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That’s not the answer I was expecting.

“Come here,” he says.

We go to his desk. He touches the space bar on his laptop to wake it up, and types a URL into the browser. A second later, a page appears. It’s for the Evermore Creatives Group. The logo, the exact shape of Death’s brand, is at the top of the page with the agency’s name. I stare at the page, trying to figure it out. Trying to find Tamerlan’s angle. How he’s tricking me.

I type in a few more URLs and they all come up on real pages that I recognize. I put the agency’s name into a search engine. When I check the results, they take me back to the page Tamerlan showed me. Death’s mark and Townsend’s body’s big secret is that he was probably some kind of small-­time actor.

I say, “What kind of talent agency brands its clients?”

“Why don’t you go break into their fucking place and leave me alone?”

This is bad. Was I this wrong the whole time? Is he really just a Mr. Moneybags creep and not the secret boss of the White Lights? He won’t tell me about Wormwood, so he could be lying. Or maybe there’s something about Wormwood that scares him the way he scares his minions. I think I just wasted a lot of time and hoodoo on nothing. I haven’t been this wrong about anything since I bought a Genesis album because I was drunk and I thought the lady with the fox head on the cover was kind of hot.

Tamerlan claps me on the shoulder and sits down behind the desk.

“Holy shit, thanks for coming tonight, Stark. With ­people not dying and business being off, I needed a good laugh.”

I look at him.

“Aren’t you worried about what’s going to happen to you when you die? You must have pissed off a lot of dead ­people in your time. Some of them will be waiting for you in Hell.”

“I’m not worried,” he says. “A little bird told me that some do-­gooder changed Hell all around. Made it nice for ­people. He even opened the door so souls can go to Heaven. The way I figure it, anyone who might have been waiting for my ass won’t be there to give me grief. And who knows? I might like Hell with all the riffraff cleared out. I could set up business there. Cut deals with necromancers back here to get souls and information for them.”

He aims a finger at me.

“That’s what I mean about you not thinking like a businessman. What you think of as death and damnation, I see as another capital opportunity.”

I’m having trouble taking in all the ways I’ve fucked up in the last few days. Am I missing something? Is Tamerlan dancing around me, hiding his White Light connections? If he is, I’m goddamn sure not going to find them right now. I need to get clear and think.

I go to his humidor and take one of his cigars, put it in my pocket. I could kill Tamerlan right now and no one would weep for the bastard. But I’m not going to do that, on the off chance that he really isn’t involved in the case. Besides, I don’t have to. ­People like Tamerlan, sharp guys who think they have all the angles covered, eventually end up playing fast and loose with the wrong ­people. All I have to do is sit back and wait and watch. He’ll dig his own grave.

“Thanks for the cigar,” I say.

“Thanks for the good time tonight. I can’t wait to tell the boys all about it.”

“You do that.”

I sidestep to the right and go back into the storm. Walk through a wall and back outside, leaving Tamerlan stuck in his doorless, windowless office. Fuck him and his mansion. Let his dog boys chisel him out.

I go back to the car and drive home. The only thing worse than having Tamerlan laugh in my face is knowing I’m going to have to tell Julie about it without making myself sound too stupid.

I toss his cigar out the window.

“YOU DID WHAT?”

Julie is shouting. I’ve never heard her shout before. It isn’t a pleasant sound, especially when the shouting is aimed at me.

“I talked to Tamerlan last night.”

“He just let you into his home in the middle of the night?”

“Eventually.”

“You mean you broke in.”

“Technically, I walked in.”

“But you weren’t invited, so it’s still breaking and entering.”