June chewed her lip thoughtfully. And then, having answered what private question she’d been pondering, June sprang to her feet.

“Come on.”

Marcella didn’t know if it was the girl’s sudden, infectious energy, or if she simply had nowhere else to go, but she stepped down from her stool.

“Where are we going?” asked Marcella.

June glanced back, a wicked light in her eyes.

“I’m in the mood for music.”

* * *

IF the Palisades had been a dump, the Marina was worse. An underground bunker, half bar and half seedy jazz club, and every surface sticky. Small round tables, trimmed by rickety chairs, half of them empty. A low stage along the back wall, bare but for a few instruments and a standing mic.

June slung herself into a vacant seat and gestured to the chair across from her.

“What are we doing here?” asked Marcella, eyeing the whole situation with suspicion.

“Darling,” said June, with dramatic flair. “You must learn to blend in.” As she said the words, she changed, shedding the bohemian brunette for an older black man in a faded button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Marcella stiffened. The lights were low, but not that low. She glanced around. “Not exactly subtle.”

June chuckled, her voice smoky in the old man’s throat. “I thought you were done with hiding.” She flicked her hand dismissively at the half-empty club. “People can see an awful lot, and believe none of it.”

The old man rocked backward in his seat, the front legs coming off the floor as his face vanished into the club’s deep shadow. When the chair tipped forward again, June was back to one of her usual selves, loose brown waves tumbling into her face. “Won’t you sit?”

Marcella lowered herself into the wooden chair as June went on.

“Truth be told, I didn’t bring you for the music. Not directly. But if you’re interested in other EOs, I might have a treasure for you.”

She drew a phone from her pocket and scrolled through her texts, before turning the cell toward Marcella.

A single name stood out on the screen: Jonathan Richard Royce.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“A sax player,” said June, “a decent one at that. Or he was, until he went and got addicted to heroin. Finds himself in debt to Jack Caprese.”

Caprese, thought Marcella. That was a name she knew. Merit was carved up among four men: Hutch, Kolhoff, Mellis, and Caprese.

Hutch had the biggest portion, but Caprese had big eyes, and bigger teeth these days. And a bottomless appetite.