He was wrong.

Not only had Paul not been in touch with most of his old crew for months, if not years (some, Sebastian had been told, were surprised to find out Paul was back in LA), but the ones Paul did keep in touch with didn’t have much to offer.

As for the people in Paul’s current life, who they were, Sebastian’s investigators had no idea. His people had scoured Paul’s phone records, his computers and email accounts, and hadn’t found anything useful. Sebastian couldn’t help. Paul never talked about his personal life and Sebastian never asked, because, quite frankly, he didn’t care. Up until the point when the son of a bitch tried to have him killed, Paul had been nothing more than an ugly piece of furniture—something Sebastian had to endure for living with Trixie.

Link was saying something to him. Sebastian turned to him and said, “I’m sorry—can you repeat that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I said Paul is unknowable. Doesn’t tell you much in the way of what he’s thinking from one moment to the next.”

You got that right. “So you didn’t know anything about Paul taking Simone’s blood or that he might be thinking of setting up his own shop. You’re still maintaining that position.”

“Mr. Kane—”

“Oh, it’s ‘Mr. Kane’ now.”

“—if I knew anything—anything—or if I suspected something? I would’ve brought it immediately to Frank’s attention.”

Sebastian took another bite of his sandwich.

“You’ve been real good to me,” Link said. “I love my job, and I’ve got a great life, and it’s all because of you. First time in my life, I’m happy. Why would I want to screw that all up?”

Sebastian said nothing, chewing his food.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Link said, his voice breaking. “You’ve got to believe me.”

Sebastian looked out across the flatland, the expanse of it, and it made him feel small. Insignificant.

“Tell me about Ferreria.”

“Who?”

“Sixto Ferreria. Everyone calls him Six,” Sebastian said, turning to him, Link acting all huh? “I know you two have met.”

“I don’t recognize the name, I swear.”

“He’s one of Frank’s Internet guys. Ferreria does a lot of . . . maintenance work, I guess you could call it, on our servers. He’s around your age, about six feet, beer gut, shaped like a potato.”

“I’m not good with names. I’m, you know, more visual. You got a picture?”

Sebastian shook his head and took another bite. “You know what’s really interesting about Ferreria? He was into competitive rifle shooting back in high school. He was so good, the NRA offered him scholarship money for college. Guy was one hell of a marksman. I’m sure Paul mentioned him to you.”

Link looked weary. Despondent.

“The day Paul tried to have me killed,” Sebastian said. “A couple of hours later, he sent you a text that said, ‘Plan went south. Meet me at the place we discussed, and we’ll all regroup.’”

“I know. I know he did, but I swear to God, I had no idea what it meant. I told Frank—”