Ellie sat on a couch upholstered in stiff white leather inside the living room of penthouse apartment number 32 at the Ritz-Carlton Residences at LA Live on West Olympic Boulevard. After Anton had dropped her back at her boyfriend’s house, Ellie had used a series of federal agents posing as Uber drivers to safely deliver her here for a debriefing. Roland had insisted on a face-to-face.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offered stunning aerial views of downtown LA. The sun was setting, casting bars of deep gold and red light inside the room. Roland held the bag back up to the window.

“I take it the red stuff in these capsules is carrier blood.”

“That’s what Anton told me.”

“And what’s a blood pill supposed to do?”

“Turn a nun into a nympho, for starters,” Ellie said. “Anton wants me to try them, report back to him.”

“What else?”

“Anton wants me to help him get female carriers.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t say other than Paul wanted only female carriers—the younger, the better. Anton also wants me to give him a full report on how the Celebrity Center is set up, floor by floor, room by room. He also wants me to get access to their client list.”

“You don’t have access to their client list.”

“Which is what I told him.”

“How did he react?”

“He told me to try harder.”

Roland slid his hands in his pockets and paced, his head tilted downward as he digested this information, thought, and planned their next steps.

Ellie quietly sipped her bourbon, felt it going to work on her nerves. In the distance she could make out one of those 747 planes the news called “SuperTankers” flying over the mountain, dropping thousands of gallons of fire retardant on the wildfires. Everywhere you went in LA, you could smell smoke, see it billowing from far, far away.

“When is Anton going to meet Paul next?” Roland asked.

“I have no idea.”

“But the plan is for them to partner up, manufacture these blood pills?”

Ellie shook her head. “The pills, Anton told me, are a preview of what Paul’s blood product can do.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Anton didn’t get into specifics.”

“You didn’t press him?”

“You don’t press Anton.”

Roland picked up his drink, a glass of straight vodka, no ice, and took the chair across from her. It was also upholstered in white leather. Nearly all the chairs and sofas were white, designed more for appearance than for comfort, the kitchen cabinets, countertops, and appliances black, giving the place a very cold, modern feel. Sterile and antiseptic.

Roland stared into his drink. “If Paul recognized you, there’s a good possibility he may call Sebastian or Frank, tell them you’re a cop.”

“They’re not talking. Sebastian’s got a bounty on Paul’s head.”

“But they worked together. Have some sort of history. And who’s to say Paul might not call him to gloat, say, Hey, dipshit, you’ve got a cop in your organization—you know, rub it in his face? Or maybe he’s waiting to use it as some sort of leverage. You see where I’m going with this?”