But don’t go too far, Raphy. If I yell, I want you to hear me.

  He lifted her pillow, drew it to his chest, and buried his face in the fabric, living for a moment in the memory of his mother’s scent.

  When he returned to the kitchen, he logged onto Facebook and saw the email from Alicia Fallow, Miranda’s friend and the host of the party at which she died.

  Got yer mesage. Hey, it was 1 crazy night #;) That guy mighta ben there, can’t say 4-sur. Lotta strangers there, online party y’know. 2 drunk santas! Musta ben late, y’know, the Miranda thing, RIP :( Maintenance man came, electrician maybe, checking for long or shorts? Kinda old, didn’t look like the guy in you pic. Why’d you want 2 know?

  He messaged her.

  Sorry, Alicia, I can’t discuss the reasons for my request. Company policy :-( If you can think of anything else, please let me know.

  She messaged him back.

  Alicia: What was yer name again?

  Raphael: Raphael.

  Alicia: TMNT!

  Raphael: TMNT?

  Alicia: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles—Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo & Raphael!

  Raphael: LOL. Something like that.

  Alicia: Now you think I’m weird. 3:-)

  Raphael: No, not at all. Thanks for your help, Alicia.

  Alicia: My dad was a big fan—collected all their stuff.

  Raphael: That’s cool. Thanks again.

  Alicia: No prob. How old btw?

  Raphael: 26

  Alicia: Not as old as i thought ;-)

  Raphael: Why did I seem old? :-(

  Alicia: Yer spelling is perfec. No offence!!!

  Raphael: No prob gtg.

  Yes, twenty-six, Alicia. Going on twenty-seven.

  Twenty-seven in ten days. Run.

  Raphael held the reluctant cursor over the Klaes folder until his breathing steadied and fingers stilled. Information embezzling. He laughed to himself. He didn’t care. He gazed at the file names for several minutes, then willed a finger to click “canine02.”

  Two thick-necked, barrel-chested young men wearing identical trapper hats, one red, one blue, flanked a medium-sized pit bull, its muzzle in the dirt. Each man held a knife in one hand and a dark brown triangle in the other. Ears.

  The dog poised with shame, and its shame was the most difficult aspect of the photo to handle. The two young men appeared emotionless, less human than the dog.

  He swallowed back the bitter juice that rose in his throat. He could be stoic in the face of a hundred deaths, but a mutilated dog got to him. It was innocence, he supposed. Children and beasts were guilty of nothing. Shades of Klaes.

  He opened up “canine03”, an apparent selfie of Trapper Red at his desktop. How did this connect?

  Klaes had messaged Miranda. Miranda died. Klaes had messaged Troy-Boy to accuse him of dog mutilation—Trapper Red had to be Troy-Boy—threatened to be killed for his mutilation of dogs and history, whatever that meant.

  Had Troy-Boy died too? Who the hell was Troy-Boy? Aside from the contents of the photo itself, there was nothing other than a JPEG number to go on.

  At Norval there was facial recognition software on par with the FBI’s. He didn’t relish returning to the scene of his crime, but he’d be kidding himself to believe the puzzle would release him.

  It was 9:30 p.m. when he wheeled his skateboard under his desk, put the thumb drive into the Norval computer, and brought up the photo. Within the photo recognition program, he loaded the database of images similar to Trapper Red. There were fifty. He went through the images, eliminated half, then went through putting the original image side-by-side with the database photos. He ended up with four that could be Red or his identical twin. He copied and pasted each photo and its ID into a new file. Two of the men were from Virginia. One from Louisiana and one from Texas.

  He ran each name through a search engine. Each had another one hundred people with the same name, some well-known, others obscure. He tried them with “crime” in the search engine. Twenty names came up. Going through the names, he sought any associated with dogfighting charges. None fit. He went through the next name, the third, and the fourth. The fourth name was Troy-Boy Tolover, a resident of Richmond, Virginia. The police had arrested Troy-Boy in May three years ago on charges of staging a dog fight. They listed his age as forty-five.

  On the second search of the obit database, the name came through. Troy-Boy Tolover of Richmond, Virginia, had passed away on January 16. Raphael put the terms in a search engine. He found the story in The Richmond Landlight. While Tolover slept, one or more of his own pit bulls had mauled him to death. The animals had then gotten out of the house, and authorities were still trying to round them up.

