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Introducing: The Confessor — Read The First 5 Chapters Of My New Book!
Over at my Nightly Newsletter that I personally send out every night (sign up here for FREE by the way: https://newsletter.dailynoah.com) for the past two days I’ve been giving my readers a sneak peak at the first Chapters of my new book.
It’s called The Confessor, and it’s a cat and mouse police crime drama, written as an absolute homage to my favorite author of all time, John Sandford.
The characters are all original to me.
The plot is original to me.
The writing is all original to me.
But my hope is that I am able to mimc in some small way the essence of what made John Sandford books so special.
The pacing…
The dialogue…
The action…
The twists…
Simply put, Sandford is in a league of his own if you ask me, and there’s nothing better than a new Lucas Davenport book being released.
It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to eventually write a book that might come close in some small way to echoing a little of the brilliance that Sandford has put forth for decades.
With that said, I’d love to give you a sneak peak of the first five chapters of my new book and see what you think!
I might be biased, but I think it’s an absolute blast and I think if you’re a fan of Sandford you’re going to love this!
I’ve even hidden a bunch of small hat tips to the man that only longtime Sandford readers will spot, like the connection between Del Capslock and Curt Alton. Can you spot what it is just from the names?
Anyway, it’s a lot of fun and I am really excited to see what you all think.
The final book will have 42 Chapters, I’ve already storyboarded the whole thing, and I can’t wait to get everything finished.
For now, I have the first 5 chapters, where we meet our killer, The Confessor.
We also meet our hero, Logan and his partner Curt.
And you get dropped right into the heart of Southern California where the action takes place up and down the coast from Laguna to LA.
Please enjoy this one and if you wouldn’t mind please drop me a comment and let me know what you think after reading!
Chapter One
Nobody called him The Confessor yet. That would come later, after the police found the pattern and the media found the name. For now, he was just a man standing near a window with the blinds drawn, laying down the next card.
“October 14. Check number 4471. $62,000 to Pacific Ridge Consulting for program evaluation and strategic planning.” He paused. “Pacific Ridge Consulting has never evaluated a program or planned a strategy in its life. Pacific Ridge Consulting is a shell company owned by Coastal Venture Holdings, LLC.” Another pause. “Coastal Venture Holdings has one member. You.”
David Kirsch didn’t say anything. His hands were flat on the desk, pressing down, as if the surface might hold him in place. He’d been behind that desk for 40 minutes now — still wearing the white button-down from tonight’s donor dinner, the collar dark with sweat, his blue blazer draped over his chair. His silver hair, always camera-ready, had been raked through more than once. The practiced face — the warm eyes, the fundraiser smile — was all gone. What was underneath it looked older and smaller. Not much to look at, once you peeled the label off.
The desk lamp threw a circle of warm light across the office and caught the edge of a framed photograph: Kirsch shaking hands with the mayor at last year’s Veterans’ Day gala. Beyond the light, shadow. Plaques on the walls. Commendations. The kind of awards they give out at luncheons where everybody claps and nobody checks the math. Half the frames were crooked. The building was empty, the HVAC off, and the silence had a weight to it — the particular quiet of a place built for daytime noise that now had none.
“November 9. Another check. $41,000. This one to Meridian Group Advisors — community impact assessment.” The Confessor watched Kirsch’s face. “Meridian Group Advisors has never assessed anything. Same ownership chain. Same destination. You used different company names because you thought it would look less obvious than repeat payments to the same vendor.” He let that sit. “Your controller processes 60 invoices a month at a foundation that practically runs itself. She doesn’t check. She’s never had a reason to. You knew that when you hired her.”
Kirsch’s jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed on the desk.
The Confessor had been going through the file for 20 minutes, and the numbers filled the room like something physical. Specific dates. Specific amounts. Account numbers that Kirsch had probably never heard spoken aloud by another human being. The foundation had taken in just under $4 million in the last 3 fiscal years — donations, corporate sponsors, two federal grants — and roughly $600,000 of it had been rerouted through fabricated invoices from companies that didn’t exist. All owned by a holding company that existed only to catch the money and move it along. From there: a brokerage account, a money market, and a two-bedroom condo in Palm Springs deeded to Coastal Venture Holdings but with David Kirsch’s golf clubs in the closet and his reading glasses on the nightstand.
He knew all of it. Every dollar. Every date. Every lie the numbers told.
Kirsch had come to the office tonight on his own, the way he always did after donor events. The Confessor had been watching him long enough to know the pattern. The dinners ran until 9:00, sometimes 9:30. Then Kirsch would drive here — not home, here — and let himself into the empty building to do the work he couldn’t do with staff around. Building the next round of fake invoices. Updating the books for companies that didn’t exist. Reconciling the money as it moved from the foundation through the shells and into his own pocket. The careful architecture of his second life. Careful was generous — a halfway competent auditor would have found it in a month.
Tonight The Confessor had been inside the building for 3 hours before Kirsch arrived, sitting in the dark of the back hallway, listening to the building settle. The building had no security cameras — a frugal foundation serving homeless veterans didn’t spend donor money on surveillance systems, and the irony of that was not lost on him. He’d been here before — twice in the last month, learning the layout, the locks. The side entrance had a keypad, no alarm — same frugal logic as the cameras. He’d watched Kirsch punch in the code from 60 yards away through binoculars one night, sitting in his car on the cross street. Kirsch never covered the keypad with his hand. Why would he? It was 10 o’clock at night at a veterans’ charity. Nobody was watching. Except someone was. He’d sat at this very desk on one of those visits, in the dark, and gone through the filing cabinets and the accounting system with the patience of a man who had all night and nothing but time.
The sun had set before 5:00 — it was three days from the winter solstice — and he’d waited in his car until the dark was complete. Nothing started until the dark was complete. Then he’d driven to an abandoned lot a few blocks from the building, removed both license plates, and continued on to the residential street where he’d scouted his parking spot. A few blocks without plates, residential streets, no reason to be stopped. He’d parked between a pickup truck and a minivan, killed the engine, and walked the three blocks to the building while the December night settled around him. Dark clothes. Black stocking cap pulled low — December nights in Los Angeles got cold enough to justify one. Black COVID mask — enough people still wore them that it wouldn’t draw a second look. Latex gloves under leather gloves. No fingerprints on the keypad or anything he would touch inside this office. No doubt the street was littered with Ring cameras on the front porches — no avoiding all of them. He’d accepted that. Head down, cap low, mask on. If a camera caught him from across the street, it would see a man — 6-1, thick through the shoulders and chest — in dark clothing. No plates, no face, no prints. Almost nothing. But almost nothing wasn’t nothing, and he’d thought about that too.
When Kirsch walked into his office at 9:40 and turned on the desk lamp, The Confessor was already in the chair across from him, the knife resting across his thigh.
