He was the best-looking politician I’d ever seen—one of the best-looking men I’d ever seen. A jaw like a lantern, dark blue eyes like a pair of sapphire earrings. A full head of graying hair, shoulders that filled the entire photo frame and then some. Movie-star handsome, but in a nonthreatening way, a believable way. I wondered how far that Carrigan ambition stretched.

It made me uneasy, that face. A face like that tended to mean a girlfriend at every campaign stop and a full team dedicated to crushing unseemly rumors. If the Lady had picked him, there were good odds he had some major flaw. The unimaginative one was easy to guess.

But that wasn’t the only problem. For another thing, he was too connected.

Our marks had to be wealthy—whether they were handpicked by the Lady herself or chosen by those who hired her via gimlet-soaked referrals given poolside at the Beverly Hilton, the chic set dispatching blackmail orders from a cabana—or the marks had to be well connected and visible, able to lay their hands on tiny mountains of cash quickly. But Carrigan was another level of wealthy, a name synonymous with the founding of our city. There wasn’t a cop, or an attorney, in this city who didn’t know that name. You couldn’t drive half a block without finding some memento of his family lineage. The Carrigans would be no strangers to blackmail. They wouldn’t scare easy. They would have friends with the right connections.

That did worry me.

I filled a mug half with coffee and half with gin, then went back to my computer, clicking play on a video accompanying one of the latest news articles.

A perky reporter with the whitest teeth I’d ever seen was interviewing a woman in a navy-blue blazer, hair chopped into a frosty bob. The bottom of the screen identified her as Tana Carrigan, Wife of Mayoral Candidate, and then, in small letters, Philanthropist. Carrigan’s choice of bride would tell me as much about him as anything I could find online. I turned up the volume.

“Tell me about your husband’s plans, if he’s elected,” the reporter said.

Tana smiled, drawing a perfectly French manicured hand through her hair, which shook itself out and settled back into the exact same position. “He really cares about this city,” she said. “The Carrigans have deep roots in Los Angeles. Who better to run it?”

“And has he always had political aspirations?” the reporter asked, seemingly not caring that Tana hadn’t answered her question.

“He’s always wanted to make a difference,” Tana said. “It was one of the first things that drew me to him.” I pictured Carrigan’s cut-marble jawline, those steel blue eyes. One of the first things.