  Raphael set his foot on the skateboard, nudging it back and forth.

  Klaes had warned two people they would pay for their selfie-age documentation of cruelty and soon after, they died. An email from Jason Klaes was a pin in a voodoo doll.

  The fourth message. It was the oddball one that demanded something of the recipient, the CEO of Winstrum Pharmaceuticals, Gerard Van Pelt. The subject was “Symtara.” He read the message again and then searched Symtara: an enzyme replacement for children older than three who suffer from Batten disease. He searched Batten disease: a rare and fatal autosomal recessive neurodegenerative disorder beginning in childhood.

  Raphael had yet to see anything in the media about Van Pelt, a major player in Big Pharma. He searched anew and got 500,000 results for Van Pelt. The fifth down was an article titled “Van Pelt Announces Reduction in the Price of Symtara.”

  Had to be a coincidence. There was no way in hell a single message from Klaes, or whoever was pretending to be Klaes, could have influenced a Van Pelt. Then again, Van Pelt was apparently alive, and Miranda and Troy-Boy were dead.

  Mussorgsky’s waltz played on Raphael’s phone. It was a photo message from Alicia. The photo showed a party in progress. The text read:

  Weirdest thing happened!!!!!!! i got a Bangagram from Miranda 1 hour ago some panky D:< here it is

  He considered the photo Alicia had forwarded.

  Similar to Miranda’s other selfies, this one showed her clutching a possum, which did indeed look dead.

  Had someone altered a photo on her blog to taunt him?

  The windowpanes rattled at a sudden change of air pressure as the department door opened. Raphael slammed the X on the facial recognition program, but instead of disappearing, the screen froze. A minty scent filled his nostrils. He swiveled in the seat, masking the monitor with his back. Maglio stood at the entrance to the cubicle.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Raphael gaped at Maglio’s artificial left eye, which shimmied in its socket. Don’t stare. Digits flowed out of the pupil, spread across the iris and sank into filmy white. Don’t stare. The eyeball locked in place, the digits vanished, and the two eyes aligned.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Maglio.

  Raphael found his voice. “Finishing up some undeclareds I didn’t get to this afternoon.”

  Maglio peered down his nose. “Not Klaes.”

  “Oh, no. Run-of-the-mill undeclareds.” Heart stuttering, Raphael shifted to the right in the chair, blocking Maglio’s view of the monitor. If Maglio had forgiven him for storming his office, he wouldn’t forgive direct defiance of his order to seal the Klaes case. This could cost Raphael his job. He pressed his filmy hands together. Just breathe.

  “Oh, Maisie,” called Maglio, glancing away for an instant, just enough time for Raphael to check the monitor and spot the incriminating five letters. K-L-A-E-S. Raphael repositioned himself and spread out his elbows.

  “Please come here a second, Maisie. I want you to meet one of our bright young End Men.”

  Behind Maglio, a tall slender woman with a boy-band’s haircut, a shimmer skirt, and a bandy top peered into Raphael’s cubicle. It was the woman who had been in Maglio’s office.

  “Raphael, I want you to meet Maisie Sparod.”

  Maisie Sparod. An odd name, but not one that he had run across among the dead. He pondered the name for a moment, and a website came to mind: The Physicists’ Commons. Sparod. Lily Faraday’s bête noir. That was an odd coincidence.

  As if on a catwalk, Maisie swung her hips as she entered the cubicle. Her musky perfume, with a note of ripe cherries, devoured Maglio’s mint. She gazed at Raphael with an expression of recognition, but he didn’t think it was one based on their earlier chance meeting. She saw him differently now. Better that be the focus than the telltale screen. He prepared to accept the Young Bowie comparison with feigned appreciation and modest denial, but she said a cool nothing.

  Maglio sniffed. “Maisie is the director of Weblock.”

  Weblock ran all the Commons’ sites and was a formidable force in cyberspace. What was she doing at Norval?

  “Raphael?” said Maglio.

  Raphael jerked up his head. “Oh, sorry.”