The panic had been brief. The knife made the introduction, and Kirsch had understood the rest on his own.
“The condo in Palm Springs,” The Confessor continued. “You paid cash. $260,000. You furnished it yourself — receipts from Design Within Reach, Restoration Hardware. You drove out on weekends in the Lexus.” The Lexus ES Hybrid was in the parking lot right now, straddling two spaces the way people park when they think no one else is around to care. A sensible vehicle, though. Not flashy, but still luxury. Responsible. “Your wife thinks you golf with a college friend on those weekends.”
Something moved across Kirsch’s face when The Confessor mentioned his wife.
“She’s not part of this,” Kirsch said.
They were the first words he’d spoken in several minutes. His voice was thinner than the one from the gala footage, the TED-style talks, the cable news appearances. Kirsch had done a TED talk. Of course he had. Everybody with a secret and a blazer had done a TED talk. But now, small. A reduced man’s shaky voice barely filling a quiet room.
“She’s not,” The Confessor agreed.
Kirsch looked up. Tried something. The Confessor could see it happening — the straightening of the spine, the steadying of the breath, the attempt to find the version of himself that worked in rooms like this. The public face. The one that made rich people feel virtuous for writing checks they’d forget about by dessert.
“I don’t know where you got your information,” Kirsch said, and his voice found a little of its old warmth, “but you’re looking at this without context. Nonprofit accounting is complicated. Operating reserves, restricted funds, pass-through allocations — money moves in ways that can look irregular on paper but are perfectly—”
“David.”
He stopped.
“Coastal Venture Holdings is the parent company you set up to own your little network of fake vendors — Pacific Ridge, Meridian Group, and however many others there are. It has no employees, no business operations, no tax filings beyond the minimum to keep it active. You created it 19 months ago using a registered agent in Nevada. The condo in Palm Springs is not an operating reserve. Your brokerage account is not a pass-through allocation.”
The public face collapsed the way a stage set comes down after the final performance — fast, deliberate, everything that looked solid a moment ago revealed as just plywood and paint. One moment it was there — the posture, the voice, the practiced calm — and the next it was just David Kirsch, 57 years old, sitting behind a desk in a dark building with someone who knew everything.
The Confessor watched it happen. It was fast. Most people would miss it. He didn’t miss things.
Kirsch tried again, and this time the quality was different. Lower. Closer to the ground.
“I was going to put it back.”
As if intention were a currency you could spend after the fact.
The Confessor said nothing.
“The foundation was hemorrhaging money in 2022. Donations dropped 40 percent after Covid. The federal grants were delayed — months of delays, the paperwork alone was—” Kirsch stopped himself. Took a breath. “I moved money to keep the lights on. I know how it looks, but I was trying to save the foundation.”
“And the condo?”
Kirsch’s mouth opened. Closed.
“The brokerage account?”
Nothing.
“The golf weekends while the veterans your foundation was supposed to house slept under the 405 overpass on Wilshire?”
Kirsch put his hands over his face. His shoulders dropped. I was trying to save it had lasted less than a minute. The rationalizations were thinner than the denials.
The Confessor gave him time. The truth had to come on its own, the way water finds its level.
The desk clock ticked. Through the drawn blinds, a car passed on the street below — headlights sweeping across the ceiling, then gone. He waited.
“I need you to say it,” The Confessor said. “What you did. Out loud. In your own words.”
Kirsch looked at him through his fingers. His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying. Something past crying.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve never said it. Not once. Not to anyone. You’ve lived inside the lie so long that the truth has become a foreign object. I need you to let it out.”
Kirsch stared at him for a long time. The photographs watched from the walls — Kirsch at ribbon cuttings, Kirsch hugging veterans, Kirsch accepting a crystal plaque from the city council.
When it came, it came quiet.
Barely audible: “I stole the money.”
He said it the way you’d set down something heavy you’d been carrying too long.
“I knew what I was doing,” Kirsch said. His voice steadied as he went, as if the truth, once started, had its own momentum. “It wasn’t about saving the foundation. It was about wanting… things. The condo. The weekends. A life that felt like what I thought I deserved. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself I’d pay it back. But I wasn’t going to pay it back. I knew that. I knew it every time I made a transfer and I did it anyway.”
He looked at the photos on the wall.
“Those people trusted me.”
“Yes.”
“The veterans. The donors. Maria.” His wife. “They all trusted me and I let them because the lie was easier than any version of the truth.”
Something inside The Confessor loosened. A pressure he’d been carrying for months — since he’d first found the discrepancy in the foundation’s public filings — released. A completion.
He set a legal pad on the desk. Yellow, college-ruled. A black pen beside it.
“Write it down,” he said. “Everything you just told me. In your own words.”
Kirsch looked at the legal pad. Looked at The Confessor. The calculation was visible — what this document would mean, who might read it, what it would do to his life. But his life was already over. He’d known that since the account numbers started.
Kirsch picked up the pen. His hand shook, but his handwriting was legible. He wrote slowly, carefully. Nice penmanship for a man confessing to multiple felonies. Probably the same hand that signed the thank-you notes to the donors he was stealing from.
While Kirsch wrote, The Confessor began to circle.
Not quickly. Not with any urgency that would pull attention from the page. He stepped from where he’d been standing near the window and moved along the side wall, past the plaques, past the framed commendation from the city council. Slow. Patient. The way a hand moves around the face of a clock. This was the part that mattered. Not the file. Not the money. The handwriting. A man putting himself on paper because someone had finally made him do it. Kirsch didn’t look up. The pen kept moving, the scratch of it the only sound in the room. The Confessor passed the corner of the office, continued along the back wall, came around behind the desk. He could read the handwriting now, over Kirsch’s shoulder. Specific amounts. Account names. The condo. His wife’s ignorance. All of it.
He filled one page, turned it, continued on the next. The Confessor completed the circle and stopped directly behind the chair.
Kirsch finished. Set the pen down and straightened up in his chair, rolling his shoulders slightly, the way you do after leaning forward for a long time. The legal pad sat in front of him — two pages, dense with handwriting, the ink still drying on the last line. Signed at the bottom.
He started to turn his head.
The blade was short and very sharp. The Confessor drew it across Kirsch’s throat from behind in a single smooth motion, left to right, fast enough that his expression barely changed. Kirsch’s hands came up — reflex, not decision — and then dropped. He settled into the chair. His eyes stayed open for a moment, looking at the photograph directly across from him — the one from the Veterans’ Day gala, the handshake with the mayor, the smile — and then they didn’t look at anything.
It was over in seconds. The mercy of truth.
He looked at his hands. He’d expected them to shake. They didn’t. His breathing was even, his pulse no faster than it had been when he’d walked in. Whatever he’d thought he’d feel afterward, it wasn’t this.
