“Sure. When do you want me?”
“Now, if you can.”
I look down at Briar. She’s shifted slightly, and a piece of her blonde hair is curling silkily against my chest, fluttering as she breathes in and out. “Send me the address.”
I get washed and dressed quickly. When I step into the suite’s living room, Kenta is sitting awake at the breakfast bar, his gun by his elbow, reading a book. He glances up at me as I grab my jacket and wallet.
“Going somewhere?”
“Anfisa called. Thinks they’ve got a lead.”
He nods, turning a page. “Bring coffee on your way back.”
I’ve worked with the FBI plenty of times before, mostly when we were protecting US political figures. All of their offices look pretty much the same: grey walls, grey carpets, and desks jammed too close to each other. People in cheap shirts and suits hunched over their computer screens. Even though it’s early morning, the LA office is pretty full. No one pays me any notice, lost in their work.
“Matvey.”
I turn to see Anfisa, holding two takeaway cups of coffee. She looks exactly the same as when I last saw her—tired-looking, black hair scraped back in a bun, dressed in a dark trouser suit. “Anfisa,” I greet. “Do you only own one set of clothes?”
“I don’t think you are in any place to judge my fashion sense,” she says briskly, breezing past me and opening the door to her office with her hip. “Inside. I think you’re going to be very interested in what we found.”
I glance around her office as I step inside. It’s bare. A desk covered in papers, empty shelves, blank walls. The only decoration I can see is a picture of her late husband tacked over the door. I sit down.
Anfisa smiles at me tightly as she slides a paper cup of coffee over the desk. “It’s swill,” she warns.
“Used to it. What did you find?”
She settles in her desk chair. “You know Thomas Petty?”
I nod. “I’ve already assessed him, I’m pretty sure he’s not a suspect.”
She purses her lips. “I’d say we can definitively cross him off the list. He had a petrol bomb thrown into the first floor of his LA residence at two AM this morning.”
“Shit.” I rub the back of my head. “He okay?”
“His property is heavily damaged, but he’s fine.” She opens a file and pulls out a glossy A4 photograph, sliding it across the table to me. “The assailant got away before we arrived, but left this pinned on the windshield of Mr Petty’s car.”
I examine the photo. It’s the cover of a gossip magazine. The headline emblazoned across the top of the page reads:
THE FEUD CONTINUES?? Sources claim that Briar Saint and Thom Petty are still unfriendly thirteen years after cheating scandal.
Underneath is a blown-up paparazzi shot of Briar and Thom awkwardly talking at the charity gala.
Thom’s eyes have both been crossed out in felt-tip.
“Christ.”
She pushes another photograph across the table, this time of the back of the magazine page. Scrawled in black marker are the words,You hurt her.
“That’s his handwriting,” I say immediately.
“Almost a definite match,” she agrees. “A bit sloppier, which suggests he was in a rush, or maybe under the influence. But it’s distinctly him.” She sits back. “I contacted Angel Security and spoke to one of your cyber intelligence workers. Two minutes before the attack, Briar’s Facebook page received another message from an anonymous account.” Her eyes flick down to the file. “‘This is for you. Happy birthday, angel. X’It’s her birthday today?”
“As of midnight.”
She nods. “Thomas and Briar have a history of animosity, don’t they?”
“I don’t know the full story. They dated as teenagers. He says that she cheated on him. She says she didn’t.”
