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“You’ve had a good time poking me with a stick lately, haven’t you? All the weird shit that’s been going on.”

He brightens.

“You actually watch the news? Good. We had a bet about that too.”

“I’m talking about the massacre at the fried-chicken truck.”

He laughs briefly.

“Yes, that was us. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize the truck. You were so preoccupied last time you saw it.”

“And the kids in Malibu?”

“Of course. Teddy Osterberg wasn’t one of us, but he wanted to be. This was our way of bringing him into the fold.”

“Where did they get the Dixie?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Charlie Anpu?”

He eases back into the chair. Crosses his legs.

“Charles does enjoy his pills.”

“What’s black milk?”

He ticks it off on his fingers.

“Two parts gin. One part vermouth. A dash of bitters.”

This is a waste of time.

I flick the na’at once more, putting it straight through Burgess’s skull. Leave him dead in his chair and head downstairs.

Part of the security team is already back by the pool, sweeping the grounds.

I go to the front window. Get out the Colt and fire four shots through the glass. The pool guards sprint around the side of the house. The ones in the front burst in through the front door. I’m already headed out the back, not climbing the sidewall this time, but the one in the rear.

I drop into a neighbor’s yard and climb out a street over. If they see anything out the window, all it will be is Geoff Burgess strolling across their backyard in the middle of the night.

I keep the glamour on while I circle back to where I parked my bike. I should have known Burgess wouldn’t come around. But I know someone who I think will. I gun the hog and head to Brentwood.

BY THE GATES of Anpu’s walled community, I wish for the millionth time in a month that I had the Room of Thirteen Doors back. Now I have to do things the hard way.

These gated communities used to have guards at the gate. Now it’s all key cards and surveillance. I blow that out with some hoodoo and knock one of the gates loose enough to squeeze through.

Anpu’s place is on a cul-de-sac a couple of blocks up from the entrance. I could break in, but instead I ring the front door. And keep ringing it.

A couple of minutes later a voice comes through an intercom.

“Who the hell is it?”

“It’s me.”

“Who the hell is that?”

There’s a camera lens on the intercom. I step in front of it so Charlie can get a good look at Burgess’s face.