Calm.
Full.
And under that, something bright enough to worry him.
He checked his sleeves, his gloves, the toes of his shoes. Nothing wet. Nothing bright. The angle had done what he’d planned for it to do.
The room was very quiet. The desk lamp still threw its circle of warm light across the legal pad, the confession, the dead man’s hands resting on the arms of his chair. Blood moved across the white button-down in a way that looked almost deliberate, like ink spreading on cloth.
He cleaned the blade, folded it, put it away. Positioned the legal pad squarely on the desk in front of Kirsch, where it would be found. Blood had reached the pages — a fine spray across the second sheet, dotting the ink, soaking into the yellow paper. The handwriting was still legible underneath it. Two pages, stained with what they’d cost.
He looked at the photographs one last time. Kirsch at the fundraiser. Kirsch with the veterans. Kirsch accepting awards for compassion from people he was robbing. $600,000 redirected to a condo and a brokerage account while the men it was meant for slept under overpasses.
The photographs would stay on the walls. The confession would stay on the desk.
He turned off the desk lamp. The room went dark except for thin bands of parking lot light coming through the blinds, falling across the floor in pale stripes. He left the way he’d come in — side entrance, keypad, quiet hallway. The building was just a building again.
The back door opened onto the parking lot. Cool air, dry, the faint bite of December in Los Angeles. The Lexus Hybrid sat under a light pole, still straddling its two spaces. Couldn’t even park straight in an empty lot, The Confessor thought. This asshole cheated at everything.
He pulled the stocking cap low, adjusted the mask, and walked. Unhurried. Far side of the street, head down, the same route he’d walked in. A man in dark clothes on a cold night in a city where that meant nothing. He got in, started the engine, and drove the few blocks back to the empty lot. The license plates went back on in under a minute — a screwdriver from the glove box, four screws, done. Then east on a side street, north on Western Avenue, west on Wilshire Boulevard. He drove the speed limit. He signaled his turns. A dark sedan on a wide boulevard at 11 o’clock on a Friday night, indistinguishable from the delivery drivers and the night-shift workers and the restless insomniacs going nowhere in particular.
The city moved past the windows. Late-night Los Angeles — strip malls and gas stations, dark stretches between them, billboard faces selling things to people who weren’t paying attention. A city that never fully closed its eyes.
He thought about the veterans. Not sentimentally — he didn’t do that. But he thought about them. The ones who’d slept on sidewalks while David Kirsch slept in Palm Springs. About how many more David Kirsches were out there right now, behind their desks, inside their lies, while the people who needed them went without.
More than you’d think. More than anyone wants to believe.
The boulevard stretched ahead of him, long and steady, the Friday night traffic thinning as he moved west. Just another set of headlights in the flow. He drove toward home.
There would be others.
Chapter Two
The matte black Tesla Model X slid to the curb on Melrose Avenue without making a sound. Two patrol cars were angled nose-in near the yellow tape, light bars still cycling, and a forensics van sat behind them with its rear doors open. The Tesla pulled in behind the van the way a shark pulls into a marina — wrong neighborhood, didn’t care.
Logan Hollister stepped out with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. The coffee was from a diner on Pico — a place with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who called everyone “hon.” He’d passed four Melrose coffee shops on the way. Tall, wide through the shoulders, lean everywhere else. Dark suit. Badge clipped to his belt. He stood at the curb for a moment and took in the scene — not looking at the whole thing, looking at the parts. The spiderweb crack in the boutique’s plate glass window. The blood smear visible through it. The smashed display cases inside, glass and price tags on the floor. Two uniforms at the tape line, keeping a small crowd of early-morning Melrose joggers and yoga-mat carriers at a distance.
A bright Saturday morning on the high-end stretch of Melrose — designer boutiques on both sides, the kind of stores that buzz you in and know your name. The kind of neighborhood where the worst thing that usually happens is someone double-parks a Range Rover. But today the blood was real.
A young uniform near the tape, a face Logan didn’t recognize, gave the Tesla a look. The kind of look that does math on a cop’s salary and comes up short. Logan caught it. “You need something, Officer?” The uniform looked away. Logan didn’t.
Curt Alton was standing just inside the tape, coffee in hand, rumpled in the way a man gets when he’s been awake for 14 hours and running on caffeine and stubbornness. He had the face of a guy who’d been decent-looking in college and now just looked like a cop who didn’t sleep enough. His tie was loosened, his sport coat wrinkled at the elbows. He’d been here all night.
“You look like hell,” Logan said, ducking under the tape.
“You look like a catalog,” Curt said. “How was the drive?”
“Left Laguna at midnight. Condo was freezing — forgot to set the thermostat from the app.”
“Tragic.” Curt was already walking. Logan fell in beside him and they moved toward the boutique entrance. 10 years they’d worked together. The last 3, Logan had the money to walk anytime he wanted, and that was exactly why he never had to. Robbery-Homicide, full authority, but he lived in Laguna and picked his cases. The department kept its best detective. Logan kept the job without the leash.
“Walk me through it,” Logan said.
“Crew of three, last night, 8:45. Masks, gloves, one handgun visible — looked like a Glock to the witnesses but witnesses are witnesses. In and out in under 3 minutes. They knew what they wanted: handbags, watches, loose jewelry. Stuff you can carry in a duffel bag and fence before breakfast.”
They stepped through the front entrance. The boutique was small and deliberately elegant, or it had been. Display cases smashed open, glass crunching under their shoes, empty velvet trays where the merchandise used to sit. A single earring on the floor near the door. Dropped on the way out, not worth going back for. A $4,000 earring. These guys had standards. A blood smear ran along the base of a tall glass case near the register, head-height, then down to the floor, the ugly physics of someone’s face hitting glass and then hitting tile.
“The clerk,” Curt said, following Logan’s eyes. “Alyssa Medina, 26. Worked here 2 years. She tried to reach for the silent alarm and one of the crew caught it. He grabbed her by the hair, put her face through the case, then pistol-whipped her on the floor.”
Logan looked at the blood smear. The impact point on the glass was about 5 feet up. The smear tracked straight down. She’d dropped like weight.
He stood there a beat too long. Curt knew the look.
“She’s at Cedars,” Curt said. “ICU. Fractured skull, swelling on the brain. They’re watching her but it doesn’t sound good.”
“Same crew as the other two?”
“Same playbook. Jewelry store on Robertson 2 weeks ago, boutique near the Beverly Center 8 days later. First hit was clean — grab and go, nobody hurt. Second one, they roughed up the owner a little, shoved him around. This time they almost killed somebody.” Curt took a sip of his coffee. “They’re getting comfortable.”
