Cutter was still awake at one am after his return from Salazar Park, in his real look. He had burned his disguise and thrown the ash in a dumpster on the way back.
He had prompted Werner to check the photographs: the older man and the young person. None matched any hoods in the software program’s database.
That doesn’t mean anything. Not every Street Front thug was in the LAPD database that Werner had access to. Even the old person could be a decoy.
One of those houses is Covarra’s warehouse, where he stores his drugs for distribution. That’s why Moe said the house was valuable.
‘Chad,’ he called his friend, confident that he would be awake.
‘I was wondering when you’d call,’ the armorer replied drily.
Was he that predictable?
‘I’ve got more gear for you. HKs, Glocks, drones … I figured you’d need to stock up.’
Yeah, he was that readable!
‘Leave it at a self-storage. I can’t risk coming to your place anymore. You’ve got a family. You don’t need to be dragged into what I’m doing. No!’ he overrode his friend’s protests. ‘That’s the way it will be. And if the cops come to you, tell them everything you know.’
‘LAPD will not come to me. Every gun, drone, grenade I gave you is untraceable.’
Cutter hung up, logged into an offshore bank account and transferred a sizable amount to Chad’s offshore account. His friend was running a business, not a charity.
He turned off the lights and sat in the darkness in Vienna’s living room. For a moment, he thought he could hear her and Arnedra laughing at a joke, and his lips curled up involuntarily in a smile. Then he straightened, realizing the laugh had come from outside.
He had visitors.