“How’d he sound?”

“Like he always sounds. Like we were talking about the weather or last night’s box score instead of him killing six people.”

“Six? I’m counting four. Vargas, the cop, and now Alex and Jolie.”

“There was another kid there,” Frank said. “A stickman, I’m hearing.”

“One of Anton’s?”

“I don’t know any details yet. As for the sixth victim, remember Jolie Simone was five months pregnant. State considers that another human life.”

Sebastian thought of Jolie’s unborn kid suffocating to death inside the womb because her mother had been killed. The news angered him—and Frank angered him. Not Frank personally but the deadpan way Frank spoke, like he was a computer rather than a man. Frank always spoke that way, and there were times, like now, when Sebastian wished Frank shared his outrage.

“I have more news from our man on the inside,” Frank said. “It appears Jolie gave blood. And Vargas got a transfusion.”

Sebastian chewed on that for a moment. Jolie wasn’t scheduled to give blood today, or any day, because she was pregnant—and Sophia Vargas wasn’t scheduled to get her transfusion until next month.

“Why would Paul take Jolie’s blood?” Frank asked.

“Must have a side deal going with someone, make some extra money, is the only thing I can think of.”

“With who? The Armenians?”

Let’s hope not, Sebastian thought. “What else do you know?”

“When the cops arrived, they found Sophia Vargas lying in the backyard, in her bikini. She was having a little DIY time—you know, buttering her muffin—even after the cops arrived.”

“What?”

“That’s what our guy said. She ever done anything like that before?”

“No. And she’s been getting Pandora infusions for years.”

“So what changed?”

Sebastian didn’t know. Had no idea. One of the immediate side effects of Pandora was enhanced sexual arousal, yes, and a lot of his male and female clients reported feeling extremely horny for a good couple of weeks or so after a transfusion. But he’d never had a client act the way Sophia Vargas had, if what Frank had just said was true.

“My guy also told me they were executed—his word—while they were passed out, sleeping, whatever,” Frank said. “Single stab wound to the back of the head with a strong blade, like a hunting or military knife.”

Instant death—at least according to Paul, who had told Sebastian about the night he used his government-issued knife to quickly dispatch a pair of Iraqi soldiers during a night mission over in camel country. Paul had brought that knife home with him—carried it with him. He even had a name for the blade: the Angel’s Kiss.

“Why were the cops called to the house?”

“Because of the dog,” Frank said.

“What dog?”

“Vargas’s dog. Black Lab. Somehow it got out of the fenced-in backyard, was running around the neighborhood when a police car hit it. The cops saw its tag. Someone had left a bloody fingerprint on it and written the words Help Us, I’m told. If I had to guess who did it, I’d say Alex.”