Logan stopped walking. He was standing near the back of the store, looking at the smashed display cases. Two along the left wall. One on the right. The one on the right was untouched — still locked, still full of merchandise. Bracelets, earrings, some pieces that looked expensive even from here.
“What’s in that case?” Logan asked.
Curt looked. “Costume stuff, I think. Semi-precious. The high-end pieces were on the left wall and behind the register.”
“So they knew which cases to hit.”
Curt’s mouth moved a little. Not quite a smile. “Yeah. I was getting to that.”
“They’ve been in here before,” Logan said. “As customers. Or pretending to be. They walked around, they looked at the layout, they figured out where the real money was. That case” — he pointed to the right wall — “didn’t get touched because it wasn’t worth the 30 seconds.”
“I pulled the store’s customer log this morning. They keep one — names, phone numbers, preferences. Very high-end service. But walk-ins don’t always get logged.”
“How’d they leave?”
“Black SUV, no plates. Went east on Melrose, turned south on La Brea. We’ve got traffic camera footage from the intersection but the plates were either removed or covered. Still working it.”
“East on Melrose, south on La Brea,” Logan repeated. He was looking at the boutique’s position on the block. Mid-block, between two other stores. “And the alley?”
“Runs behind the building. Exits onto a side street.”
“Two escape routes. So they scouted the exit as well as the merchandise.” Logan turned back to the front of the store. “These guys aren’t tourists. They know the Westside. They’ve done this before or they’re planning to keep doing it.”
They stepped back outside into the morning light. After the dim wreckage of the boutique, Melrose Avenue looked almost aggressively normal — a woman walking a French bulldog, a guy on a phone outside a coffee shop, a delivery truck easing past the patrol cars. Half the crowd at the tape line had their phones out. Somebody would have it on Instagram before Logan got to his car.
“Owner’s across the street,” Curt said. “Diane Barstow. She’s been at that coffee shop since it opened. She’s on her third espresso and her second call to the mayor’s office.”
“Connected?”
“She’s got the kind of money where connected is the default setting.”
Logan crossed the street. Diane Barstow was sitting at an outdoor table with her uncased iPhone flat on the surface and her eyes locked on the boutique across the street like she was daring it to look away. Late 50s, thin, dressed in the kind of casual that costs more than most people’s formal. She looked like a woman who solved problems with a phone call and was deeply offended that this one hadn’t cooperated.
“Mrs. Barstow? I’m Logan Hollister, LAPD.”
She looked up at him — 6-2, broad through the shoulders, the kind of build that filled a doorway without trying. She took in the suit, the badge, the fact that he didn’t look like the uniformed officers she’d been dealing with all night. Something in her posture shifted — not relaxed, but recalibrated.
“Alyssa is 26,” she said. “She just got engaged. She’s lying in a hospital bed with her skull fractured because three animals walked into my store and—” She stopped. Pressed her lips together. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to find them,” Logan said. He said it simply, without drama, the way you’d tell someone what time it was. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
She nodded.
“In the last two or three weeks, has anyone come into the store who felt off? Someone who didn’t buy anything but spent a lot of time looking around?”
Diane Barstow’s eyes narrowed. “There was a man. Maybe 10 days ago. He came in, said he was looking for a gift for his wife. Spent 20 minutes browsing but didn’t try anything on, didn’t ask prices. He was interested in the layout more than the merchandise.”
“Can you describe him?”
“30s. Average height. Nice jacket — Brunello Cucinelli, I think. He looked like he belonged, which is probably why I didn’t think much of it until now.” She paused. “I remember everyone who comes into my store. I didn’t recognize him.”
Logan filed it. His expression didn’t change.
“Does the store have security cameras?”
“Of course. The system records to the cloud.”
“Can you pull up the footage from 10 days ago and send it to me?” Logan took out his phone and showed her the number. “Text it directly. I don’t want to wait for the evidence unit to process it.”
She looked at him — a quick, sharp assessment, the kind a businesswoman makes when she’s deciding whether someone is competent. Then she picked up her phone and started tapping.
“I’ve called the mayor’s office,” she said while she worked, and there was an edge in it — not a threat exactly, more like a weather report. This is coming. Be ready.
“I’d expect nothing less,” Logan said. He gave her a card. She set it on the table next to her espresso without looking at it.
While Logan was talking to Barstow, a plainclothes detective had walked over to the tape line and was having a conversation with one of the uniforms that involved a lot of gesturing toward the Tesla. Curt intercepted him before he got to Logan.
Logan saw it in his peripheral vision — Curt showing his badge, a brief exchange, the other detective’s body language cycling from pissed off to resigned. The guy had been working the robbery series for 2 weeks, grinding it out, and now Logan rolls up in a Tesla and takes it. Logan got it. He’d feel the same way. But the Deputy Chief wanted his best on it, and that was that. By the time Logan walked back across the street, it was handled.
“New friend?” Logan asked.
“Detective Morales. He’s been working these robberies since the first hit. He’ll get over it.” Curt glanced at Logan’s phone. “Did you just have a civilian send you evidence footage directly?”
“I had a victim send me security video that I’ll watch in the car in 10 minutes instead of waiting 2 days for the evidence unit to get around to it.”
“Defense attorney’s going to love that.”
“Then log it before he gets out of bed.”
Curt shook his head, but he was almost smiling. He’d seen this before.
They walked to the Tesla. As Logan got close, the driver’s door swung open on its own, interior lights already on, the car sensing his phone in his pocket and presenting itself like a valet had been standing there the whole time. Curt watched this with the expression of a man who’d seen it a hundred times and still found it mildly ridiculous.
“Your car has better manners than most people I know,” Curt said.
“Most people you know are cops.”
“You lasted, what — three days in Laguna this time before you picked up the phone?” Curt said it lightly, the way you bust a friend’s chops.
Logan had bought the house in Laguna 2 years ago. Beautiful place, ocean views, the kind of quiet that was supposed to feel like peace. It never did. Three days in and the walls started closing. He’d start checking his phone, scanning the news, looking for the thing Laguna couldn’t give him. The beach house was where he lived. LA was where he was alive.
They got in. Logan pulled away from the curb heading east on Melrose, and Curt felt the seat push back. Logan always drove harder when a case was building, like the motor in the car had to keep up with the one in his head. Curt grabbed the door handle and didn’t say anything. He’d learned.
“Cedars first?” Curt asked.
“Cedars first. I want to talk to the charge nurse, find out what we’re looking at. If she wakes up, I want to be the first call.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Logan’s hands tightened on the steering yoke. Just slightly. “Then this stops being a robbery investigation.”
They drove south on La Brea. The morning traffic was building — the particular slow-motion gridlock of Los Angeles, where everybody had somewhere to be and nobody knew how to merge. Logan let the car handle the crawl.
“How’s Laguna?” Curt asked.
“Quiet.”
