Call her, an inner voice urged.

And say what? Where would he even start?

His phone rang again, goddammit, and he pulled away the binoculars and removed the phone, wondering who was blowing it up.

The caller was Frank. “Ron’s been trying to get in contact with you.”

“Ron?” Sebastian asked, his mind still drunk on the image of seeing Ava lying in her bed.

“Ron Wolff.”

Right, Ron. Their security guy. Sebastian blinked and inhaled, focusing his attention back on the moment. “He got something?”

A slight pause, and then Frank said, “Where are you?”

“Out and about. What did Ron say?”

Another pause. “Have you been drinking?”

Sebastian stiffened.

“You sound—” Frank began.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that. Tell me about Ron.”

“He’s got an update—a big one,” Frank said. “He wants to meet—the sooner, the better.”

* * *

Ron Wolff sat outside, under an umbrella at one of the tables. He waved, stood, picked up the two coffee cups, and headed to the car.

With his discount-warehouse chinos and bland polo shirt, Ron looked like just another middle-aged guy passing through town before heading out to play a quick nine at a public course, maybe hit a family barbecue afterward. That was one of the things Sebastian admired about Ron, how low-profile he was, dressing like Joe Average and driving a Honda Accord even though his net worth was somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter of a billion dollars—all of it from blood profits.

No one knew that, of course. To the outside world, Ron was just the owner of yet another private security outfit, albeit a very successful one. He provided all sorts of security services to some major high-end corporations, as well as private citizens. His real talent, what made him stand out, was his success at finding missing carriers.

It had been Frank’s idea, back when the three of them started out together, to turn Ron into a valuable resource for the LAPD. Over the years, Frank and Sebastian would abduct carriers and house them in private locations for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months; and then Ron, through staged investigative work, would find these carriers and contact the police. The LAPD, mired in bureaucratic red tape, was more than grateful to receive information from Ron.

Because Ron had no problem sharing information, the contacts he had made within both the LAPD and the FBI had no problem sharing sensitive and sometimes classified information on their cases, and now, after all these years of hard work and patience, Sebastian and Frank had nearly unfettered access to any blood-related crime in the country.

Sebastian reached across the seat and opened the door. Ron slid inside, grimacing in discomfort, and handed Sebastian a venti cup.

“Knee still acting up?” Sebastian asked.

“Like a mad bastard.”

“I can help you with the arthritis. Just say the word.”

Ron waved it away. He had no use for blood treatments—or anything else modern, for that matter. Ron was old-school. While his office had computers with Internet access, all of his case files were stored on paper. If you visited him you had to hand over your phone and any other electronic device, which he stored inside a Faraday cage that blocked all electromagnetic fields to prevent eavesdropping.