  Maglio and Maisie stared at him, Maisie extending her hand, that once forbidden gesture. Pushing back the chair though continuing to block the monitor, Raphael rose, and took the weightless fingers.

  “Nice to meet you, Raphael.”

  “Same here,” he said as her hand withdrew, fingertips shining with his sweat. She gazed at him and waited. For what? Be cool. Maglio didn’t seem pissed with him. Christ, be one of the guys. He attempted a knowing smile. “Financial giants dividing up the world?”

  “Oh, lots of things are in the works.” Maglio nudged Maisie.

  “Anything you can reveal?” Raphael asked.

  “We used to say, ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ We don’t say that anymore. It’s become a cliché. Nonetheless, its point is valid.”

  Raphael glanced away. “Ah … right.”

  Maglio considered him. “No, Raphael, nothing to reveal tonight.” Maglio exchanged a conspiratorial wink with Maisie. “But, let’s say, don’t blink.”

  Maisie again locked eyes with Maglio. “I’m sure Mr. Maglio will keep you in the loop.”

  Yeah, I’m sure he will.

  “Raphael, would you join us for a dinner at Corel’s?” asked Maglio.

  What the hell is this about? The capo’s kiss? Raphael tugged his T-shirt. “I’m not dressed.”

  “Oh, this is LA. Less is more in fashion if you can glint. Can you glint?” Maglio gripped Raphael’s shoulder, and the CEO’s eyes shone hard and penetrating, the artificial no less glinty than the natural.

  “I, uh, don’t think I can do that.”

  Maglio grinned. “I’ll glint for you. In any case, we can’t have our End Men burning the midnight oil—all the time. They’ll work themselves to death. Close up shop, and we’ll meet you in front of the building.”

  As they strode off, Raphael took his first full breath in several minutes and peered down at the screen, which had gone black. He’d dodged a bullet, but was there another in the chamber?

  Dinner at Corel’s and on Maglio’s tab? Yet it might be nothing more. Ten-minute walk east on Fairfax, a little more small talk on the way. An exotic drink and the run of the menu. No, it had to be more than that. Still, Maglio hadn’t caught him researching Klaes, and Raphael’s attempted storming of the citadel was maybe less heinous than he’d feared. A whimsical treat for a valuable employee? Raphael banged his knuckles together. No, something was up. But best to play along with it.

  Parked in front of the building on Wilshire was a violet-colored Whale limousine, one of the new retros. The chauffeur held open the door, beckoning Raphael to join Maglio and Maisie, who peered out at Raphael from the seat.

  Raphael’s legs went rubbery.

  Sitting in the car meant crossing his boundary. Getting above Wilshire. He couldn’t do it. Be diplomatic. Descend to the sidewalk, approach, and propose an alternative.

  He forced himself toward the open door.

  Someone whispered in his ear: wind. The word echoed inside his head and grew louder with each repetition. The thunderous word escaped from his mouth and hurled itself upon him as a violent blast from the boulevard. Wil-shire! it roared. It swept before it leaves, papers, and plastic cups. Sand carried from a distant beach pelted his face and arms. The trees screamed, and the queen palms bent their crowns to the sidewalk. Soon a dozen would uproot and fly into him, slam the hell out of him.

  Raphael dropped the skateboard and clapped his ears to quiet the roar.

  “What are you doing, Raphael? Come on. Get in.”

  Maglio’s voice was a whisper under the gale. Raphael took a wider stance as if finding his ground in an earthquake.

  “I … can’t,” said Raphael in a painful gasp.

  Maglio and Maisie exchanged puzzled glances. The chauffeur scratched his head. Raphael backed up a yard and then two. The wind died. The queen palms straightened. The leaves and wrappers settled. Calm had slipped back, and once again the boulevard was the boulevard. The museum’s brilliant lights reflected off the glossy Whale. Raphael held up the skateboard and found his voice.

  “I’ll skateboard there and meet you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” called Maglio as Raphael pushed off. Christ, what a weirdo they’d take him for. But Norval didn’t terminate for oddness. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes.