“You say that like it’s a complaint.” A beat. “Sarah call?”
“Don’t.” The word came out harder than Logan probably intended. Or maybe exactly as hard as he intended. Curt let it go. He’d been partnered with Logan long enough to know where the fence was.
“3 hits in 2 weeks,” Logan said. “Same playbook, escalating violence, all high-end Westside. Someone’s running this crew. The guys in the masks are the muscle, but there’s a brain picking the targets.”
“Because of the casing?”
“Because of all of it. The location — mid-block, two exit routes. The timing — right before close, after the foot traffic dies down but before the safe gets locked. The case selection — they walked past $60,000 in semi-precious and went straight for the real stuff. Somebody did homework.”
Curt was quiet for a moment. “The other two scenes — Robertson and Beverly Center — I can pull the owner interviews, see if anyone remembers a walk-in who didn’t buy.”
“Do that. And pull traffic footage from a two-block radius of all three locations for the week before each hit. If the same vehicle shows up near all three, we’ve got our scout. I also want to know who leases retail space on this stretch of Melrose — anybody new in the last 6 months, any vacancies, any units that changed hands. If this crew is local, they might be operating out of something nearby.”
Curt stared at him. “I’ve been up since 6 o’clock yesterday.”
“So get another coffee.”
Curt made a note on his phone. Logan turned right on Beverly Boulevard, heading toward Cedars-Sinai. The hospital was close — just up the road, the kind of proximity that was either lucky or depressing depending on how you thought about it.
Logan’s phone buzzed in the center console. He glanced at the screen. A notification from the WLTLH app — traffic numbers, something about a trending post. He dismissed it with a flick of his thumb, but Curt caught the glance.
“What’s WLTLH?” Curt asked. “You check that thing constantly.”
“News app.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You should read more.”
They pulled into the Cedars-Sinai parking structure. Logan found a spot on the second level and the car shut off the second he opened his door.
Logan sat for a moment. Somewhere in this building, a 26-year-old woman with a ring on her finger was fighting for her life because three guys wanted handbags.
Curt’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, then looked at Logan.
“Robertson jewelry store. The first hit.” He read from the screen. “Owner says she’s been thinking about it since we called yesterday. She remembers a walk-in about a week before the robbery. Man in his 30s. Didn’t buy anything. Spent a long time looking around.” Curt lowered the phone. “Sound familiar?”
Logan was already out of the car.
“Same guy,” he said. “He scouted all three. Pull everything you can on the Robertson walk-in — dates, times, anything on camera.”
He loosened his tie and started walking toward the hospital entrance. His left knee was stiff from the cold — it did that sometimes, an old gunshot wound that never healed right — but he didn’t slow down. 3 robberies had just become one operation. Somewhere in the footage from three different stores was the same face, and Logan was going to find it.
He could already feel the case hooking into him — the familiar pull, the thing that made Laguna feel too quiet and the condo feel like home.
The machine was running.
Chapter Three
The diner on Western had a name but nobody used it. The sign out front said Nick’s, or maybe Rick’s — the first letter had burned out years ago and no one had replaced it. Logan was in the third booth from the back, facing the door, a loaded omelet going cold in front of him and a cup of coffee that the waitress had refilled twice without being asked. She’d been pouring his coffee for 6 years. By now he was just booth three, black coffee, no cream.
Curt was at the counter, two stools from the end, working on a plate of eggs and toast with the slow determination of a man who hadn’t slept in 36 hours. A trucker sat three stools down, watching a Dodgers replay on the mounted TV with the sound off. The closed captioning was running two pitches behind the picture. The griddle behind the pass-through window hissed and popped, and the whole place smelled like bacon grease and floor cleaner — not quite clean, not quite dirty, the permanent smell of a kitchen that had been running since before most of its customers were born.
Logan was scrolling through the security footage Barstow had sent him. Three angles, 10 days old. The walk-in was there — 30s, average height, browsing the left-wall cases with the unhurried attention of a man who already knew what was in them. Nice jacket. Hands in his pockets half the time, which meant he was conscious of touching things. Logan zoomed in on a frame where the guy’s face was almost in profile. Almost. The resolution fell apart past a certain point, the way resolution always did when you needed it most.
He set the phone down and ate a forkful of omelet. The hashbrowns were perfect — crispy on the outside, soft underneath, the kind you only got from a griddle that had been seasoning itself for decades. A four-star restaurant couldn’t do this. They’d try, and they’d charge you $40, and it wouldn’t be the same.
The door opened at 10:15. Eddie Lam came in like a man walking into a dentist’s office — resigned, unhappy, getting it over with. He slid into the booth across from Logan without saying hello. Short, narrow through the shoulders, wearing a jacket that was trying hard to be nothing — the kind of thing you’d forget five seconds after you saw it. But the sneakers were immaculate. White-on-white, fresh out of the box or maintained with the kind of care that said something about a man. Everything else about Eddie was forgettable. The shoes were not.
“I ordered you coffee,” Logan said.
“I don’t want coffee.”
“Drink it anyway. You look like you need it.”
Eddie wrapped his hands around the mug but didn’t drink. His eyes moved to the counter, found Curt, moved back. “He with you?”
“He’s always with me.”
“So this is official.”
“This is coffee.” Logan leaned back. “How’ve you been, Eddie?”
“Fine.” The word meant nothing and they both knew it.
“Staying clean?”
Something flickered across Eddie’s face. Fast. A micro-flinch. “Yeah,” Eddie said. “Staying clean.”
Logan let that sit. He picked up his coffee, took a sip, set it down. The waitress passed behind Eddie and topped off Logan’s mug without breaking stride. The Dodgers replay had moved to the seventh inning. The trucker was asleep.
“I need to ask you about some merchandise,” Logan said. “High-end. Watches, jewelry, designer handbags. The kind of stuff that’s been disappearing from the Westside in large quantities over the last 2 weeks.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“I know you don’t.” Logan’s voice was easy, warm even. “That’s not why you’re here. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking past you. But you hear things. People in your world talk.”
“My world.” Eddie said it flat.
“Someone’s moving merchandise south. Good stuff — not street-level, not costume. Real pieces. I’m hearing Inglewood. You hearing anything like that?”
Eddie’s thumbs pressed against the sides of the coffee mug. He was quiet for a beat too long, and the quality of the silence told Logan everything he needed to know. Eddie had heard something. The question was how hard Logan was going to have to push to get it out of him.
“I don’t know anything about any Inglewood—”
“Eddie.” Logan’s voice didn’t change. Same warmth, same ease. But the eyes were different. “The Breitling.”
Eddie’s hands went still on the mug.
