“Don’t you have any insurance fraudsters to photograph?” Luke asked.

Montecino curled her crooked lip. She got up off the hood, folded her arms, and stared at Luke.

“Okay,” he groaned. “What next? How else do you want to beat me down?”

“She looks like Lisa, don’t you think?” Montecino gestured at the cemetery gates, where Kitty stood waiting for her ride.

“Because she’s Black?” Luke said.

“Because she’s attractive. She has the same body type, the same-shaped eyes, a similar facial structure.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Her name is Kityana Rae, but everyone calls her Kitty. Twenty-four years old, originally from Louisville, Kentucky, but now residing in Silver Lake, directly opposite”—Montecino flicked her finger at Luke—“you.”

Luke sighed. “She’s just a friend.”

“A friend. Okay.” Montecino stepped toward him—three broad steps and she was in his personal space once again. The finger she’d just flicked in his direction stabbed the air an inch from his nose. “Anything happens to her, Luke, I will chase you down like a hound out of hell. And there will be justice. One way or another.”

Luke swallowed a gristly knot of emotion, then exhaled shakily and inched backward.

“I’m watching you,” the former detective growled, still pointing. She gave her threat a few seconds to sink in, then stepped aside. Luke blinked sweat from his eyes—it hadn’t gotten any cooler, that was for sure—and got into his car.

“Always a pleasure,” he said to her through the closed window, and then, under his breath, “Fucking bitch.”

Montecino kept her eyes locked on him as he gunned the engine and motored away.

8
Birthday Present

Kitty was a natural in the spotlight. Smooth and comfortable, her delivery exquisite. Sure, it was only Fusion 44, introducing acts like Celsius Seven and Tickles Gabriel, but put a mic in her hand anywhere, shine a stage light on her, and she would rise.

Sometimes, if her body chemistry was out, or if her mood wasn’t quite on, a pinch of canary gave her the lift she needed. Kitty maintained a small supply, taken from the many bags she delivered for Johan. A dash here, a fingernail there—too insignificant an amount for Johan to ever notice. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t often. Kitty knew where the groove was, and usually found it by herself.