Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner Page A

records of Brand’s fraud. Even if he wiped his hard drive, Mako will have backups or a server that keeps their records. But you should hurry, because if he gets wind that we’re onto him, his friends there might try to destroy the proof.’’
    Chris said, ‘‘We? Your surveillance is off. Kaput. Finito.’’
    Adam said, ‘‘No. Brand might decide to run.’’
    ‘‘We’re on it.’’
    A deep voice said, ‘‘Detective,’’ and Lt. Clayton Rome walked up to Chris’s desk. ‘‘What’s going on?’’
    Rome was crisp, buffed, growly—a man who presented himself as though he were a police motorcycle. His buttons and belt buckle gleamed. His black hair gleamed. His teeth gleamed. He listened to Chris explain the situation, and stared at us, rubbing a finger alongside his nose.
    ‘‘Okay, we’ll take it from here.’’ He gestured at me. ‘‘You give a statement about the assault at the motel?’’
    ‘‘It’s being typed up,’’ I said.
    ‘‘And you’re done playing vigilante?’’
    ‘‘Certainly.’’ I avoided Chris’s eyes.
    Rome looked at Adam. ‘‘I’m sorry about the loss of your brother. We’ll give this our complete effort.’’ He sighed at Jesse and patted him on the shoulder. ‘‘Hang in there, son.’’
    He walked away. Jesse let his condescension go without comment.
    I said, ‘‘The blond man at the Biltmore, the one who gave Brand the minidisk. What does he have to do with all of this?’’
    Chris stared at the disk for a moment. ‘‘Mickey Yago.’’
    ‘‘Pardon?’’
    He looked up. ‘‘The blond’s name is Mickey Yago. He’s from L.A., and he’s a career criminal. He is not a person you three want to have any contact with.’’
    Jesse said, ‘‘What kind of career criminal?’’
    ‘‘Narcotics, porn, extortion. He’s sly, and he’s violent, and he doesn’t work alone. Stay away from him.’’
    I crossed my arms. We were all staring at Chris.
    I said, ‘‘Who does he work with? Franklin Brand?’’
    ‘‘That’s under investigation. I’m telling you this to help you protect yourselves.’’
    ‘‘At the motel Brand asked if Mickey sent me, if I was one of his flunkies,’’ I said. ‘‘Who are Mickey’s flunkies, Chris? The fat man and skinny girl in the Mercedes SUV who stole my wallet?’’
    Chris tapped his pencil against the desk.
    I said, ‘‘You have any more names for us to stay away from?’’
    ‘‘Fine. Win Utley and Cherry Lopez. These are all people you should be vaccinated against; I’m not kidding.’’ His face looked strained. ‘‘Brand killed your brother, Dr. Sandoval, and he . . . Jesse, he did this to you. Now you bring me evidence that perhaps he did it intentionally.’’
    Adam said, ‘‘He did.’’
    ‘‘My point,’’ Chris said, ‘‘is that Brand may be more dangerous than we thought. And he may be connected to people who regard violence as ordinary business.’’
    My mind jumped forward on the playlist. Porn. Extortion. ‘‘Is Mickey Yago involved with the attempt to threaten Jesse?’’
    Chris pointed a finger at me. ‘‘A warning, Evan. Brand may come after you for the disk.’’
    ‘‘You think he’ll find out who I am?’’
    ‘‘I would take the possibility seriously.’’ His eyes were solemn. ‘‘Be wary.’’
    After signing my statement, I walked out into the gray morning. Across the street, the white walls of the courthouse blended into the gloom. I felt as though I’d grabbed an exposed electric wire.
    Jesse and Adam were waiting on the corner. Adam was running a hand across his short hair, staring at the sidewalk.
    When I walked up I heard him asking, ‘‘Will Ramseur follow through?’’
    Jesse said, ‘‘Yeah, because I’ll pester him.’’
    Adam gazed into the distance. ‘‘I can’t . . .’’ He fingered his crucifix. ‘‘I have no words to tell you how . . . appalled I feel that—’’
    ‘‘Stop.’’
    ‘‘You were injured so badly because