“Last month. Came through Tommy Pak, who got it from a friend of a friend, who got it from somewhere you didn’t ask about because you didn’t want to know. You moved it for $1,500. Quick and clean. Nobody got hurt, nobody noticed, and you told yourself it was a one-time thing.” Logan paused. “I noticed.”
The diner was quiet. The griddle hissed. The closed captioning scrolled across the Dodgers game two pitches late.
Eddie looked at his coffee. He looked at his sneakers — the perfect white sneakers, spotless on a greasy diner floor. A man trying to keep something clean.
“That was one watch,” Eddie said.
“That’s all it takes.”
“I’ve been straight for 2 years. One watch.”
“I know.” Logan’s voice was almost gentle, which made it worse. “And I’d like to keep it that way. I’d like that watch to stay between us. But I need something from you, and the math is pretty simple.”
Eddie stared at him. There was no anger in it — just the tired recognition of a man who’d been in this exact position before, in different booths, with different cops, his whole life.
“There’s a watch repair place,” Eddie said. “Inglewood. Crenshaw, just north of the 105. Between a botanica and one of those tax-prep offices that’s only open three months a year.” He spoke quietly, eyes on the table. “Guy named Manny runs it. The shop looks closed most of the time — grate down, lights off. But stuff moves through there. I don’t know who’s bringing it in. I don’t know names. I just know that in the last month, word’s been going around that somebody found a pipeline for moving high-end goods south. Watches, jewelry. Westside stuff.”
“How good is the word?”
“Good enough that people who usually talk stopped talking. That’s how I know it’s real.”
Logan filed it. His expression didn’t change. “What’s Manny’s last name?”
“I don’t know his last name. I don’t know Manny. I know the shop because everybody in that world knows the shop. It’s been there for years. It used to be small-time — estate sale stuff, minor repairs, nothing worth noticing. But lately it’s been different. Volume’s up. The kind of volume that doesn’t match a watch repair place in Inglewood.”
“Have you been inside?”
“No.” Fast. Definitive. Eddie wanted that on the record.
“But you know someone who has.”
Eddie’s jaw worked. He looked toward the counter again — Curt was paying his check, not looking their way, giving them the room. Eddie turned back to Logan.
“I know a guy who dropped something off there 3 weeks ago. A bracelet. Not from any robbery — this was separate, his own thing. He said there was merchandise in the back he’d never seen in a place like that. Display cases worth of stuff. And a black SUV parked out back that he’d seen before on the Westside.”
Logan leaned forward slightly. “He get a plate?”
“No plate. No front plate, anyway. Dark windows.”
“Your guy have a name he’d be willing to share?”
“My guy has a name he’d like to keep breathing with.”
Logan nodded. He took a last sip of coffee, set the mug down, and put a twenty on the table. The omelet was half-eaten. The hashbrowns were gone.
“Eddie.”
Eddie looked up.
“I appreciate this. The Breitling stays between us.”
Eddie stood up. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked toward the back door, the one that led to the parking lot. Logan watched him go — the forgettable jacket, the forgettable face, the perfect white sneakers crossing the cracked linoleum like they were walking on glass.
* * *
The parking lot behind the strip mall was the kind of dark that meant half the lights had been out long enough that no one expected them to come back on. A nail salon, a laundromat, a taqueria with its steel shutters down, and a vacant unit with brown paper over the windows. Two dumpsters. A cat somewhere. The particular quiet of a strip mall at 11 o’clock at night.
Logan followed Eddie out. Curt was already outside, leaning against the Tesla in the far corner of the lot, arms crossed. He’d seen them come out. He stayed where he was.
“One more thing,” Logan said.
Eddie stopped. His shoulders tightened. “I gave you what I got.”
“The SUV. Your guy said he’d seen it before on the Westside. Where on the Westside?”
“I told you everything—”
“Where, Eddie.”
Logan didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He stepped closer — not threateningly, but the way a man steps closer when he wants you to understand that the conversation isn’t over until he says it is, filling the space between Eddie and his car. The parking lot felt smaller.
Eddie’s eyes went to the Tesla, to Curt, back to Logan. The math again. Always the math.
“Melrose,” Eddie said. “My guy saw the same SUV on Melrose, maybe 2 weeks before the bracelet drop-off. Parked on a side street. He noticed it because of the no-plate thing.”
“Melrose where? Which block?”
“I don’t know which block. He just said Melrose. The shopping part.”
Logan held his eyes for another second. Then he stepped back. Gave Eddie the space.
“Go home,” Logan said.
Eddie went. He got into a silver Civic with a dented rear quarter panel. Through the window, Logan could see his hands shaking on the steering wheel. Eddie pulled out of the lot without turning on his headlights. Old habit. The kind of thing you do when you’ve spent your life leaving places you don’t want to be remembered at.
Logan watched the taillights disappear onto Western Avenue. Behind him, Curt hadn’t moved from the Tesla.
“The guy was trying to stay clean,” Curt said.
“Everybody’s trying to stay clean.”
Curt didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
* * *
They drove south on Western, then picked up the 105 pushing west toward Inglewood. Late-night traffic was thin — a few trucks, a few rideshare drivers, the occasional car moving fast enough to suggest someone was late for something or running from something. The city scrolled past the windows in neon and sodium light.
“Manny’s watch repair,” Curt said. “Crenshaw south of the 105.”
“Between a botanica and a tax office.”
“And the SUV with no front plate matches the getaway vehicle from all three hits.”
“Same description. Dark, no plate, tinted windows. Could be coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Logan agreed.
Curt’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, and something changed in his face — not dramatic, just a shade darker.
“Cedars,” he said. “Alyssa Medina. She’s out of surgery. Swelling’s down. They’re cautiously optimistic.” He paused. “Cautiously.”
Logan nodded. He didn’t say anything for a while. The freeway stretched out in front of them, mostly empty, the Tesla’s headlights cutting clean lines through the dark.
“Three robberies, one scout, and now a fence in Inglewood,” Logan said. “The crew’s been running merchandise through this watch repair shop. They scout the locations on the Westside, hit them, move the goods south through Manny. Hit the fence, identify the pipeline, roll it up to the crew.”
“Standard playbook.”
“Standard playbook for smart guys. And these guys are smart. But the fence is always the weak point. Manny knows who’s bringing him the merchandise. He might not know the whole crew, but he knows the delivery man. And the delivery man knows everything.”
They exited the 105 at Crenshaw and turned south. The neighborhood shifted — smaller buildings, older signage, the kind of commercial stretch that had been the same for 30 years and would be the same for 30 more. A liquor store with bars on the windows. A church with a lit cross. An auto body shop with three cars in the lot that would probably still be there next year.
The watch repair shop was on the east side of Crenshaw, mid-block. Logan spotted it without slowing down. Security grate pulled across the front. Dark storefront. A botanica on the left with saints in the window. A tax-prep office on the right — H&R Block knockoff, seasonal, closed for the year. The shop looked like it had been closed for a decade.
