CODY WAS STILL very much on Ellie’s mind as she woke up in the drowsy morning sunlight. She didn’t want to think about him, couldn’t stop thinking about him and their conversation from last night, Cody pretty much saying that if she gave up the undercover job, he’d be fine with it.
She’d never given up on anything in her life.
She felt bad for hustling him out of her room, but she needed to keep her head in the game.
Ellie got out of bed. It was half past seven, and she felt surprisingly refreshed and energized. She took a long shower, and by the time she finished she was no longer thinking about Cody.
It wasn’t much of an effort, either. Her need to solve the mystery of her brother far outweighed her feelings for Cody, or the nagging, guilty thoughts she had of him worrying about her and suffering from that worry.
Did that make her some sort of sociopath?
Make her, God forbid, in some way evil?
She didn’t want Cody to suffer, had, she reminded herself, given him an out last night when she told him he could see other people, as much as that would hurt her—and it would. But if she was being honest with herself, didn’t a part of her want him to say that yes, they should take a break? If they did, she wouldn’t have to worry about him. She could temporarily pack him up and put him away, examine Cody later, after she found her brother. That was far more important right now than Cody’s feelings.
And wasn’t that the definition of evil? Ignoring someone’s suffering for your own benefit? She did it with Cody, and now she was about to do it to someone else.
By the time she finished dressing, she was back to being Faye Simpson, back to business.
Ellie stood by the window, with its panoramic views of downtown Los Angeles and Southern California, the mountains and ocean, and called Frank. He had given her his private cell number, in the event of an emergency.
He picked up.
“It’s Faye.”
“Good morning, Faye.”
“Good morning.”
Ellie closed her eyes, and as she took in a deep breath she thought of Danny. Danny, dead and buried and all alone inside his casket. Danny, who had gone through an ugly, bitter divorce, his only salvation his dog, Boomer. The words spilled out of her.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Ellie said.
“We’re talking now.”
“I meant face-to-face.”
“Why?”
“That picture you showed me the night you took me to dinner.” Ellie was pleased at how confident she sounded. “I’ve come across some information I think you’ll be very interested to hear.”
“I’m listening.”
Her plan would work only if they spoke in person. It was a gamble, what she had in mind. Then again, Faye Simpson was a gambler by nature.
“I want to talk to you in person,” Ellie said. “Where would you like to meet?”
Frank told her to stay put; he’d come pick her up. She gave him the address for the Ritz-Carlton—the hotel, which had the same address as the private residences—and waited for him in the lobby.
An hour later, she saw his Buick pull up to the front of the hotel—the same SUV from the photo hanging on her office wall. She pushed her way through the revolving doors, dressed in the same clothes she had worn yesterday.
Frank got out of the car. He wore a nicely cut blue suit jacket with a crisp, dressy white T-shirt that, along with his sockless loafers and Ray-Ban Wayfarers, gave him a breezy, casual look.
Only there was nothing breezy or casual about him. Frank buttoned his jacket as he opened the door for her, his pale skin almost as white as his tee—Dracula dressed by Christian Dior. She could see his eyes behind his sunglasses, studying and assessing her, probing for weaknesses.
He held the door open for her. Ellie climbed in, waited for Frank to join her. When he did, she took control and spoke first.
“The man in the photograph—he looks different now. Dyed his hair black and grew it out, and he’s also wearing black-framed glasses. But there’s no doubt it’s him. His name is Paul. At least that’s what Anton called him.”
“Anton?”
“He took me to see Paul.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Frank squeeze the steering wheel.
Ellie said, “I thought we were going to lunch. Anton went to a BMW dealership, said he had to pick up a part, and the next thing I knew, we had switched cars. He thought he was being followed. He had me leave my phone behind.”
“And why did Anton bring you along?” Frank’s tone remained flat, the way it always did when he spoke—or at least when he spoke to her.
“He wants me to help him acquire young female carriers. He didn’t say why.”
Next, Ellie mixed facts with what Roland had shared with her last night. “They were discussing the guy you work for, or with—I’m not sure. Sebastian. Are you two partners, or do you work for him?”
“What were Anton and Paul discussing?”
“I hear Sebastian’s offering a sizable reward for anyone with information on his stepson.”
“And where, exactly, did you hear that?”
“From Anton and Paul. It was one of many things they discussed together yesterday. They’re going to make a move against you.”
No reaction from Frank.
“And when, exactly, is this happening?”
“I’ll tell Sebastian,” Ellie said. “Only Sebastian.”
Ellie’s words hung in the air like a bad odor. Frank’s mouth parted slightly. Then he drew in a long, slow breath as his tongue dug into a back molar.
“The reward he’s offering would solve my debt problems—all of my debt problems,” Ellie said. “I wouldn’t have to take out a personal loan from you—from anyone.”
“Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell—”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
Ellie’s tone was polite. Still, Frank’s eyebrows jumped in surprise, and his face flushed.
“I’ll share everything I know,” Ellie said, “but only with your boss.”
