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“So you say. The mind is complicated, Victor. Sometimes it holds things at bay until it can’t anymore.” He sets down his pen. “What’s your caseload like? Still working yourself to the bone?”

“I’ve taken on a high-profile case. The Black Dahlia murder.”

Wheeler’s eyebrows lift. “No wonder you’re having episodes. The whole city’s on edge about that one. Stress can do terrible things to a man, especially one with your history.”

“So that’s your diagnosis? Stress?”

“For now.” He reaches into his desk drawer, withdrawing a small bottle of pills. “These might help with the anxiety, make it easier to sleep. But honestly? What you need is rest. Step back from the case. Have some fun. Take a vacation. Fall in love.”

I pocket the pills, knowing I won’t take them. Dulling my senses seems dangerous right now, when I need every faculty sharp.

“Thanks, Doc,” I say, rising to leave.

He stops me at the door. “Victor. If the blackouts continue, or if you find yourself with…violent impulses, come back immediately. There are treatments, facilities that can help.”

The warning in his eyes is clear. He thinks I’m at risk of snapping, of becoming one of those veterans who make the papers for all the wrong reasons. If he only knew what I’ve already done.

Back at my apartment, I sit by the phone, staring at it like it might bite. I should call Norma, check in at the office. I should call Coleman, see if Marco’s disappearance has been reported yet. Instead, I find myself dialing Lena’s number, my guilt be damned.

She answers on the third ring, her voice sending an electric current down my spine—that same voice that had cried out my name in last night’s dream.

“Hello?”

“It’s Callahan,” I say, my voice sounding rough.

She lets out a shaky exhale, then: “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know. I got your messages.” Three of them, all asking me to call, each more urgent than the last. “I’ve been…following leads.”

“We need to talk,” she says, and something in her tone sets my nerves on edge. No one ever likes to hear that phrase. “Can you meet me?”

“When?”

“Tonight. Seven p.m. Drinks at Hotel Culver City.”

I check my watch. Just past noon. “I’ll be there.”

“Victor,” she says, using my first name for the first time that I can recall. “Be careful coming over. You might be watched. Mickey’s people are looking for Marco. He’s…missing.”

So it’s begun. The search for the missing enforcer.

“I’ll be careful,” I promise.

“Good.” Another pause. “And Callahan? I’m glad you’re alright.”

The line clicks dead before I can respond, leaving me with the unsettling impression that she knows more than she’s letting on. Does she suspect me? Has she somehow pieced together what happened to Marco?

I dress carefully—fresh shirt, tie, my second-best suit. The gun goes into its shoulder holster, a comforting weight beneath my jacket. I check my reflection in the mirror, noting the dark circles under my eyes, the hollowness in my cheeks. I look like a man hanging on by his fingernails.

I feel like one too.

The Culver Hotel rises like a flatiron from its triangular lot, six stories of Renaissance Revival architecture that once housed the likes of Clark Gable and Joan Crawford and the entire cast of the Wizard of Oz. Now it caters to a more modest clientele—traveling businessmen, minor celebrities from the nearby Culver Studios, people who want discretion without ostentation.

When I arrive, Lena is already seated in the hotel bar at a table by the fireplace, a glass of something amber before her. She wears a dark green dress that makes her red hair seem even more vibrant as it waves down her back, a slash of crimson lipstick the only other color in her ensemble.

She looks like sin personified.

“You came,” she says as I slide into the seat opposite her.