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“You mean something happened?” Densmore was sweating. His body didn’t seem to be able to take in enough oxygen, and he felt dizzy. He looked at Paul’s eyes, remembering an article he had read. The amygdala, an almond-shaped part of the brain, had evolved to detect the signs of fear in another human being. Paul’s amygdala must be overdeveloped and trained to do that—probably what made him love killing. For him the sensation wasn’t like feeling the other person’s fear, it was like tasting it. Paul certainly knew Densmore was afraid, and that had made him stop listening to what Densmore said.

“Something happened,” Paul said. “We were all set up in a room with windows overlooking the DA’s office building. We spotted those two guys five minutes after we got there, and we watched them all night. We thought they were cops.”

“Well, then, if you saw them so easily, what’s the problem?”

Paul reached for his gun so quickly that it looked to Densmore as though it had been under his hand all along. He tugged the slide back to allow a round into the chamber, and moved his wrist slightly to aim at Densmore’s belly.

Densmore’s imagination became godlike. He could see the way the bullet would burst through his skin, through the wall of muscle and plow into the tissues of organs, the shock turning them into blood-soaked pulp, and then out again. He could actually feel a premonition of the pain: the blow, the bullet mushrooming and tearing a path that became an arc through his body, the burning. “If you’re wondering whether that scares me, it does.”

Sylvie gave a pitiless laugh. “You have a lot to be scared of.”

Densmore discovered a surprising reservoir of hatred for Sylvie. Until now he had thought he had a weakness for her.

Paul said, “You told your client who we are. You betrayed us, didn’t you?”

“I—”

“Before you answer that, think. If you open your mouth again and an avalanche of bullshit pours out, you won’t make it.”

“You would do that to me? After eight years?”

Especially after eight years,” Sylvie said. “Answer him.”

“I had to tell this client who you were. I didn’t intend to make you feel more vulnerable. It was a special situation—a unique predicament. He said he wanted me to hire a team to kill Wendy Harper. It had to be the best people, the very best. He offered a high price, but he said he had to be sure of you before the deal was struck. He had to know I wasn’t taking a huge fee and giving a couple of bikers a thousand each. So I complied. It was a considered business decision. This client was not some dry cleaner in the Valley who was pissed off at the guy who owned the mini-mall. He had been a client for years, he was a substantial man, and he had a way to lure Wendy Harper back to Los Angeles. So I made a onetime exception to our policy about how much information we share with clients. Should I have talked to you first and explained what I was going to do and why? In retrospect, I suppose I should have done that. But I knew that if I did, there would be a lot of discussion and soul-searching, and you would eventually come to the conclusion that I had. I knew it was the right decision for everyone—for the client, for you, and for me.”

Sylvie laughed. “Mostly for you, though, huh?”

Densmore was beginning to focus on Sylvie now, and his hatred was consuming a huge part of his consciousness. Paul Turner was pointing a gun at his stomach, and he should be paying attention to him—to preventing his index finger from tightening on the trigger to exert a two-pound pressure. But Sylvie’s contemptuous tone was infuriating. “For all of us,” he said. “I’ve been your advocate in this from the start. I received a very generous offer and selected you for the job instead of someone else. I improved the offer by telling the client about your abilities and accomplishments. Later, when you didn’t finish the job on the first try, it reflected on me and put me in potential danger. Did I blame you or sell you out to the client? No. I made excuses for you and raised the ante, offered you even more money to finish the job.”

Sylvie said, “I’m still stuck thinking about why you thought telling your client about us was the right decision for you. It could get you killed.”

Densmore recognized in her voice the kind of grim amusement that he had heard only in the voices of killers talking about their victims. He was terrified. How could his fate have fallen into the hands of this violence-addicted whore? How could Michael Densmore, the consummate attorney, be failing so miserably to manipulate a woman who had let herself be penetrated every imaginable way by hundreds of men on the theory that it would make her a movie star? He turned his eyes away from her. “Paul, be reasonable. I’ve worked with you for eight years. No client I’ve brought you has ever known a thing about you, or ever been able to utter an incriminating word. I admit I’ve made a mistake. Now what can I do to make this right?”

Paul looked a bit uncertain. “To start, you could make us even. You told the client about us. Who is the client?”

Densmore would not have considered answering the question only a few hours ago, and he might not have done it now if he had been talking only to Paul. But he had heard Sylvie, and he knew that things were worse than he had suspected. If Paul hesitated, Sylvie would goad him into pulling the trigger.

In the instant required to draw in a breath to reply, he formulated a plan for the next few months. He would separate Paul from Sylvie. It would require some care because she had an animal cunning that he had not noticed before, but his strategy was obvious. He would find another woman for Paul. And Paul would never risk stepping into a divorce court with Sylvie. She was too crazy, too likely to say something that would incriminate both of them. She might even try to kill him if he replaced her. So Paul would kill her.

Densmore could hardly wait.

Densmore had to talk quickly now. “Of course, Paul. The client is Scott Schelling.”

“What is he?” It was Sylvie again.

He wanted to ignore her, to speak only to Paul, but he couldn’t let one of her questions hang in the air for fear it would seem to be a refusal to answer. He also couldn’t let her suspect that he hated her. “He’s the president of Crosswinds Records.”

“A music executive?” Sylvie exclaimed. “You sold us out to some little record salesman?”

“I don’t feel that I sold you out, and he isn’t a little record salesman. He’s barely forty now, and he’s already being talked about as a possible contender for CEO of Aggregate Electronics Industries when Ray Klein retires. That’s movies, television, cable companies, and God knows what else. Scott Schelling is a powerful man, and he’s getting more important every day.”

“Well, I never heard of him.”

Densmore had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sarcastic retort. “Scott has always had an understated style, and that’s contributed to his success. The entertainment industry is made up of lunatics and bureaucrats. If you’re smart, you want to be on the side of the people without talent, the bureaucrats. Singers and actors come and go, but executives are forever. He knows that. He’s stayed in the office and out of the spotlight. I think the reason he’s so concerned about Wendy Harper now is that he knows he’s reaching the point where he can’t be invisible anymore. Power and money create celebrity.”

“Why would a man like that be stupid enough to kill his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know. He’s never told me what happened. Six years ago nobody knew or cared about him. He was a third-rank talent manager in a fourth-rate company. Since then Aggregate Electronics bought Crosswinds and fired the president. Then the second in command got a face-saving offer from another company, and here’s young Scott Schelling, the meek inheriting the earth. Only he wasn’t meek. He had great influence with certain elements of the music business. I’m referring to the talent that came out of street gangs and jails. Crosswinds is hugely profitable.”