“Should we be worried?”

“I’m not.”

“And what about Boyle’s partner there, the one who saw Paul, what’s-her-name?”

“Ellie Batista.”

“Yeah, her. What’s her deal? You haven’t mentioned anything about her in a while.”

“Nothing has changed on that front. Like I told you, she had some sort of nervous breakdown, took a leave of absence. She broke up with her boyfriend—sent him an email that she’d had enough of LA, being a cop—packed up, and left, moved to Seattle.”

“The private security company.”

Ron nodded. “She’s doing bodyguard work for that self-help guru who wrote that bestseller a couple of years back—you know, the one who urges women to follow their one true path or some shit. She’s in Australia right now, I think. Maybe Germany.”

“You talk with her, see what she knows?”

“For what reason? If she’d seen Paul, his composite would have been all over the news.” Ron caught the look on Sebastian’s face. “You want me to fly halfway around the world so she can tell me she didn’t get a good look at him? I think we’ve got more pressing issues here, on the home front—wouldn’t you agree?”

Ron, Sebastian admitted, had a valid point. “Okay,” he said. “I hear you. What’s bothering me is how quiet he is. He needs significant capital if he wants to start production.”

“Could be trying to line up investors.”

Sebastian nodded. He and Frank had the exact same thought.

“Or,” Sebastian said, “he could be waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“And you’re sure he can’t hurt you? I’m talking about your business operations.”

“The old treatment center is closed.”

“What about the new one?”

“Not open yet, and he has no idea where it is. Has no idea where anything is.”

“Good,” Ron said. “That’s really good to hear. He’ll poke his head out sooner or later. He can’t hide forever.”

CHAPTER 17

THAT NIGHT, AT a quarter to eight, Ellie stood in front of the bathroom mirror inside one of Los Angeles’s most well-known (and most expensive) restaurants, touching up her lipstick and wondering what the night was all about. She was sure it wasn’t a celebration for a job well done on the carrier. Anton wouldn’t have made her go halfway across the city to Bloomingdale’s to meet that pale waif named Binx and find out that he not only had already picked out the clothes but had also paid for them. All Ellie had to do was go into the dressing room and try everything on to make sure the sizes were right.

Anton, she had to admit, had great taste. All Chanel—a low-cut satin top with black tuxedo pants and leather cap-toe pumps. Clothes that were designed to do one thing, and one thing only: make an impression. Was tonight about another high-end job? Something that would move her closer to Anton’s inner circle? It had to be. Why else would Anton have picked out these clothes and asked her to come out to this fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills?