THAT NIGHT, AT a quarter to eight, Ellie stood in front of the bathroom mirror inside one of Los Angeles’s most well-known (and most expensive) restaurants, touching up her lipstick and wondering what the night was all about. She was sure it wasn’t a celebration for a job well done on the carrier. Anton wouldn’t have made her go halfway across the city to Bloomingdale’s to meet that pale waif named Binx and find out that he not only had already picked out the clothes but had also paid for them. All Ellie had to do was go into the dressing room and try everything on to make sure the sizes were right.
Anton, she had to admit, had great taste. All Chanel—a low-cut satin top with black tuxedo pants and leather cap-toe pumps. Clothes that were designed to do one thing, and one thing only: make an impression. Was tonight about another high-end job? Something that would move her closer to Anton’s inner circle? It had to be. Why else would Anton have picked out these clothes and asked her to come out to this fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills?
Ellie dropped the lipstick into her clutch and checked her watch. Ten to eight. Perfect. She stepped back and examined herself in the mirror. Her new federal friends on the task force had provided her with the leather choker with the jagged-edge crystals. They had also given Faye Simpson other pieces of bugged jewelry—a watch and a bangle bracelet—to wear when she was working with Anton.
The plunging V-neck of her blouse was a little sexier than she usually went for, Faye Simpson’s tastes being more revealing than Ellie Batista’s—even more so since she wasn’t wearing a bra—but the double-sided tape was nicely holding the fabric in place. No danger of an accidental nip slip tonight.
Nip slip, she thought, and smiled. Something Cody would say. She left the bathroom and walked down the short, dimly lit hall and entered the restaurant, wishing she could call him back and tell him she was okay, that he didn’t have to worry.
The hostess, a striking brunette named Misha, was adjusting the knot of Anton’s tie and laughing at something he’d said—laughing in such a way that clearly showed she was into him. Ellie could see the appeal, in a way. Anton was built like a professional wrestler, but his face was as welcoming as a Russian prison camp. He’d spent time in one, too, he had told her once, a penal colony in Mordovia, some republic southeast of Moscow, before immigrating with his mother to the United States. His nose was slightly crooked from having been broken one too many times and he had cauliflower ears from having been punched and kicked too many times, and the left side of his mouth was slightly paralyzed, either from birth or from a fight—she didn’t know which.
Anton saw Ellie approaching and smiled, giving him the full wattage of his capped teeth done in a brilliant toilet bowl white.
“Right on time, as usual,” he said, spreading his arms open wide to accept her. He leaned down and kissed both her cheeks. He had a permanent case of five-o’clock shadow, even after he shaved, and she felt his stubble scrape across her skin.
“Come, come.” He placed his strong hand against the small of her back and turned to the hostess. “Let us sit.”
“We’re staying for dinner?”
“Why else would I have invited you to such a beautiful place, asked you to dress up so nicely?”
“Drinks, I assumed.”
“We could have drinks anywhere. Tonight is a celebration.”
“Oh? Of what?”
Anton grinned coyly and arched his eyebrows a couple of times. His English was pretty good, but he still had a bit of an accent, Anton having arrived in the States when he was twenty-two. He was thirty-three now, and with his deep voice and accent, his solid build and the fearless way he carried himself, he looked and acted the part of Nameless Gangster Thug in a Russian mob movie—not that Hollywood made them anymore, everything now recycled reboots of things that had already been recycled and rebooted.
In the time she’d spent with Anton, she had noticed a keen intelligence at work behind the cold stare he forced on the world. He wasn’t given to much emotion, but around her, when it was just the two of them, she had noticed a softer side to his personality—a man who loved his mother deeply and took care of her. A man who longed for a sense of romance and was frustrated by the constant vanity and lack of emotional and intellectual depth he found in the women he dated.
Ellie slid into a booth upholstered in fine, rich leather. Anton sat across from her, the circular table between them small, and took the elegant menus from the hostess. “Bring us two Macallans on the rocks,” he told her. “The eighteen, not the twelve.”
