Private

Attorney Ed Ferrara was wearing a dark three-piece suit. His associate, John Reilly, wore black jeans and a black cashmere sweater. Reilly searched my office with his eyes, checking for hidden cameras in the bookshelves. I don’t think he spotted them.

Ferrara said, “It’s nice to meet you, Jack. You come highly recommended by several sources.”

“Always good to hear,” I said. “How can I help you?”

Reilly dug into a pocket and pulled out a photograph of a very pretty blond woman in her early twenties. I thought I recognized her, Elizabeth something, an actress. I’d seen her on Craig Ferguson once or twice.

“This is a picture of Beth Anderson. She’s a film actress,” Ferrara said, “and she’s also Mr. Noccia’s good friend.”

Ray Noccia was at least seventy years old. After waiting for two generations, he had just taken over the top job from his uncle Antonio, deceased. And he was “good friends” with twenty-something Beth Anderson.

Reilly was saying, “Beth hasn’t been seen in a week. She doesn’t return Mr. Noccia’s calls. He wants to make sure nothing untoward happened to her.”

“Sounds like a job for LAPD,” I said. “You should give them a shout. I highly recommend them.”

Ferrara smiled and said, “We want to keep this quiet. We don’t want publicity that could hurt Beth’s career. Which brings us to you, Jack. We’d like a quote with a ceiling.”

I wondered if Beth Anderson had left town or if she was dead. Either way, I didn’t want Noccia’s business at Private.

“Sorry, I don’t do quotes,” I said. “I don’t do ceilings either. And I don’t do business with the Mob.”

There was a moment of thick silence, then Reilly and Ferrara got to their feet as one.

“You’re doing Andy Cushman,” said Ferrara. “And if I’m any judge of degenerate womanizers, you’re doing the little piece of Killarney sitting outside your office too.”

Reilly paused on the threshold to launch his parting shot. “And let’s not forget your father was doing life for murder when he passed. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Jack-off.”

I guess I did, but that was part of the reason Private was doing so well.

Chapter 20

AT THREE THAT afternoon, Jason Pilser was in his office at Howard Public Relations, waiting for the advisory board meeting to start, when he got a text message that catapulted his mood.

The message was from Steemcleena himself, posting particulars of the next “night on the town.” The notice addressed him by his screen name, “Scylla,” and said, “Get ready. You’re IT.”

Holy crap, it was actually happening, his baptism by fire. He’d been thinking about this night for weeks. In fact, he’d thought of little else. He’d originally met “Morbid” on Commandos of Doom, an online real-time war game. As allies, they had fought dozens of successful battles over the past two years.

But when Morbid recruited him into a much more select group of gamers, it had floored him. His introduction to Steemcleena had been virtual, and he’d had to wait until Morbid locked it up. Now Steemcleena was on board. And soon Jason as Scylla would step out from behind the computer screen and see some real-life action.

Pilser worked like a robot for the next three hours. He didn’t flinch when the head bitch blamed him for screwing up a proposal he hadn’t even compiled. Screw her. At six, he put on his jacket and left for the day.

He drove straight to a hardware store in West Hollywood.

He walked the narrow stocked-to-the-ceiling aisles and picked out a six-foot-long extension cord, a roll of duct tape, and a pair of cotton jersey gloves. Nothing very unusual. He paid cash for his purchases, keeping his head down so the security camera over the cash register didn’t catch his face.

He was so pumped that his hands were sweating.

The big night was only three days away. And he was “it.” On Saturday he was going to kill a girl somewhere in LA.

Chapter 21

THIS WASN’T REALLY sleep, was it? It was more like going to war every night and getting bombed back into reality in the morning.

In my dream this time, I ran across the burning battlefield, Colleen in my arms, blood splashing on my shoes. My heart hammered against my rib cage as she said, “Save me, Jack. I’m the mother of your children.”

The thumping explosion of mortar rounds threw me to the ground. My eyes flew open, and for an instant I had a strong sense that I was still on the battlefield on my last day in Afghanistan.

I remembered most of it, but some crucial recollection was missing, a gap in my memory from the time the helicopter went down and the moment when I died.

I had pushed the missing memory so far into my subconscious, it was subterranean.

I had to dig it up. Had to find out the truth about that day.

If I could retrieve the memory, maybe I could finally sleep.

I was still grasping at wisps of dream and memory when my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.

I looked at the caller ID, read “out of area.”

I left the phone on the table, sprang out of bed, and flipped on the house security monitors.