But there was a blue television light in the back room, flickering through the gap where the security grate didn’t quite meet the door frame. Someone was home.
And behind the building, visible as Logan passed the side alley: a black SUV. No front plate.
Logan didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Just looked.
“That’s our place,” Curt said.
“Yeah.”
They kept driving. Logan turned west at the next block, looped back toward the freeway. Tomorrow they’d come back in daylight. Run the plates on the SUV — assuming it had rear plates. Check business licenses for the shop. See who Manny was and what he was connected to. Build it before they kicked it.
Tonight was enough. The thread was real.
* * *
Logan dropped Curt at his apartment in Koreatown — a two-bedroom walk-up that looked exactly like what a detective’s salary could afford, which was exactly the point. Curt got out, leaned back in before he closed the door.
“Get some sleep,” Curt said.
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
Logan almost smiled. Curt closed the door and walked inside without looking back.
The drive to the condo was 12 minutes at this hour. Downtown at midnight was a different city — the towers lit up, the streets mostly empty, a few clusters of people outside the bars on Spring Street. Logan pulled into the garage, parked in his spot, and sat in the dark for a moment after the car shut off.
He pulled out his phone. The WLTLH app had 4 notifications — traffic stats, a comment thread, a story trending. He opened it. The trending piece was something his senior writer had filed that afternoon — a deep dive on city council campaign financing that was gaining traction. Good work. Clean sourcing. The kind of thing that would get picked up by the Times or the Daily News by tomorrow afternoon.
Logan typed a quick note to the writer through the encrypted channel — two lines, editorial feedback, a suggestion for a follow-up angle. Then he closed the app and got out of the car.
The condo was cold again. He fixed it, tossed his jacket over a chair, and stood at the window looking at the downtown skyline. The city glittered. Somewhere south of the 105, a watch repair shop was running a side business with merchandise from three Westside robberies, and tomorrow Logan was going to start taking it apart.
He could feel the case in his chest now. The pull. The thing that made Laguna feel like a waiting room and the condo feel like home.
He turned away from the window and went to bed. He wouldn’t sleep much. He never did when a case was pulling.
Chapter Four
The performer was 14 minutes late.
The Confessor sat in the dark sedan, parked between a contractor’s van and a white Escalade, watching the gym through floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the whole place into a fishbowl. He’d been here for an hour and 12 minutes. The coffee in the cupholder was from a Shell on Santa Monica. Nothing precious. The notebook on the passenger seat was open to a page with six lines of handwriting and a time stamp. Physical notebook, not digital. Digital left traces. Digital remembered everything and told anyone who asked.
The gym was the kind of place that charged $200 a month for the privilege of sweating in exposed brick. A converted warehouse on Robertson with black iron fixtures and motivational text stenciled on the walls in a font designed to look hand-painted. The parking lot was leased Range Rovers and G-Wagons and a Porsche Cayenne that somebody had wrapped in matte olive like it was going to war. Everyone who walked through the front door looked like they’d already completed a workout just getting dressed for one.
A woman in matching lavender animal-print activewear crossed the lot carrying a smoothie in one hand and her phone in the other, filming herself walking through the door. Content. Everything was content now.
The performer arrived at 11:14 in a lifted Ram TRX — glossy black, oversized wheels, light bar across the roof that had never seen a dirt road. The truck filled the spot near the entrance so completely that the spaces on either side became theoretical. The correlation between truck size and what it compensated for was the most reliable equation in Los Angeles. A smaller man climbed out of the passenger side carrying a camera bag and a ring light on a collapsible stand. The cameraman. He had the patient, slightly defeated look of someone who’d been documenting another man’s biceps for a living and had made peace with it.
The performer stepped down from the truck and the parking lot got smaller. He was massive — 6-3 at least, 240 pounds of the kind of mass that didn’t come from meal prep and early mornings no matter what the captions said. Capped deltoids, traps that climbed toward his ears, the dense waterlogged look through the chest and arms that certain compounds produced when you pushed them hard enough. He wore a tank top that had been cut to show the maximum amount of shoulder and an expression of practiced ease — the look of a man who knew exactly where every mirror was and adjusted accordingly.
Primal Jack. That was the brand. 2.3 million followers on Instagram. A supplement line, a training app, a $49.99/month program called PRIMAL PROTOCOL that promised the physique in the photos if you just worked hard enough and believed in yourself and bought the stack. His driver’s license said Jack Ralston, age 31, a Riverside kid who’d discovered that the distance between average and extraordinary was about $2,000 a month in chemicals and a good cameraman.
The Confessor watched him cross the lot. The performer stopped at the door to greet someone — a young guy, maybe 19, wearing a PRIMAL JACK tank top he’d probably bought from the merch store. The kid looked nervous. He said something and held up his phone, and the performer broke into the smile — the big one, the one from the thumbnails — and put his arm around the kid’s shoulders and talked to him. Not briefly. A full minute, maybe longer. The kid’s face changed. The performer squeezed his shoulder, took the photo, said something that made the kid laugh, and went inside.
Performance for an audience of one.
The Confessor made a note of the time and turned back to the windows.
Inside, the performer moved through the gym floor like a man walking through his own living room. Nods to the regulars, a fist bump for the guy at the front desk, the cameraman trailing three steps behind with the ring light already set up near the free weights. Between sets, the performer talked into the camera with the rehearsed ease of someone who’d done ten thousand takes. The smile clicked on. The authenticity clicked on. He hit his marks the way an actor hits marks.
The Confessor watched Ralston curl a barbell that no natural lifter his age should be curling for reps. The vascularity in his forearms looked like a road map drawn by someone having a bad day. Trenbolone did that. Trenbolone and testosterone cypionate and 4 IUs of growth hormone daily, administered at a wellness clinic in the Valley that didn’t use real names and took cash. The Confessor had found the clinic through Ralston’s trash — a receipt from a compounding pharmacy, crumpled and tossed in the bin behind his old apartment in West Hollywood. The receipt led to the pharmacy. The pharmacy led to the clinic. The clinic led to a patient file it had no intention of sharing, under the name “Jake Rollins.” Testosterone at 4 times the natural ceiling.
The program. The transformation photos. The supplement stack with his face on the label. Every dollar built on a body that cost thousands a month to maintain and a lie that cost nothing to tell.
He thought about the followers. Not with sympathy — he didn’t carry that particular equipment. But with something adjacent. Recognition, maybe. They were believers. Young men spending money they didn’t have on programs that couldn’t deliver what was promised, measuring themselves against a standard that was chemically impossible, hating their own reflections because the reflection didn’t match the lie. The performer wasn’t just dishonest about himself. He was breaking other people with the dishonesty. Selling them failure dressed as possibility.
