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years. He and Leah, back when they were married, had hosted Ralph for dinner at their house. Bear knew a lot about him. He was single. Late thirties. Myers was smart as hell, ambitious. He volunteered for dangerous and sticky assignments, and had spent a lot of years in the Middle East, including Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
    Huh. Suddenly it occurred to Bear to wonder. Was Ralph agency? Did this have something to do with the CIA?
    Bear walked on further. On the left side of the hall, in the alcove across from the Thompsons’ doorway, was a large bloodstain. Leah’s blood. She’d taken two bullets and probably looked dead to the attackers when they busted through the door into the Thompsons.
    What happened after that was … less clear.
    The first attacker didn’t make it through the front door, and the reason was clear enough. His gun-hand had been removed at the wrist with a large meat-cleaver. When they ran the fingerprints they got an immediate hit from the military database. Dylan Paris’s fingerprints were on the knife, which was partially embedded in the wall.
    The second attacker made it into the condo, but not much further. Another knife—this was a sharp, fourteen-inch kitchen knife—was embedded in the man’s back. He lay on the ground, arms splayed out, in the middle of the living area. He had a shoulder holster under his coat, but no weapon.
    Presumably, after Dylan killed both attackers, he took their weapons. But there were a lot of unexplained questions here. Who were the attackers? Who were they after? Presumably Andrea Thompson, but what was she up to? After the assorted dead bodies, the second big surprise in this investigation was the discovery of four kilos of cocaine in Andrea’s room, along with a lot of cash. The cash and the cocaine were out on the floor, and the cash had been tampered with.
    Who did it belong to? Andrea?
    Bear didn’t buy it. But it looked bad. Especially after she apparently abandoned Dylan and busted through the apartment below in an effort to get away from the gunmen.
    If it hadn’t been for the insider, it looked very much like Andrea’s kidnapping—and the subsequent attacks—had to do with some kind of drug war more than anything else.
    Which made absolutely no sense at all, unless she was working for someone else.
    If so, that was one cool actress. He’d seen her right after she was rescued from the kidnapping. And not in a million years would he believe she’d been faking the shock and terror of that experience.
    But something was clearly wrong here, and the Thompson sisters were right in the middle of it.
     

Julia. May 1. 11:30 pm Pacific
    Julia Wilson ran her fingers through her hair. She was frustrated. It was eleven-thirty, and she and Crank had been at the Hall of Justice, the headquarters of the San Francisco police, for hours. She was more than a little bit tired of being stuck there, answering questions hour after hour.
    For the last forty-five minutes, she’d been left alone. That didn’t fit well with Julia’s normal mode of operating. As the manager of one of the most successful bands in the world and the CEO of her own company, Julia didn’t spend time cooling her heels waiting on other people. So less than five minutes after her questioners left the last time, she’d gotten up and walked to the door to demand that the questioning be brought to an end.
    That was when she discovered that the door was locked.
    Julia didn’t panic. She didn’t raise hell, or bang on the door, or yell. Instead, cold as ice, she turned and walked from the door and sat back down at the small table. She sat with her back straight, one knee crossed over the other, and she stared at the mirror prominently placed on the wall.
    She waited. Minutes went by, then more. She resisted the urge to take out her phone. She’d already received a text message from Carrie with the most essential information. Carrie, Rachel, Sarah and Alexandra were under protective custody