He stayed on Sunset, taking it southwest to the Palisades, stopping only once to buy a bottle of water and a calming supplement for his nerves. (What he would give for a pinch of canary.) He sat on the hood of the Camaro, mentally reciting his mantra, giving the remedy time to kick in. He wasn’t recognized as Luke Kingsley or Colton Stone, which didn’t surprise him. Out of Midnight was a competent crime drama that—like all of Luke’s movies—failed to make an impact at the box office. It had something of a cult following, but for the most part could be found in the bargain bins at Walmart and Target, or streaming on services like Popcornflix and Tubi.

Johan’s family home was in a guard-gated community in the Palisades Highlands, but Kitty said that Johan kept a crib close to the Village, and this was where he could be found when he wasn’t engaging in his social media or canary-dealing exploits. Luke used the GPS on his phone to find the place—an uber-modern glass box surrounded by willow and palm trees. A curved driveway distanced it from the street, enclosed by a wrought-iron gate that managed to be both elegant and imposing.

Luke pulled up to the gate, then took a deep breath and pressed the button on the intercom. A security camera positioned on the adjacent wall challenged him with its single, deprecatory eye.

No response.

“Come on, motherfucker,” Luke hissed. Despite the supplement he’d taken—Indian ginseng and B12 with some other shit thrown in—his heart still ran at an agitated clip. He looked through the gate at the drooping willow branches and discerned the back end of a black SUV parked at the top of the driveway. Someone was home.

He pressed the button again, waited, then pressed it a third time, and this was the charm. A male voice came through the intercom’s speaker—one staticky word, but irrefutably impatient.

“Yeah?”

Luke dropped into character. “Detective Colton Stone. Los Angeles police. I’d like a few words with Johan Fly.”

Five seconds of heavy silence, then: “What do you want with Johan?”

“What are you, his fucking mommy?” Colton was not a cop of infinite tact. His approach was often coarse, but effective. “Open the goddamn gate.”

Another brief silence, then: “Johan’s not home.”

“Where is he?”

“Out. Filming. I don’t know where.”

Luke’s turn to pause. He’d wanted to talk to Johan—to get all up in his shit, put a scare on him—but this wasn’t essential to the plan. In fact, it might work better this way, provided the information he divulged was passed along to Johan (which it would be). It’d doubtless be more convincing if relayed via a trusted source.