As the hostess flitted away, Anton looked the woman up and down, his fingers fishing for something inside his suit jacket pocket. Everything about this place was intimate—the dim modern lighting and limited and spacious seating to give patrons a sense of privacy and importance, which was why, according to her Google research, a lot of LA’s power crowd came here. The men here this evening wore crisp suits and ties and didn’t look a day under fifty. All the women were beautiful and wore fancy jewelry and stunning dresses and didn’t look a day over thirty.
“That thing around your neck,” he said.
“My choker?”
“Whatever. Where’d you get it?”
“My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday,” Ellie lied.
“Those aren’t real diamonds.”
“If they were, I would have hocked it a long time ago.” Anton knew all about Faye Simpson’s gambling problem.
“It looks tacky and cheap,” Anton said. “Take it off.”
Ellie didn’t hesitate, took it off without a fuss. She’d started to wrap it around her fingers so it would fit neatly in her clutch when Anton reached out and said, “Give it to me.”
“Won’t look nearly as good on you.”
He motioned for her to hand it over, impatient, his eyes dead. She placed the bugged choker in his extended hand. He got up, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked away.
Did he know the choker was bugged? That the LAPD was nearby, listening in on their conversation? If he or someone else decided to take a closer look at the necklace, they’d find the microphone. She saw Anton heading in the direction of the restrooms. He had taken his phone with him and it looked like he was either thumbing in the passcode to unlock his phone or dialing a number or possibly sending a text.
Roland and the guys who had trained her to go undercover had told her she had a pretty solid poker face. She held it in place in case anyone was watching—Anton had people everywhere—but she couldn’t put out the fire inside her head, the voices screaming at her. Part of her fear had to do with Anton taking her choker, but the other part—and it was, surprisingly, much larger—had to do with the excitement of being so close to knowing something. Why was Anton looking for Gingerbread Man? And why had he invited her to this fancy, high-priced restaurant and picked out these expensive clothes she was wearing if he wasn’t going to bring her deeper into the fold, involve her in something bigger? This dinner, she was certain, wasn’t about Anton trying to get into her pants. He had shown no interest in her in that way, thank God.
What was really going on tonight?
The hostess returned. She had brought someone with her.
The man standing next to the table had salt-and-pepper hair and a pale, pockmarked face. He was in his late forties to early fifties, Ellie guessed, and what she noticed right away was how he wore his suit instead of the suit wearing him—an important distinction in LA, especially in Beverly Hills, where there were so many poseurs, guys desperately trying to look confident and powerful by wearing nice clothes and driving nice cars. One look at this guy, and she knew he belonged in that rare category of men who could have you erased from the earth. He gave off that distinct air of power and menace.
Ellie knew she wasn’t imagining it; she’d caught the pinched, nervous expression on the hostess’s face before she politely excused herself and walked away.
Ellie was about to slide out of the table when he said: “Please, don’t get up.”
But she did, anyway, because it was the polite and proper thing to do (and probably the smart thing, too). Ellie sensed that it pleased him. She extended a hand. “Faye Simpson.”
“I know.” He had a firm grip and rough, callused hands. “Frank.”
He didn’t offer his last name, and she didn’t ask. The man named Frank waited until she resumed her seat before sliding into Anton’s spot. He folded his hands on the table, his expression serious, maybe even dour. She caught sight of the platinum ring on his left hand—a pair of tigers or lions circling each other—and she immediately knew who he was: the man from the photo on her home office wall, the one sitting in the Buick.
He noticed her looking at it but didn’t say anything. He didn’t smile, either.
“Nice ring,” she said. “Never seen one like that before.”
“Thank you.”
“Does it have some sort of special meaning?”
He shook his head, said nothing.
Ellie forced a smile. “Such a nice place,” she said. “Fancy.”
“You like nice things?” His glare was as intense and unforgiving as an MRI scan.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“You wear those clothes very well,” he said. “They definitely suit you.”
Ellie sensed a hidden meaning behind his words. “Did you purchase these for me, Mr. . . . ?”
“Frank is fine, and yes, I did.”
