Maybe this was what other people felt Christmas mornings. Maybe this was their sex. He shut and locked the door, went down to the basement, slid between the washing machine and the water heater, and felt the warmth of the water behind the metal against his crotch. He rested for a second, enjoyed the sensation, then moved into the one-foot space behind the appliance. He reached to the top of the cylinder, pulled the remote down, and pressed the button.

Behind him, the wood paneling opened to darkness. He moved into the void, pressed the button again. Once the door closed behind him, he found the switch and brought his world to life.

Chapter 20

CHAPTER

20

Los Angeles

MIKE ROMAN PARKED in the lot south of the Lake Hollywood Reservoir, then hiked down the asphalt road to the smallest of three four-story mansions crammed against the hill. A new silver Lexus sat next to a black Range Rover in an open four-car garage. For a twenty-four-year-old, Kieran Michelson didn’t seem to have any trouble with finances. Mike found the call box, pushed the button.

Per Caitlin’s instructions, he’d called Rep Repair’s office the day before and asked about the Silicon Beach start-up’s service—online image consulting, threading, and management. It took a sales call with the CEO himself, Kieran Michelson, to explain exactly what that meant.

For a chunk of money, Rep Repair would find online mentions of a person, monitor and analyze them in real-time for tone, and if necessary, enter conversations using aliases to discredit the haters. Kieran’s word, not his. In Mike’s words, they made bad people look good for money.

Once he understood what Rep Repair did, he knew Caitlin’s idea of approaching Kieran undercover was out. Enough people knew Mike’s face in Hollywood that it would be a problem, and if not, he was sure the start-up used facial recognition software. He gave his real name and number. Seconds after Kieran ran his info through a search, he insisted Mike come by his house.

The sound of flip-flops slapping on smooth steps grew louder, until the frosted glass door opened. A brunette, nude except for pink bikini bottoms, jelly sandals, and half of the world’s tattoos, looked at Mike, disappointed. He did his best not to stare at her unnatural beauty but couldn’t find a part that came with the original model.

“You’re not the pizza guy,” she said through some sort of Eastern Bloc accent.

Mike smiled. “Maybe someday.”

She moved through the doorway. “Did you see him?”

“The pizza guy? Nope. Is Kieran here?”

She sat on the concrete stoop, eyes on the road, and flopped her hand toward the open door. “Up.”

Mike hoped the pizza guy was a sixteen-year-old who needed a story to tell. “Fair enough.”