“Link said something interesting.”

“Do tell,” Frank said.

“He said Paul was using him as a diversion.”

“We knew that was a distinct possibility.”

That we did, Sebastian thought. After Frank’s crew grabbed Ferreria, Frank had had a private forensic guy perform a gunshot residue test. Ferreria’s hands came back clean, but that didn’t mean he was clean. He could have been wearing gloves. They tore up his apartment, his two cars, covered all the places he traveled—they searched everywhere for a high-powered rifle and came up empty. They searched for anything that would implicate Ferreria and came up empty.

“Ferreria and his rifle skills—I told you it was too good to be true. Too convenient,” Frank said. “Still, we had to do our due diligence.”

And we’re still left with jack shit. “Paul’s been too quiet. I don’t like it. I think he’s gone into production.”

“Using what medications?”

“Who knows? If I were him, I’d get my hands on the old cancer drug Viramab. The Armenians still use it.” The Armenians were interested in making as much money as possible, by any means possible. They didn’t care about science, or the safety of their clients. Although I’m sure as hell they’d love to get their hands on my operation.

“Sebastian, everyone on the planet knows Viramab doesn’t work.”

“In the long term, no. In the short term, you can generally get good results. Paul can start transfusions, raise some money. He’s going to need a shit ton of it to get up and running. I want you to break his legs.”

“We’ll do more than that when we find him—and we will find him.”

“Not Paul. Ferreria. I want you to break his legs—and his arms, too, while you’re at it.”

“Why? For what reason?”

Sebastian told him.

After he hung up, he turned on his satellite radio and scanned through the music stations. Nothing soothed him, so he shut the radio off, went through a mental playlist of his favorite songs, picked one, and started singing, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel while praying to his Higher Power, asking for help, seeking guidance.

CHAPTER 15

EVER SINCE ELLIE had moved into the neighborhood, she had become a regular at Dinah’s Café. It was here, once or twice a week, where she would meet with Jon Carlo, Faye Simpson’s sponsor at Gamblers Anonymous. He had a broad back and a stringy black beard that, combined with his dark skin, made him appear as someone from the Middle East when, in fact, he had grown up in East LA, with his Cuban father and Puerto Rican mother. That was all she knew about him. That and the fact that he worked in some undercover capacity for the LAPD.

Dinah’s was small, cash only, and while it had the traditional decor she associated with all the diners she remembered from her childhood—the red vinyl booths arranged around windows, the counter made of gray linoleum from another century, the thick white coffee mugs that seemed indestructible—the middle of the area, with its white chairs and tables, the fresh flowers in the center, gave the place a homier, country B and B vibe. As always, the place was packed, but there was an empty stool at the counter, next to Jon Carlo.