That was what made this one matter.
The gym crowd thinned after noon. The performer finished his session — toweled off, checked his phone, spent 10 minutes at the smoothie bar talking to someone the Confessor didn’t recognize. The cameraman packed the ring light into its case with the careful economy of a man who did this 6 days a week. A guy in compression shorts walked past the windows flexing his lat in the reflection. The sun sat high and flat over Robertson, making everything look staged.
The Confessor sat in the car. The notebook was closed. The coffee was cold.
The tightness was back. Behind his ribs, low and steady, the way a headache sits behind your eyes before you fully register it. Not sharp. Not yet. Just present. A hum. He’d felt it rebuilding for the last week, maybe longer, and he’d been waiting for it to settle into something he could name. It hadn’t. It just grew.
He’d found the performer before Kirsch. Two months of research — the clinic, the fake name, the supply chain — mapped and verified while Kirsch’s file was still open. Two targets in development at once. He hadn’t planned it that way. The performer’s trail had simply appeared while he was looking for something else, and once he saw it he couldn’t unsee it. Kirsch first — Kirsch was ready, the foundation’s fiscal year was closing. The performer could wait.
After Kirsch, the quiet had come. Flat and clean, the noise behind everything dialed to nothing. He’d thought it would last — weeks of silence, a manageable rhythm. But the quiet had thinned faster than he expected. The pressure rebuilt before he was ready for it, and when he returned to the performer’s file the hum was already there.
The research was done. The evidence was clean. The supply chain, the clinic, the cash payments, the fake name, the program, the money. He knew all of it. Everything was in the notebook, verified twice, cross-referenced against the performer’s public content for the specific dates and specific lies. There was nothing left to find.
So why wait?
The question felt like efficiency. It sounded like efficiency in his own head. The target was ready. The location was ready. He was ready. Waiting served nothing.
He didn’t examine the question any further than that.
Ralston came out at 12:40. The cameraman carried the equipment bag to the truck and loaded it in the back seat while the performer stood in the parking lot scrolling his phone, the afternoon light catching the sheen of sweat on his arms. An older woman walking a small dog passed on the sidewalk and the performer smiled at her — a real one or a good copy, impossible to tell from 60 yards.
He climbed into the TRX. The truck rumbled to life with the theatrical growl of a machine built to announce itself. It pulled out of the lot and onto Beverly.
The Confessor let it go. He didn’t follow. He didn’t need to.
He knew the ranch. 23 acres off Placerita Canyon Road, north of the 14. Ralston had bought it 18 months ago and turned it into the backdrop for the brand’s next evolution: the authentic life. Connected to the land. Primal. Real. He posted videos of himself chopping wood, feeding horses, walking the property at sunrise with the camera catching the golden hour on his traps. The ranch had cost $1.2 million and the renovation another $400,000, and the only thing primal about any of it was the performer’s willingness to sell the fantasy.
The property layout was simple. A dirt access road off the main road, no gate, no camera, nothing between the highway and the front door but distance. No neighbors within a mile. The performer treated remoteness like security. It wasn’t. His girlfriend kept an apartment in Venice and split her time. He knew her schedule. He knew when she’d be in Venice.
The Confessor started the car. He pulled out of the lot and turned west, away from the direction the truck had gone. The sun pushed through the windshield, flat and bright. Two horses stood in the paddock at the ranch, he knew. They stood around all day looking expensive. Like everything else on the property, their job was to be seen.
He knew the road. He knew the house. He knew which window stayed lit after midnight.
Soon, the performer would tell the truth.
Chapter Five
The Robbery-Homicide squad room smelled like burned coffee and microwave burritos at 8:30 in the morning, which meant nothing had changed since the last time Logan had been here. Fluorescent lights, cluttered desks, a whiteboard along the far wall with case numbers and victim names written in three different colors of dry-erase marker, none of which had been erased in weeks. A detective named Garza was eating a breakfast burrito off a sheet of printer paper at his desk, the salsa already bleeding through onto a stack of interview transcripts underneath. Nobody had mentioned it. Nobody would.
Logan set a Red Bull on the desk he shared with Curt. The station coffee had been sitting on the burner since the previous shift and smelled like pencil shavings and regret. He’d considered it on the way in. For about a second.
Curt was on the phone, writing something on a legal pad with the focused patience of a man who’d been on hold for 20 minutes and had finally gotten a human being. He held up one finger to Logan without looking up. Logan sat down and opened his laptop.
A detective named Navarro — heavyset, mid-40s, the tired face of a man who’d been working Robbery-Homicide for longer than he’d planned — passed behind Logan’s chair on the way to the coffee pot. “Must be nice,” he said, “picking your own disasters.”
Logan didn’t look up.
“Try clearing some first,” Curt said into the phone, then paused. “No, not you — go ahead, I’m listening.”
The detective poured his coffee and walked away. The squad room continued not caring. Somewhere across the floor, a phone rang 6 times before someone picked it up. Someone else was on a cell in the hallway, speaking Spanish fast enough that it sounded like one long word. The particular Monday energy of a division that never fully clocked out.
* * *
Curt hung up — he’d been working the phones since before Logan arrived — and turned to Logan with the legal pad.
“SUV from the drive-by. Black Chevy Tahoe, no front plate like Eddie said. Rear plate came back to a rental out of Hawthorne — rented 3 weeks ago under the name Victor Garza.” Curt glanced across the room at the breakfast-burrito Garza, then back. “Different Garza. I checked. The license and credit card on the rental are both dead ends — fake ID, prepaid Visa, the kind of setup you buy for $200 on Telegram.”
“So the SUV’s a burner.”
“The SUV’s a burner. But here’s the thing.” Curt flipped a page. “I pulled traffic camera footage from the two-block radius around all three robbery locations for the week before each hit, like you asked. The same Tahoe shows up on Melrose 4 days before the boutique job. Parked on a side street, 2 blocks east. And it shows up near the Robertson jeweler 6 days before that hit — same vehicle, same no-front-plate situation.”
“The scout.”
“Has to be. The timing matches, the vehicle matches, and the side-street parking says he knows the area well enough to know where the cameras aren’t. Except he missed the one on the dry cleaner across from Robertson.”
Logan looked at the traffic cam still on Curt’s screen. The image was grainy — nighttime, 100 feet away — but the Tahoe was there. Dark, no front plate, tinted windows. The same vehicle Eddie’s guy had seen behind Manny’s shop.
“Business license on the watch repair?” Logan asked.
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Curt pulled up something on his laptop and turned it toward Logan. “Manuel Reyes, age 54. The shop’s been at that location for 11 years. Clean record — no priors, no complaints, nothing. Not even a parking ticket. He filed taxes every year, reported income consistent with a small repair busin
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