I fumbled around on the nightstand but couldn’t find it. I sat up and realized it wasn’t in the room. I found the phone on the dining room table next to my gun.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Braddock?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“This is Beth from UCSD Trauma. The chart said to call this number if there was any status change with Patient Hamm.”

My stomach tightened. “Right. How is he?”

“He’s awake.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

I skipped my morning session on the lonely water and made the drive to UCSD in twenty-five minutes. Beth directed me to Carter’s room and told me I only had fifteen minutes to talk with him.

His head rolled in my direction when I entered. He was stretched out on an uncomfortable-looking bed, a pale blue blanket pulled up to his waist. A tube snaked its way into his bare chest, an IV line making its way into each of his arms. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. An oxygen tube curled into his nostrils.

He tried to smile anyway. “Dude.”

I pulled a chair from under the window over next to the bed. “Dude yourself.”

His eyes did a slow take around the room and then landed back on me. “This sucks.”

“I’ll say.”

He swallowed hard. “Doctor said I’m going back to surgery this morning.”

“Why?”

“Bullets and shit still in me.”

“I’m sorry, Carter.”

He stared at me for a second, his eyes trying to focus. “Why? Did you shoot me?”

“No. But I got you into this.”

He swallowed again and grunted. “Shut up, dude. You didn’t do anything.”

“You knew Costilla was bad news. Liz told me stay away. I didn’t listen to either of you.”

Carter looked at each of his arms, then the tube in his chest. “I look like a giant slurpee, bunch of fucking straws in me.”

“Carter, I’m sorry,” I said, a mixture of worry and guilt churning inside of me.

He wheezed a little and looked at me again. “Noah?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

I figured I could badger him with my guilt another time. “Okay.”

He shut his eyes. “Know who it was yet?”

“No. Liz was here last night. They have the one I hit, but nobody else yet.”

“He talking?”

“Not as of last night. But Ken Crier told me a few things.”

He opened his eyes and shifted his head in my direction. “Like what?”

I told him about the heroin and Randall.

“Jesus,” he said when I finished. “Kate was moving in different circles, huh?”

“I guess.”

“You gonna go see Randall?”

“Yup,” I said, his name lighting a fire in my gut.

“Can’t it wait till I’m out?” he said, trying to smile. “I’d love to get a piece of that guy.”

“You know me,” I told him. “I’m impatient. And little pieces might be all that’s left when I’m done with him.”

He started to laugh, changed it to a grunt, suddenly looking exhausted.

The door to the room opened and a nurse informed us that it was time for me to go, as Carter needed to be prepped for surgery.

I stood. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Good. Bring me some beer and a burrito.”

I glanced at the nurse by the door, the stern look on her face saying not a chance.

I looked back at Carter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I headed toward the door.

“Noah?”

I stopped. “Yeah?”

He squeezed one eye shut, kept the other bloodshot eye on me. “Kick his ass.”

30

I called the La Valencia Hotel from my cell phone, but got no answer at Randall’s hotel room. I drove into La Jolla, parked on Ivanhoe, grabbed a bagel from a deli, and sat on the curb across the street from the hotel.

I kept running my conversation with Ken over in my head, trying to put the pieces together so that they fit a little more snugly. The biggest missing piece was figuring out why Kate would cover for Randall. I couldn’t find a reason to take a hit like that for someone, particularly if their marriage was already imploding.

The other question that bothered me was where Kate had gone after the DEA lost her in Tijuana. She’d been missing for seventy-two hours when I’d found her. What had Costilla’s men done with her in that time? It was simple to assume that Costilla’s men had killed her. But the one thing that stuck in my head was that leaving her body in Mexico would have been much easier, and harder to find. Why bring her back over to the United States?

I finished the bagel and tugged on that thought until Randall appeared, walking up the other side of Prospect. His plaid short-sleeve button down, white shorts, and tan boat shoes were standard issue if you were going for a walk in La Jolla.

I crossed the street quickly and cut him off before he reached the hotel.

He didn’t look happy to see me. “What the hell do you want?”

“A small bag of heroin. Got any on you?”

The blood drained from his face, and he took a step back.

“Guess not,” I said. “Then I guess a private conversation with you will have to do for now.”

“I’m not talking to you,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

I slipped my gun out of the back of my shorts and held it casually in front of me. “Then I’m going to shoot you.”

He took another step back, but I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him toward me, jamming the barrel of the gun into his stomach.

“Choose,” I said, our faces inches apart. “Right now. Talk or get shot.”

Randall was a big guy who I’d managed to reduce to a little puddle of fear. I hated him for it.

“Okay,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Talk. I’ll talk.”

I slipped the gun back into my waistband, and we walked into the hotel and took the elevator up to his room. He pressed himself up against the far wall of the enclosed space as we rode. I stared at him.

His room was at the top, a magnificent view of the ocean out his window and balcony. The room was bright and large. A wet bar stood in one corner, and Randall went over to it.

“Drink?” he asked.

“No,” I said, standing in front of the doors to the balcony in case he wanted to throw himself over it. If he got any wild ideas, like trying to charge at me, I knew I had enough space between us to draw my gun.

He dropped some ice cubes into a glass and poured four fingers of Scotch over the ice. He sucked half of it down immediately, then took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Why did Kate take the hit for you?” I asked.

He swirled the ice and alcohol in his glass. “What hit?”

I grabbed the small digital clock off the nightstand, ripped the plug out of the wall, and fired it at him.

He ducked and it sailed over his left shoulder, smashing against the wall.

He came up, flushed. “Jesus!”

“I talked to Ken,” I said, the anger and frustration pouring out of me. “He explained to me exactly what kind of piece of shit you are.” I walked toward him. “You wanna drag this out? Fine. I will keep throwing things at you until you tell me what the hell was going on.”

He took a step back and bumped into the counter behind him. His eyes were twitchy and he looked like he was trying to make a decision.