Page 136 of Into the Fire

“Wait,” Max said. “No.”

Evan’s head ached from the prolonged focus, so he reminded himself to speak clearly and with the same kindness he’d want to be shown if he were in Max’s shoes. “There were two sets of spreadsheets on the thumb drive Grant gave you,” he said. “We assumed he was working to unearth the real transactions. But he was actually the one burying them.”

Just before Evan had killed him, Bedrosov had referred to Max as Grant Merriweather’s cousin. In hindsight it seemed telling; Bedrosov knew Grant well enough to make him the point of reference. Grant had been hired into the operation to clean the books. Right away he must have sensed he was in over his head. Given the power players behind the scheme, he’d have figured he needed insurance for when he finished the job. He needed to be able to threaten mutually assured destruction to anyone thinking of taking him out.

So two months ago, shortly after he started the job for Stella Hardwick’s band of brothers, Grant had pulled some preliminary spreadsheets onto a thumb drive to be delivered into the hands of a Los Angeles Times reporter in the event of his death. Lorraine Lennox was an expert in L.A.’s crime networks. Evan recalled scanning over one of her articles that had made insinuations about a secret cabal of unidentified city leaders. Lennox had been sniffing around the bigger story, which was likely why Grant had chosen her once he realized he’d gotten himself in too deep. And why Stella’s hit men had wiped her off the board as soon as Grant fled with the damning thumb drive and they feared they might lose control of the narrative.

“Why would you say that?” Max’s voice was hoarse now, the truth dawning.

“What Grant gave you was only his rough work at the beginning of the job. Pieced-together files, partially encoded, even hidden. In case it fell into the wrong hands, he couldn’t trust you with something that had the explosive details—the names of the higher-ups—spelled out overtly.” Evan pointed at the screen. “But these books are dated fifteen days after the first set—right before Bedrosov got arrested. And they’re complete. Every last payment that’s been moved out of the city budget to the Singapore bank, laundered, and delivered to the principals has been codified by legitimate bookkeeping. That requires the skill level of a superb accountant.”

“Maybe they hired someone else,” Max said. “You don’t know that it was Grant. How could you know that?”

“Because,” Evan said, “Grant gave this thumb drive to Bedrosov.”

Evan slid the thumb drive out of the laptop and tilted it to the light. He hadn’t checked yet, but his gut told him it would be there.

Etched onto the metal plug of the USB connector was a nifty little logo, the right downstroke of the M merged with the rising slant of the A.

Merriweather Accountancy.

Max retreated until the bed struck the backs of his knees. He sat down abruptly, wrinkling the smooth duvet.

As Evan had anticipated, two thumb drives bookended the mission. Before and after.

He snapped the laptop shut and rose.

Max was still gazing blankly at the far wall, his eyes unfocused.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said. “But we’ve gotta go.”

56

The Fucking Mary Kay Lady

Tommy rattled up in his dually to meet them beneath a freeway underpass where the 10 met the 405. A traffic cacophony roared overhead, endless streams of cars tracing the cloverleaf’s ramps and exits.

Evan’s bullet-riddled F-150 was parked beneath the cramped rise of the overpass. Spots of black mold clung to the concrete above. Aside from a few overturned shopping carts and a ragged army of smashed beer cans, the spot was deserted. That’s why Evan had chosen it, sunken here beneath the city, a stone’s throw from a thousand Angelenos up in the real world moving too fast to pay any notice.

Tommy parked nose to nose and stared at Evan and Max through the facing windshields. Evan gestured for him to come over.

Tommy looked none too pleased about that.

He thumbed a wedge of tobacco into his lower lip, lit up a cigarette, took a help-me-Jesus drag, and then threw up his hands and kicked open his door. He slid out, landing hard on his boots, and took a moment to set his warhorse joints in order and straighten up.

Then he strode over to Evan in the driver’s seat and knocked twice on the door panel. “You may have noticed, I’m not the fucking Mary Kay lady.”

“Yes,” Evan said. “That’s evident.”

“You can’t just call me up when you’re outta mascara and I roll up in a pink Cadillac.”

“No. But that would be awesome.”

Tommy glared at him, but already his hound-dog eyes had softened. “Hell,” he said, “it’s my own damn fault. If I didn’t keep failing retirement, I wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of you.”

“Listen,” Max said, leaning over. “I just want to say I really appreciate—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Tommy said. “I don’t know you.” He looked at Evan. “I don’t know him.”