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those, too.
    I kept digging for three hours, and as I did, several pictures took shape about SolCon, Natalia, and DiMarco. DiMarco’s accessible network was pretty straightforward, and I got most of what I wanted. I was surprised, however, to run into not one but two inner networks at SolCon that my system shied away from. The first was heavy-duty encryption, and the second involved security protocols much beefier than any run-of-the-mill chemical company required. My digging still unearthed a great deal of data, but the pictures were not complete. I also added a new name to add to the list of players—Pyotr Nikolov, head of SolCon’s U.S. operations. As I read, a dangerous picture of the Russian formed—more sketch than picture, but he was clearly into a lot of shit. I wasn’t after him, though. I wanted DiMarco. Finally, with every reasonable search-point for DiMarco accessed, the screens stopped flashing.
    “End left and right,” I said as I breathed deeply, trying to make sense of all the data. I’d culled a lot of data, even for me. The boxes disappeared, leaving the original logos. I removed the circlet and returned it to its cubbyhole. “Close panel.”
    The monitors went black as the panel silently folded back into place. I turned, walked out onto the patio, and stood next to the fountain. I stared fondly at the sky for several long minutes, wishing I could see the stars beyond the glow of Los Angeles. I sat down, crossed my legs and positioned myself comfortably, palms resting on my knees. I closed my eyes and began processing the data roiling through my skull.
    For two hours, I sat motionless. Eventually, my internal clock told me it was eight-thirty. I went back into my room, got dressed in the clothes from the night before, and walked out into the kitchen.
    Draping my coat over a tall chair in front of the breakfast counter, I pulled out the makings for omelets. I chopped up everything I needed and set some orange juice on the counter just in time to see Natalia walking down the hall in the clothes she’d worn the night before. She carried Xen’s sneakers.
    “Good morning!” I said cheerily. “Sleep well?”
    “Like the dead,” she replied. “And good morning to you, too. Breakfast?” She sat in the chair next to my coat and dropped the sneakers on the floor.
    “If you like omelets, it is.” I turned around and ignited two burners of the gas stove. I pulled down two small skillets from the hanging rack and placed them on the blue flame. A splash of oil went into each, and then I turned to face Natalia. I poured juice into both glasses, handed one to her and added three teaspoons of sugar to my own, mixing it up with a spoon. “SolCon is a front,” I said bluntly.
    She looked at me, mouth agape, but she quickly regained her composure. Wary, her eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch and shoulder muscles tightened. I watched gears start to turn behind her eyes.
    “What makes you say that?” she said as she picked up her glass.
    “Let’s just say I did more than sleep last night.”
    “A front for what … or who?”
    I smiled at her, enjoying the façade. “Four layers back sits Solntsevskaya,” I explained. “In Russia they’re the biggest boys on the block, aren’t they? I mean, they go way beyond ‘mob,’ right?”
    I could see that she knew I was dead on. A barely perceptible look of impressed fear fluttered across her face as she sized me up.
    “Yes,” she said quietly, exploring my face over the lip of the glass. She set the glass down and placed her hands under the counter.
    “What I can’t figure out is why SolCon would be paying Xen to research a new dry cleaning fluid that has no other application,” I said, giving her my best confused look.
    “Diversification.”
    Plausible , I thought. I knew SolCon had already developed the advanced tetrachloroethylene product for abatement—and body disposal, if the truth be told.
    “Really?” I said a bit suspiciously. “SolCon