  Turning from Wilshire onto Fairfax, he sifted through excuses for foregoing dinner and returning to the office. All would entail a lie, now or later. Feeling eyes upon him, he glanced about. Fifty feet away, a big, rough-and-ready Blank-type holding a can of spray paint glared at him. Spray paint, always spray paint. Blanks must be born with aerosols in their little wrinkly fists, first word not mama or dada but fuck data.

  Raphael dropped the skateboard and pushed off toward the Farmers Market, which he would walk through to the Grove, the outside mall housing Corel’s.

  As he entered the market, the vendors were shutting their stalls for the night. In the little bar catering to the Karaoke crowd on Thursday, the bartender was down to one elderly woman customer, her head bent over a half-drunk glass of red wine. A few feet away stood the stage, with its microphone stand, speakers, and DJ booth. He imagined the ebullient DJ, the crowd of roaring fans, and the hopefuls lined up to sing their chosen songs, their faces taut, lip-syncing the lyrics while drawing up saliva.

  When Addy would line up, she was never fearful. She’d hold the microphone and accept the applause as though she’d been doing it for eternity. As he lingered outside the bar, he heard her voice, and his heart doubled its beat.

  “Raphael?”

  Man, that sounded real. He clapped his ear.

  “Hey, Raphael.”

  He pivoted in the voice’s direction. Twenty feet away stood Addy. He blinked. Not an illusion. “Addy!”

  She jumped back as if his shout had pushed her. Grinning, she walked toward him. “Hey, what are you doing here? You know it’s not Thursday, right?”

  He glanced at the stage, then back at Addy, who’d halted within arm’s length. She wore green scrubs and tennis shoes. She’d braided her hair and tipped it with a rainbow-colored chastity ball. He looked at her, and all his trepidation about the dinner vanished. He felt whole; as if cracked, he had been put back together. “Oh, no—I’m having dinner with my boss.”

  She smiled. “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, Corel’s.” He pointed through the Farmers Market’s long main aisle toward the Grove and the restaurant.

  “Hope he’s buying. That place is super-expensive.”

  The idea sprung into his head fully realized. “Karaoke Thursday! We can go to Corel’s after you sing. To celebrate, you know? My treat. I mean, unless that would be sexy or something.”

  Addy squinted. “Sexy?”

  “Sexy? Oh, no—I meant sexist.”

  Addy tilted her head, so that the steel ball swung. “I was about to give you a chastity belt.”

  Raphael backed up, widening his eyes clownishly. “You ever use that?”

  “With one whack, I’ve saved the chastity of several young men. Want to see how it works?”

  “Pass. Corel’s, yes or no?”

  “Oh … okay. No! I mean yes. Yes.”

  Raphael’s heart swelled and his body swayed. Don’t stare as if stunned. Lighten up. You’ve done it, now make conversation. Another voice whispered in his head, Raphy, you’re late for dinner. Dinner could wait. He swallowed. “So what are you doing here? Aren’t you working?”

  “I was heading for Starbucks to get some midnight snacks on my break. Dumb me forgot my phone. Like they say, ‘Out of phone, out of apps, out of luck.’ So, I’ve got to go back.”

  “Hey, I’ve got plenty.” He dug out his wallet.

  “No, no,” said Addy, touching his hand. “It will take me ten minutes.”

  “A waste of your break time. You know”—he leafed through his billfold—“I’ve got this Starbucks card that must be good for fifty dollars.” He slipped out the gift card from Stull. “Better get the barista to see how much is on it though.”

  “Well, okay.” She took the card. “I’ll pay you back on Thursday. You want to come with me to the cafe?”

  “I do, but …” He looked toward Corel’s.

  “Your boss is waiting. You’ve got to go.”

  It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but he nodded and took a step backwards. “Goodnight, Addy.”

  “Goodnight, Raphael. See you Thursday.”

  Sighing, he turned and continued on to Corel’s.

  Despite the hour, the restaurant bustled with fashionably dressed and undressed customers. As Raphael scanned the tables for Maglio and Maisie, a foursome in bright skimpies stumbled past him laughing and dismissive of somebody. He glinted.

  “May I help you?” asked a server.

  “Oh, I’m dining with Mr. Maglio.”

  “Ah. This way.”

  “We thought you’d gotten lost,” said Maglio, as Raphael took a seat at the table. Maisie held up her cocktail.