Ellie had seen plenty of men get angry over the course of her life, but she had never witnessed full-blown rage until the day when Anton, pumped full of carrier blood, flipped out and crushed a stickman’s hand in a car door. Anton’s rage, though, was a primal response. Like fire, it burned for a brief period of time until it either died on its own or was extinguished. What Ellie saw in Frank’s eyes was a cold and clinical detachment—the soul of a man who, after slitting your throat, would sit back down at the dinner table to resume eating while you lay at his feet, bleeding.
Ellie was glad she was wearing dark-lensed sunglasses. They hid the fear in her eyes, her rapid blinking. “I mean no disrespect,” she said. “This is just business. I’m sure you’d do the same thing if you were in my position.”
Frank opened his mouth to speak. He immediately snapped it shut and abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and double-parked. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, squeezing it, and for some reason she thought he was going to backhand her, right here in the car. He didn’t seem like the type to hit a woman, but then again, how many women had come before who had made that mistake?
“Call me when Sebastian wants to talk,” Ellie said, and turned to the door.
Frank grabbed her roughly by the wrist.
“Hold on,” he said.
He took out his phone and began punching in a number.
“In person,” Ellie said. “Not over the phone. In person.”
Frank’s gaze burrowed into her face as he spoke into the phone. “I have someone who insists on meeting with you. Faye Simpson. I’m sitting with her right now. She just informed me she met Paul yesterday. Anton arranged the meeting.”
The conversation that followed was short, less than a minute. Ellie had no idea what it was about, since Frank didn’t speak. He listened to whatever Sebastian was saying, Ellie unable to make out a single word.
Frank hung up and placed the phone on the console. As he slid back into morning traffic, his features morphed into a waxy stillness. He didn’t speak.
Ellie stared out the windshield, trying to collect herself and her thoughts. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing, and she wanted to rub her wrist. He was surprisingly strong, Frank was. Then again, most men were. She realized—and not for the first time—she was at the mercy of men. It frightened her, yes, but she didn’t let it overpower her. She knew how to fight, wasn’t afraid of fighting.
Fifteen minutes of silence was enough.
“Where are we going?”
“To get some pancakes,” Frank replied.
Frank sat in monklike silence as they ate a leisurely breakfast at a cash-only diner located less than a mile from the hotel. The only time he addressed her was to tell her how much she owed for her half of the bill.
She followed Frank back to the car, her stomach full to the point of being uncomfortable. She had stuffed herself on purpose so she would not only be alert but also have enough fuel to help her get through whatever was going to happen next.
What was going to happen next? She didn’t know, and not knowing was making her second-guess her earlier decision to force Frank’s hand. He didn’t appear angry, but with Frank it was hard to say, the guy as expressive as a chunk of unmolded clay.
Ellie slid back into the passenger seat, reminding herself that she wasn’t alone. Roland’s people were watching. They wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
Frank remained quiet and appeared relaxed during the hour-plus drive out of the city—acted as though she wasn’t in the car. Ellie kept a close eye on her surroundings, especially when Frank took the exit for Long Beach.
Ellie followed the street signs all the way to their destination: 184 Palermo Avenue. A wrought iron gate covered the end of the driveway. The gate opened, and Frank drove toward a spacious Spanish Revival house with plantation shutters and meticulously manicured shrubs. It sat alone on top of a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean and Alamitos Bay, more of a small compound than a home, she thought—the sort of place where power brokers could meet and discuss things openly without having to worry about the prying eyes and ears of neighbors.
Has to be Sebastian’s house. Ellie had no way of knowing. The bay door of the three-car garage on the west side of the house was already open. There wasn’t another car parked in there—there wasn’t anything—and after Frank pulled inside and came to a smooth stop, the garage door was already closing behind them as he killed the engine, Ellie looked around the garage, wondering why it was so empty. It made her reconsider her choice to meet Sebastian here, on his home turf, instead of a more neutral location.
Frank had already gotten out of the car. He moved around to the other side and opened the door for her. He didn’t ask her to get out. He reached inside and viciously grabbed her by the arm, his fingers digging deep into the meat of her bicep and finding bone as he yanked her out of the seat.
She had never fought a man. Ellie had trained for it at the academy, and while she had gotten into her fair share of scrapes when arresting dopeheads, domestic abusers, and drunk drivers, she’d never had to go mano a mano with one. Frank was twice her size and three times as strong, and he was fast—and she was wearing heels. She slipped out of one, twisting her ankle in the process. The pain disappeared, replaced by a new one when he grabbed her arm and jerked it behind her back. He jerked it again when he forced it upward, toward her shoulders, in a hammerlock. He grabbed her hair, knotting it in his fist, and he marched her up the small set of stairs, to the back door, which was now open. She fell out of her other shoe and he pushed her forward through a hall, past a massive, airy kitchen and into the foyer, and he tightened his grip on her hair so hard, she was staring up at the vaulted ceiling, at a crystal chandelier. Her throat was exposed; that was all she could think about, that Frank or someone else was going to cut it—and there was at least one other person in the house, Ellie catching a shadow from the corner of her eye just before he moved her up a long set of stairs. Her feet kept tripping and Frank kept applying pressure to her arm, Ellie sure he was going to snap it and rip it from its socket, when he let go and shoved her into a bedroom bursting with sunlight.