She had booked them both suites in the Wilshire Tower. Vincent was two floors below her—probably not ideal in a bodyguarding sense—but he didn’t mention it when he escorted her up to her room. She was glad to have him with her, liked the sense of constancy. He’d killed two guys and saved her life, but he didn’t seem different now compared to this morning. Standing there in the elevator, leaning on the wall with his arms folded and smelling faintly of salt and sunblock, you got no sense of his day other than that he’d been in the water at some point.

He was maybe forty, maybe six-foot, definitely good-looking. Built like a pro-surfer and tanned kind of dark. Maybe some Italian in him. She had talked to Special Forces guys as research for Moral War, but Vincent seemed different. He didn’t display that ramrod hyper-vigilance. He was cooler than that, seemed to have more time than other people. As if his view of the world were augmented somehow—the risks and the way forward always clear—and he could cross any bridge at exactly his own pace.

She wondered how effective he would be as a bodyguard, wearing flip-flops. She told him again she would pay for whatever he needed, and for a moment he looked amused, as if maybe he sensed her scepticism about his footwear. He told her Beauden Ash—his boss at Bluesmoke—was coming down, and he believed he would bring some suitable attire.

She said, ‘More flip-flops, or are you going to be radical, upgrade to a closed shoe?’

Vincent said, ‘I asked for socks and sandals. Is that going to be acceptable?’

She told him if that were the case, she’d be seeking a replacement. Vincent laughed. She liked those snatches of humour—everything fading for a moment, taking her out of the dark.

She unlocked the room, and he checked it was clear before letting her inside. Then he bid her goodnight, and left her alone.

The order and quiet of the room felt perfect. Solitude, safety. The city beyond the window was vast and lurid, but silenced, brought to order. She went into the bedroom and put the gun in the safe in the closet. That had been the benefit of stopping at Rincon: she’d had a chance to get Tanner’s spare pistol from the back of the SUV. He’d kept it in a lock box in the tool compartment, under the rear load space. She didn’t know if she would ever use it, but it felt good having it with her. A sort of comfort in the secret fact of it.