Page 36 of Into the Fire

Now Papazian had a matching set.

Evan stripped the pistol from Papazian’s hand and flung it behind him. It clattered across the floor, pinging off the wall in the darkness. Evan reached over his shoulder, unsheathed the shotgun from the sling, and whipped it down to rest on Papazian’s shoulder.

The boom was bone-shuddering. Behind Papazian digital London transformed into a cloud of splinters.

Papazian staggered but kept his feet.

Evan said, “Now you’re near two hundred beats per minute. Your cognitive processing is starting to go. Time dilation, visual narrowing, auditory exclusion.”

He popped the shotgun up over Papazian’s head, thunking it down on the other shoulder as if knighting him. He pulled the trigger again, the stock kicking back. Another boom, this one biblical.

Evan raised his voice so Papazian would hear over the concussive din in his head. “You’re spiked over two fifty now. System overload. Perceptually shut down. Full-blown tunnel vision. Voiding instinct. That warmth you feel spreading down your leg? You might think you’ve already been shot, but it’s just piss.”

Papazian’s eyes looked like dinner plates. His breaths came in hiccups.

Evan lowered the shotgun to aim at his knee. “Next time it won’t be.”

Mr. Omar answered his door wearing boxer shorts and a tattered blue bathrobe that was oddly feminine. He blinked up at the two men in the hallway. Cuffed sleeves, pressed slacks, polished shoes.

The taller of the two wore an LAPD baseball cap. “I’m Detective Nuñez, and this is Detective Brust.” For good measure, he nudged the badge dangling around his neck on a lanyard. “I understand you’re the landlord here?”

Omar scratched at his thigh. “Landlord no. Building manager yes.” He smiled, revealed perfectly straight, large yellow teeth. “Instead of cashing the checks, I deal with much hassles. Not a fair trade-off if you ask me, my friend. But my rent is free, and—”

Brust tried on a smile as he cut in. “Have you seen Max Merriweather?”

“No. His apartment has been broken in, and he is missing. The other cops came and took the report. They told me not to fix yet. That it is evidence.” Omar lifted a finger skyward. “And I have not.”

“We saw that report, thank you,” Nuñez said. “We’re from the Hollywood Station, investigating a different aspect of the case. We need to know if Mr. Merriweather has been in touch with you in any way? If he’s come by here?”

Omar shook his head. “I’ve been much worried about him. Always behind on the rent, but he is good man.” His eyes were baggy, raccoon-ringed with darker skin. He tugged at his wattle. “But he vanished like this.” A snap of his fingers.

Brust stepped forward and handed Omar a card. His partner was impeccable, but Brust had a coffee stain on the left side of his shirt, a brown dribble that wouldn’t be coming out anytime soon. “If you hear anything—anything at all—please call us.”

Omar pinched the card at the corners so it bowed inward. He stared at the number, brow twisted with worry. “Yes, I will. I will.”

When he looked up, the detectives’ faces were clouded with concern. “He’s in grave danger,” Nuñez said.

“What danger?” Omar asked. “How much danger?”

The detectives had started for the stairs, but Nuñez paused and looked back, his expression heavy. “More than he’s even aware of.”

17

Right Side Up and Upside Down

Evan—or more precisely the Benelli combat shotgun—had convinced Papazian to give up what information he had in exchange for a painless exit. Evan now had to stage the next phase of the mission, which meant getting to the databases and buckling down. By the time he returned to Castle Heights, an early-morning buzz had already filled the lobby. The tenants were clustered around the love seats, some dressed for work, others lounging in retiree leisure wear.

Evan lowered his head and vectored for the elevator.

“Ev. Ev! Come over here. My God, you won’t believe what happened to Ida.”

Lorilee’s face looked Saran Wrap–tight beneath the bright lights of the lobby. He glanced down and halted at the sight of the crimson mist across the toes of his boots.

He had not been counting on prework social hour in the lobby.

He glanced at the group. “Maybe you could tell me later.”

A storm of objections assailed him, the loudest from Hugh Walters, 20C. Hugh was the HOA president and never tired of reacquainting the residents with that fact. “I think you need to hear this,” he said, his long face drawn longer with stageworthy distress. “It represents a security threat to this building’s residents. And it can’t wait for tomorrow’s HOA meeting.”