“I’m flattered,” she said. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“I’m sensing a but coming.”
“Well, I am wondering what I did to deserve such a lavish gift.” The smile remained on her face as she glanced quickly to her right, across the dining area, to the hall leading to the restrooms.
“Anton won’t be joining us,” Frank said. “It’s just you and me this evening.”
Why? Ellie wanted to ask. Faye Simpson, though, simply smiled. Waited.
The waitress came with their drinks. Frank leaned back in his seat so the waitress could set them down on the table. After she did, he turned to her and said, “We’ll have the prawn appetizer to start, followed by the Kobe beef. Michael knows how I like it. Thank you.”
Then, after the waitress left with the menus:
“Anton has told me a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“He says you’re a hard worker and take direction well.” His tone said otherwise. It practically screamed, Bullshit.
Ellie took a sip of her Scotch. It wasn’t bad. Not as good as bourbon—too peaty for her taste—but she welcomed it anyway, knowing it would help relax her nerves. Just don’t get drunk, she warned herself. You need to stay sharp.
Frank folded his hands on the table, his eyes searching hers when he said, “What is it you’re really after?”
“Advancement.”
“To what?”
“Depends on the job you’re offering.”
Frank smiled but there was nothing pleasant in it—or in the way he was looking at her now, a look she’d seen on detectives who were locked inside the box with a suspect, one that practically screamed, I know who you are and what you did, so there’s no point in lying. Only the roles were reversed: she was the suspect, Frank the interrogator, and she was being questioned inside a fine restaurant and not a small, claustrophobic room.
“Anton warned me you were direct,” he said.
Ellie sensed her bluntness had somehow pleased him. “Is there any other way to be?”
“He also told me he had you thoroughly vetted.” Frank said it in a way that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to bristle, like he’d found something and knew who she really was.
Ellie waited for him to continue. He didn’t, kept staring at her with that penetrating glare, like he could see inside her skull.
The silence grew uncomfortable—at least to her. With Frank, it was impossible to tell. She decided to wait him out, make him ask the question. Finally, he did.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
Ellie kept her tone light and pleasant. “I’m sure Anton told you about my problem.”
“Gambling, yes—I know all about it. That your only vice?”
“I like to drink here and there, but it’s not a problem.”
“Drugs?”
Ellie shook her head. “Not my thing.”
“You seeing anyone? A friend-with-benefits thing?”
“Not yet,” Ellie said, raising the glass to her lips. “But I’m working on it.”
“Why’re you here? In LA. I’m sure there’s plenty of blood work in Nevada.”
“You can’t reinvent yourself in the place where you were born. To get a fresh start, you need to be able to wipe the slate clean, right?”
Frank didn’t answer.
“This city,” Ellie said, “was built on pretending. It’s its main economy, you could say. I mean, doesn’t anyone who comes here want to be some better version of themselves—or, if not that, someone completely new and different? Someone prettier and smarter and richer? Isn’t that why you came here?”
“What, exactly, is it you want to become, Faye Simpson from Reno, Nevada?”
Ellie decided to push back, just a bit. “Any damn thing I choose,” she said.
“But there’s the matter of your debt. What’s the amount, again?”
“Two fifty and some change.”
Frank exhaled audibly. “That’s a horrible burden for someone so young. And beautiful.”
“It is what it is. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not shying away from it, either. I addressed the problem way before I came here.”
“Your payment plan.”
Ellie nodded. “I’ve been making monthly payments to the casinos for over a year. Haven’t missed a single payment or been late even once. I’m sure you checked.”
“But what if you slip? If you do, the casinos might decide to take legal matters into their hands—which they can do, if they’re so inclined. Hiring you would invite possible scrutiny into my life, not Anton’s, and that’s something I can’t afford.”
“Are you asking me to work for you in a . . . different capacity than what I’m doing now?”
“I’m considering it.”
Ellie smiled. “I’m sensing a but coming.”
“To work for me, you have to pay off your debt and be done with it.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have—”
“That kind of money. Yes, I realize that. But I do. I could offer you a loan—a legal loan. I don’t offer the same low interest rates as the banks, but they’re certainly not outrageous.”
