WEHO-LA — A PRIVATE MEMBERS CLUB — 11:45 A.M.
The club occupied the top two floors of a building that had no signage visible from street level. The kind of place that did not advertise because it did not need to. Its members found it the same way members of such places always found them, through a closed circuit of money and trust.
Mr. Harrison sat in a window booth on the upper floor with a cup of green tea he hadn't touched and a view of West Hollywood spread below him. He was stared blankly at the long line of traffic, the tiny moving figures of ordinary people going about the ordinary business of their lives. He watched them keenly with a detached aesthetic appreciation, and no particular emotional investment like the way a man watches fish in an aquarium.
He was sixty-one years old, formally dressed in a charcoal suit, no tie. His phone, face down on the table, vibrated once. He turned it over, read the single line of text, and set it back down without expression.
A moment later, the booth's privacy curtain was drawn aside and a younger man slid into the seat across from him. This was Benoit Wesley, thirty-four, lean, with the nervous energy of someone who moved fast and slept badly. He worked for Mr. Harrison in the way that certain people worked for certain other people: entirely, and without the luxury of divided loyalties.
"The Larsson matter is resolved," Benoit said.
"I know," said Mr. Harrison. He lifted the tea, finally, and drank from it with the patient attention of a man who found it genuinely pleasant. "The police?"
"On scene this morning. A detective from the Beverly Hills unit, Lisa Parker. She was there early. She had met with him the night before."
Mr. Harrison set the cup down. For the first time something moved in his expression, not alarm, not concern. More like the mild interest of someone solving a puzzle whose difficulty has just increased by one increment. "Had she."
"We believe he may have passed something to her. Before."
"What something?"
"We're not certain. He had access to the Q3 internal records. Possibly the transfer logs."
A pause. Outside the window, a cloud moved across the midday sun and the light in the room shifted, cooler, more blue. "Find out what she has," Mr. Harrison said. "Carefully. I don't want her alarmed. A frightened detective who already suspects something is considerably more dangerous than an ignorant one."
"And if she has the logs?"
Mr. Harrison considered this for what seemed, to Benoit, like a very long time, though it was probably no more than ten seconds. He looked out the window at the city. At its fish in their aquarium. "Then we assess," he said at last. "A detective who has evidence is a problem. A detective who has evidence and has shared it is a different kind of problem. Find out which kind we are dealing with before you do anything at all."
Benoit nodded. He started to slide out of the booth, then paused. "There is one other matter."
Mr. Harrison waited.
"Our contractor. He completed the Beverly Hills job last night. But there has been… a development."
Mr. Harrison furrowed his brows. In his world development was not a neutral word. It meant change. And change, when it arrived unexpectedly, was almost always the first sound of something coming apart.
"What kind," said Mr. Harrison.
"He has been making inquiries. Independently. Outside the parameters of any commissioned work."
Mr. Harrison's expression did not change. "Inquiries about what."
"We believe he is searching for someone. A personal matter, unconnected, as far as we can determine, to any of our operations. But the channels he is using to search…" Benoit paused, choosing his words with visible care. "They overlap with our channels. If his search leads him in certain directions, there is a risk of… intersection."
Mr. Harrison picked up his tea again. Drank. Set it down. "How long has he been searching?"
"Years, we think. He has been careful. But recently he has accelerated."
"Why recently?"
"Unknown."
Another pause. Longer. "Monitor him," Mr. Harrison said finally. "Don't interfere. Not yet. A contractor who believes he is operating freely is a more reliable contractor than one who knows he is being watched." He looked down at his tea. "And if his search takes him somewhere inconvenient…"
"We redirect it?"
"We manage it," Mr. Harrison said. "Everything is manageable, Benoit. That is the first principle. Remember it."
Benoit left. The curtain fell back into place. Mr. Harrison sat alone in the booth and looked out at the city for a long, still moment.
He picked up his tea and found it had gone cold.
He drank it anyway.
SILVERLAKE ANIMAL CLINIC — 1:15 P.M.
The lunch hour was quiet. Amy had gone to get food from the restaurant down the block, she always brought enough for two, and Hunter always ate half of whatever she left on the break room table without acknowledging the gesture or the habit it had become, which was his way of accepting it. He sat now in his office with the door slightly open, the clinic empty of patients for another forty minutes.
His phone rang. His personal one, not the work number, not the encrypted line. This number, the one given to almost nobody, showed no caller ID.
He looked at It for the length of two rings. Then answered.
Silence on the other end.
"Is this the veterinarian?" The voice was male.
"Yes," said Hunter.
Another pause. Briefer. "I was told you've been looking for someone."
The room was very quiet. Outside, faintly, the sound of a car passing on the street. Hunter set his forks down on the edge of the container.
"That depends," Hunter said, "on who told you."
There was another long pause. "I knew your mother."
It felt like the world stopped for a moment.
"Tell me your name," Hunter said.
"Not on the phone."
"Then tell me what you want."
"To meet. Once. That's all I'm asking." The voice paused, just briefly. "There are things you deserve to know. Things about where you come from. About why…" He stopped. Started again. "There are things that should have been told to you a long time ago. I am very late. I know that."
Hunter was quiet for a long moment, his hands gripping the desk.
"Where," said Hunter.
The man gave an address. It was a neighbourhood in DTLA , a coffee shop, a specific table near the back. Three days from now. Wednesday, 2 P.M.
"Come alone," the man said.
Hunter sat in the silence of his office for a full minute without moving. Then he picked up his forks, looked at the food in front of him, and found he was no longer hungry. He put the container aside, turned to his computer, and opened the patient file for his two o'clock appointment.