Sebastian drove aimlessly.

“Frank told me about the trip you took this morning with Link,” Ron said. “He give you anything?”

Sebastian sighed. “He did not.”

“What I thought. He passed the polygraph—twice—remember? Him and the other one, Ferreria.”

Sebastian did remember, but what he resented right now—what was annoying the shit out of him—was the subtext in Ron’s words, that “I told you so” tone. Frank spoke to him that way, too, he and Ron explaining things like he, Sebastian, was an adult toddler. Or the world’s biggest idiot.

Sebastian drew in a deep breath, his thoughts shifting to Link’s boss and Sebastian’s quasi-silent partner, Anton.

“Anton also passed the polygraph,” Ron said, as if reading his mind. “Not twice but three times.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still thinking he might be somehow involved with Paul.”

The truth was, Sebastian didn’t know what to think. Paul had worked for Anton, but that didn’t mean Anton had worked with Paul. The distinction was important. And there were other facts to consider. When Anton had found out about his dead stickman in Brentwood, he had contacted Frank. Anton professed to know nothing about it and immediately agreed to submit to a polygraph, guided hypnosis—anything to prove his innocence, that he, too, had been fucked over by Paul. And when Anton passed the first polygraph, he demanded another one, from someone different. Again he passed.

But polygraphs were not flawless. They could be beaten.

Ron said, “There’s still not a single thing to indicate Anton knew about what Paul was going to do in Brentwood.”

“I know—you’ve told me.”

“We’ve kept a very close eye on Anton, listened in on his conversations courtesy of the bugs we placed in his house and car. He’s still livid that Paul put him in this situation. And don’t forget, Paul royally screwed him over by killing one of Anton’s guys, that kid there at the house.”

Sebastian already knew all this. “Frank said you had a major update.”

Ron nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “LAPD has officially finished processing the Vargas home. Feds even loaned them their top lab geeks to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. I’m pleased to report they failed to recover a single fingerprint or DNA sample that belonged to Paul. We’re in the clear there.”

That had been a major, major concern from the very beginning, the police finding something that could link Paul to the house. When Paul enlisted in the military, he’d had, like every other potential candidate, to undergo a criminal background check. That meant submitting fingerprints and a DNA sample to see if they were related to any unsolved crimes. If something had been found at Sophia Vargas’s home, the police and FBI would have come knocking, asking questions.

Ron said, “Still no activity on any of Paul’s financial accounts. We know he dumped his smartphone the day you were shot. His friends are still texting and calling, wondering where he is and why he won’t answer. Same deal on his emails. They keep piling up, and he hasn’t answered a single one of them.”