I walked through the front doors. A polished tile floor rolled from where I stood to the marble counter, manned by a receptionist. She was in her early twenties, her makeup was heavy, her suit powder blue, and her pale brown hair was arranged in a picture-perfect French twist. Behind her a large banner affixed to the wall, golden letters on black, read, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOSS!

I walked across the tiled floor. The receptionist looked up and did a double take. I wore a light brown duster. I had left it open in the front, and it showed off my blue jeans, combat boots, black T-shirt, and twin Sigs in the hip holsters. An old cowboy hat sat on my hair.

I stopped by the counter, tipped my hat, and drawled in my native tongue. “Howdy, ma’am.”

The receptionist blinked. “Ehhh, hello.”

“I’m here to see Mr. Anapa.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m investigating a murder on behalf of the Pack.” I handed her my PI ID.

The receptionist gave me a practiced smile and nodded at the low couches on the right. “Please take a seat.”

“Sure. So boss is having a birthday? Is he throwing a party?” Raphael had mentioned getting an invitation. It nagged at me so I thought I’d check it out.

“It’s tonight,” the secretary informed me.

Ha. Either my guns had made an impression, or nobody had explained to her that she was not supposed to give strange women confidential information. Most receptionists would’ve told me to shove off. “Wonderful. How old is he?”

“Forty-two.”

I went to the couches and sat. Minutes trickled by, slow and boring.

A quiet creaking of plastic wheels rolling came from the hallway. A man emerged—Latino, late fifties, early sixties. He pushed a bright yellow industrial mop bucket and he walked slowly, his eyes tired, his shoulders sloping forward. Probably part of the night cleaning crew, wrapping up his shift. As he passed the counter, the receptionist cleared her throat.

He glanced at her.

“There is a mess in the second-floor kitchenette,” she said. “Someone spilled coffee.”

“My shift was over half an hour ago,” the man said.

She stared at him. My opinion of Anapa’s reception staff plummeted. How difficult was it to clean up your own coffee spill? Get a rag and mop it up. If the man’s shift was over, let him go home.

He heaved his shoulders. “Fine. I’ll get it.”

I watched him roll away. The building lay quiet again.