Maybe all that self-delusional swill was what had helped him conveniently forget Janie. But the moment Alex had shown him that death shot, his heartbeat and his sweat glands told him he’d lived nearly half his life as the worst kind of chump.

Conning himself.

Was that insight? If so, it sucked.

He laughed out loud because cursing lacked imagination. He and Hansen were two peas in the same cowardly, ass-covering pod. Alex, ever the shrink—ever the friend—had tried to spin it differently.

Thank you very much, Doctor, but that don’t change the facts.

Yeah, old Nicholas was a moral mollusk, but meeting him had solidified things.

As he cruised through quiet West Hollywood streets, he formalized the next risky step: Get closer to the murder by leaning on someone who’d actually been there. The choice of targets was: Brad Larner. Because twenty years after high school, Larner was low man among the King’s Men, a loser who’d worked for Daddy, then regressed to lackeying for his buddies.

One of those walking-around guys. A jerk.

A follower. If Vance Coury and the Cossacks were sharks, Larner was a remora, ready to be plucked off the body corrupt.

Milo ached to get the bastard in a quiet little room. But Larner wasn’t living at his own home, might very well be bunking with the Cossacks. The challenge was to snag him alone, away from the others.

A-hunting we will go.

Normally, even with his cop sensibilities, he might not have noticed the navy blue Saab heading his way down his own block. West Hollywood parking laws kept the streets fairly clear but permit parking was allowed and homeowners could grant guest passes, so it was by no means weird to see an unfamiliar vehicle stationed near the curb.

But today he’d mainlined adrenaline instead of vodka and was noticing everything. So when the blue Saab sped by him and he caught a half second eyeful of the driver, he knew he’d have to confirm what his brain was telling him.

He lowered his speed, watched in his rearview as the Saab turned onto Rosewood and disappeared from view. Then he hooked a sharp U and went after it.

Thank God for the brand-new rental he’d picked up on the way home. The gray Dodge Polaris had sagging bumpers and poorly camouflaged dings all over its abused chassis. But with power to spare and windows tinted way past the legal limit, it was exactly what he needed. For this one, he’d forsaken Hertz and Avis and Budget and patronized a guy he knew who ran a yard full of clunkers on Sawtelle and Olympic, out past the 405 South. Budget wheels for the spiky-haircut-and-skinny-lapeled-black-suit types—arriviste thespians and screenwriters and would-be dot.com gajillionaires who thought it way cool to tool around L.A. in something outdated and ugly.