The trip into town lasted about four hundred years—largely due to the fact that Adrian found the classic rock station: Van Halen’s “Panama” had never sounded so bad, but that was nothing compared to what happened to Meat Loaf’s “I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).”

Which evidently referred to Adrian’s shutting his piehole.

When they got to the warehouse district, Jim put the kibosh on Ad’s crap-aoke, and he’d never been so glad to work a volume button. “The building is two streets over.”

“There’s a parking space,” Eddie said, pointing to the left.

After they ditched the F-150, they walked down a block, hung a rightie, and what do you know—once again, timing was everything. Just as they rounded the corner, a taxi rolled to a stop in front of the door Devina had disappeared into before.

The three ducked for cover and a moment later the taxi rolled past with Devina in the backseat putting lipstick on with a compact mirror in her hand.

“She never does anything without a reason,” Adrian said softly. “That’s one thing you can take to the bank. Anything that comes out of her mouth is almost always a lie, but her actions…always a reason. We need to get in, find that ring and get out fast.”

Moving quickly, they went over to the double doors, pulled them open, and entered a vestibule that had as much architectural nuance as a meat locker: Floor was concrete, walls were whitewashed, and the space was colder than the outside air. The only fixture it had, aside from an industrial-style ceiling light, was a row of five stainless-steel mailboxes and an intercom with a list of five names.

Devina Avale was number five.

Unfortunately, the inside set of doors was secured by a dead bolt, but Jim gave it a yank anyway. “We could always wait until someone—”

Adrian walked over, grabbed the handle, and pulled one half wide without missing a beat.

“Or you could just open the fucker,” Jim said wryly.

Ad flashed his glowing palm and grinned. “I’m good with my hands.”

“Better than with your vocal cords, clearly.”

He hated working.

Hated spending his days taking ungrateful people around Caldwell in a taxi that smelled like whatever the last driver had had to eat. But the practicalities of life had to be met, and besides, at least the object of his affection tended to stay home during daylight hours.

There was also his ignore policy. He didn’t look at his customers, refused to help with luggage, and never talked more than was absolutely necessary. It was a good way to go—especially given what his nightly pursuits had been like lately: No reason to risk triggering someone’s dim memory. You never knew what people were likely to recall from a crime scene.

Another lesson he’d learned the hard way.