“And what, exactly, would I have to do for this loan?”
“We can work out the parameters later,” Frank said. “If you’re interested.”
“You do this for all your prospective employees?”
“No. Hardly ever.” Frank paused to let his words hang in the air and took a sip of his drink, Ellie noticing the measured way he did it each and every time, a man in full control of his vices. “Position I have in mind, I need someone who is discreet,” he said. “Someone I can trust.”
“Then may I suggest a trial run?”
“This sort of job requires a full-time commitment. Once you’re in, that’s it.” Frank’s meaning was clear: once she said yes, there was no turning back. And if she screwed up, she disappeared. No second chances.
Frank dipped his fingers into his suit jacket pocket. “How long have you been working with Anton, again? Three months?”
“Closer to four.”
Frank came back with a photograph. It was folded in half. She couldn’t see the actual image, but she knew it was a photograph given the card stock. He placed it on the table, the picture sitting like a small tent between them.
She was about to reach for it when he said, “There’s nothing I despise more than a liar.”
Ellie considered him, trying to read the subtext behind his words.
“I ask questions only once,” he said. “Please bear that in mind.”
He motioned for her to pick up the picture.
It showed a big, mean-looking white guy dressed in military boots, khakis, and a tight olive tee with sweat stains under the arms walking across what she guessed was a desert. He had a military-issued buzz cut, his scalp gleaming underneath the sun, his monstrously developed forearms and biceps corded with muscle and veins and sunburned. The crazy, clownish tattoos she’d seen at the Vargas home were on full display.
Gingerbread Man.
Frank, she knew, was watching her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. Fortunately, she had been taught how to keep her true emotions from reaching her face, to keep her voice clear when she spoke. Lying, she learned, was an art form, one that she practiced over and over again in her time with Roland. Mastering the art of lying was the one thing above all else that would keep her alive.
Ellie placed the folded picture back down on the table and looked blankly at Frank, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. He stared hard at her, waiting for her to confess, to break down—to do something. When she didn’t speak, for some reason she thought he was going to reach across the table and strangle her. Maybe she thought that way given the intensity in his eyes. She thought she saw a primal hunger there. A burning anger aimed at the man in the photograph.
“This man,” Frank said. “Where have you seen him?”
“I haven’t.”
She could feel Frank’s eyes searching her mind and heart.
Ellie had prepared for moments like this one. She radiated confidence through her body language and in her voice when she said, “I would have remembered meeting someone like that. Who is he? And what’s with those tattoos?”
“Have you seen him with Anton?”
“I’m not with Anton every day.”
“That wasn’t the question I asked.”
“During my times with Anton, no, I haven’t seen him. Have you asked Anton? This would be a question more suited to him, wouldn’t it?”
Frank’s gaze remained on her as he picked up the picture and tucked it back inside his suit pocket. “If you see that man, you’re to tell me right away.”
“Who is he?”
“That doesn’t concern you. I’ll give you my personal number.”
Ellie knew Frank wasn’t going to give her any specific information on Gingerbread Man. The subject was a dead end, at least for now. She said, “How about we talk about the job you’re offering? What will I be doing?”
“You’d be working for me, with high-end clients in an . . . intimate setting. Hence the need for discretion.”
High-end clients. Intimate. Frank was discussing a job that would put her next to people receiving blood treatments. Was it Pandora? Please, God, let it be Pandora.
“There would also be some managerial aspects to the job,” Frank said. “I could go over those at a later time—provided you’re interested.”
“Depends on the money.”
“It will be a significant raise. We can negotiate later—if you’re interested in the job.”
Frank was offering her a chance to get closer to the inner circle—and, she hoped, closer to finding her brother. There have to be records of carriers, some sort of database where they keep track of them, their blood types, she thought, taking a long sip of her drink.
“Are you interested?” Frank asked. “Or should I look elsewhere?”
Ellie thought of the picture of J.C. on the wall. “I’m interested,” she said, allowing the smile to reach her face and voice.