seatbelt. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” Dean leaned back. “None for me.”

A moment later, Woody, upon hearing that beer was a no-go, whispered in Dean’s ear. “Come on, you puss. Have one. What’s the⁠—?”

“Go away,” Dean whispered. “You’re done. For good. You’re not part of my story anymore.”

In the cockpit, Fox angled around and squinted. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” Dean replied. “He’s not gonna be an issue once I get things figured out here.”

“Him who?”

“Nothing.” Dean looked straight at Fox and waved him off. “Forget it.”

“Okay.” Fox plopped down on his seat and fiddled with the controls. “You talk to everyone you need to?”

“I did.”

“You still sure you wanna go?” Fox motioned to the controls. “I can always take you back to LA.”

“I’m sure.” Dean gazed out the window at the mountains, thinking of his family, Freddy, Holloway, and anyone else he ever had an interaction with up to that point. “Hundred percent.”

You’ll come back.

He felt the plane lurch forward.

You’ll reset.

He watched out his window as the aircraft taxied down the runway.

You’ll be a different Dean Blackwood the next time around.

“Hey, Blackwood.” Fox said from the cockpit. “Mind if I put on some music?” He pointed to the portable stereo in the co-pilot’s seat. “I like to listen to tunes when I fly.”

“Just don’t crash the plane.” Dean rested back in his seat. “I wanna get to this place in one piece.”

“Oh, you will.” Fox rattled off a smoke-choked laugh and pressed the play button on his stereo. “You’re gonna love Jamaica. Place might be third-world, but it’s got a helluva view.”

Dean reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.

Took out the passport he purchased from Fox.

Ran his thumb over the laminated picture, mumbling his new alias—Jack MacReady—out loud so he could cement it in his brain.

“Jack MacReady,” Dean mumbled. “Pronounced Mac-Cready. Not Mac-Ready.”

He pocketed the passport.

Drew a deep breath.

Bid a silent farewell and a plethora of apologies to his family as the plane lifted up, took off, and made its ascent into the clouds.

You’ll come back.

The low hum of the plane put Dean at ease.

But you’ll have to make up for things.

Change things.

Do better than you did before.

“We’re off, ace!” Fox called out. “I Want to Take You Higher” by Sly & the Family Stone blasted out of the cockpit. “En route to your new digs.”

Dean offered a thumbs up.

Stared at the clouds out the window.

Figured if this was the tail end of the “movie” he’d been living out with Mike Holloway, this was the part where the screen would fade and the credits would begin to roll.

But that’s not the end of my story.

Dean smirked.

After the credits, the teaser would read, “Dean Blackwood Will Return.”

He placed his hands behind his head.

And I will.

Dean closed his eyes and sat back comfortably for the flight to his next—not final—destination.

Rest assured.

EPILOGUE

Amsterdam, the Netherlands

The American approached the entrance of the hookah lounge on Fokke Simonszstraat 3. He stepped inside. A dense cloud of vapor hung in the air. He couldn’t see more than 2 feet in front of him. If he had to draw the Glock concealed in the back of his pants, it would be impossible to pick out a target in the haze. 

He checked his watch—10:02 p.m., two minutes after his scheduled arrival time. Hands in his pockets, he threaded his way through the tables and patrons, the decor bathed in shades of lavender. He assessed everyone because he wasn’t sure what his contact looked like. 

The American approached the VIP tables hugging the east wall.

Squinted.

Saw a copper-skinned gentleman with flawless skin seated by himself in the corner booth, staring at nothing and no one in particular. 

Has to be him.

The American saw the man flick a look in his direction.

It’s gotta be him.

Chest puffed and head held high, the American approached the booth. He took a seat across from the stranger. Not a word passed between them for several moments as the American watched the refined, manicured, exceptionally good-looking man take long, slow drags of the hose tethered to the shisha on the table.

“You are Lynch?” the man finally asked.

The American nodded. “And I assume you’re Narek?”

“Do you have it?” Narek asked.

“I do.” The American reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and laid it on the table. “Now it’s your turn.”

Narek, never once making eye contact with the American or even taking so much as a furtive glance in his direction, reached into his $4,000 peacoat, took out a phone, and slid it across the table.

The American took the phone.

Saw a pending wire transfer of $1 million.

Tamping down his urge to smirk, the American then motioned with his chin to the device he provided Narek. “It’s all on there,” he said. “Family members, employment history, last known addresses—the works. But the guy you’re looking for just shot up a ballgame in Los Angeles. Currently, he’s on the run. Both the LAPD and the FBI are looking for him—some of the bigger agencies too. I get the feeling he won’t be coming back to the States anytime soon.”

“Interesting.” Narek smirked. “I’m sure the citizens of Los Angeles are going to raise hell about their little ballpark being shot to hell.”

“It’s going to be hard to track this guy you’re looking for,” the American commented. “The last place my crew was able to track him was Jalisco, Mexico, but he’s in flight right now. I can’t say for sure where he’s going.” He smirked. “This Blackwood fucker is apparently good at getting himself lost.”

“Not a problem.” Narek put the hose down with his right hand. He swiped and skimmed through the contents of the phone the American gave him with his left. “My people can take it from here.”

“Can I, uh…” The American coughed into his fist. Shot a look over his shoulder. He leaned over the table. “Can I ask why you got such a hard on for this guy?”

“Personal reasons.” Narek locked the phone and slipped it into his jacket. “None that concern you. Now,” he motioned to the exit, “if you would please…”

The American nodded.

Stood up, turned around, and left.

Narek waited until the American was out of sight before calling his contact who was waiting around the corner in the alley beside the lounge. 

He ordered the contact to kill the American. 

Get rid of the body. 

Make it look like he got mugged. 

He terminated the call and pinned his eyes to the picture on the phone.

Dean Henry Blackwood.

Narek Sarkissian breathed deeply.

The things I have planned for you…

He fantasized about the way he’d kill Blackwood’s family—very, very slowly—before he did the same to Blackwood. Narek knew he’d have to be patient. It might take a year, maybe longer, until he was able to do to Dean Blackwood what Blackwood had done to his entire family.

The time will come.

Narek took one last hit of the rose shisha and ambled his way to the exit.

For you, father.

He pictured his Papik, Aram Sarkissian, wasting away in a supermax prison. Then he disappeared onto the streets of Amsterdam.

We will soon have our revenge.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for reading Hollywood Kill, book 6 in the Dean Blackwood series.

As an independent author, reaching more readers is no easy task, and that’s where I truly need your help. If you enjoyed the story, it would mean everything to me if you could leave a quick review on Amazon. Your support helps this book reach more readers and allows me to keep writing stories for people like you. Thank you for being such an important part of this journey! red heart

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If you thought Hollywood Kill was intense, just wait until you discover how it all began…

Curious about how Dean and his father first got caught in the deadly web of the Sarkissian crime family, revealed in the epilogue? Drive to Kill, the gripping first book in the Dean Blackwood series, unveils the chilling backstory.

Dive into Drive to Kill now and uncover how this ruthless crime family threatened Dean’s son, Jeremy, sparking the war that changed everything. Don’t miss the explosive beginning to this action-packed series!

Click here and get Drive To Kill Now