We Know

He nodded good job and spoke while he scribbled. "You did us a favor three nights ago, and I'd like to repay it before you learn what hardball is."

He tilted the pad to me. We put it in this morning.

"I've played hardball. I was scholarship material." So why warn me?

He paused from scribbling, scratching his nose above the jag where it bent left, a gold cuff link peeking into view. "You could've been a contender. But that was a long time ago." Problem. Mole in the department.

"You just pop by to Dr. Phil me, or do you have something useful to say?" I circled Who? twice, emphatically.

"It's come to our attention that you've been looking into matters as pertain to the San Onofre incident. Is that true?" Don't know. Major sting in works. Answers soon.

"Not in the least. You'd think guys in the intel business would get their facts straight." Mole for who?

"For a disinterested guy, you're opening a lot of old doors." Not sure.

"I guess almost dying in a fiery nuclear blast can serve as a wake-up call. I'm reassessing some things." Whole Service compromised?

"You're not digging around where you shouldn't be?" Extent unclear.

"Not that it's any of your goddamned business, but no." Is Sever dirty?

"Keep it that way." I can't protect you. Stay away.

He tucked the pad under his arm and got out, slamming the door. I watched him walk away until he disappeared into the shadows of the overhang.

Chapter 23

After bucking Sunset traffic for forty nerve-grinding minutes, I pulled up to the Hyatt a hair before seven. I valeted and took in the trendy stretch of the Strip. Next door, people were already lined up for the Comedy Store, and across the street thin women in strappy dresses and chunky heels teetered into SkyBar, laughing into cell phones too small to see.

After the gym I'd returned to the spy shop and bought a magnetometer wand, feeling unsettled at my growing kit of implements of paranoia. In an alley by my building, I'd wanded down the truck as I'd seen Frank do so many times and found, embedded in my visor mirror, the digital transmitter that Wydell had warned me about. I'd taped the bug to the wheel well of a neighbor who always complained to me when our mail got mixed up.

The Hyatt had been tarted up in keeping with its hipster surroundings. I moved swiftly through the slick lobby and mounted the broad steps to the mezzanine. I could feel the pitch of tension rising inside me, prickling my skin. Ducking into the bathroom, I splashed water on my face. A sign by the paper-towel rack urged workers to wash their hands. It was written in Spanish only. I found that presumptuous.

At the right edge of the mezzanine, a glossy sign on an easel announced OPAQUE, A UNIQUE DINING EXPERIENCE. A number of well-dressed couples chattered nervously on modern couches, but no one seemed to be waiting for me. Arty black-and-white photos of L.A. cityscapes punctuated the hall beyond.

I walked over to the podium. A calligraphic sign next to a stainless tray said, Please check cell phones and pagers here, and a number of customers had. A handsome man with a blond goatee glanced up from the reservation book.

"Hi. I'm Nick Horrigan. I'm not sure-"

"Yes, we're expecting you." A firm accent, Swiss or German. "Jocelyn will lead you to your table."

"Lead?"

A heavyset black woman shuffled over, skimming a hand along the wall, smiling a bit too broadly. As she neared, I saw the vacant stare and realized she was blind. The host took my hand and hers and joined them with odd, New Age ceremony. Sliding my hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder, Jocelyn turned away, leading me, and asked, "How are you doing tonight, sir?"

"Baffled." We came around the corner and whisked through a heavy velvet curtain into an unlit, narrow corridor comprised of more curtains stretching up to the high ceiling. The velvet behind us whispered back into place, leaving us in total darkness.

No visible exits, no easy escape route. My worst nightmare.

I broke a sweat, debated a retreat. Jocelyn, of course, took no notice. My concern rising with every step, I followed her through another curtain into what felt like a larger space. My heightened senses picked up faint giggles, rings knocking against wineglasses, the smell of charred meat.

I'd blundered into a conceptual dining experience, an evergreen Los Angeles trend. The crap they dreamed up to justify twenty-dollar cocktails-aquarium-tank floors, fruit-infused shochu bars, scorpion toast served within eyeshot of Santa Monica Airport's private runways. And now darkness. You could slit someone's throat over a glass of Syrah in here and never disrupt the atmospherics.

I balked.