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off her. ‘You okay?’
    ‘I think I might have broken my ankle.’
    Lock crouched next to her as she rolled onto her side. She didn’t seem like a woman accustomed to physical pain, which meant he was fairly sure her ankle was likely sprained. If you broke a bone, you knew about it. Unless you were on drugs or drunk there was very little ‘might have’ involved.
    ‘Stay down,’ barked Lock, rolling off Tarian, who was clutching at her ankle. ‘Cops will be here soon.’
    ‘They’re moving,’ Ty shouted, one long leg over the balcony, ready to make the drop.
    ‘I’m coming,’ said Lock, springing to the balcony, and following Ty over the edge. The grass below made the drop of sixteen feet manageable.
    Ty was already off and moving, gun drawn, toward the opposite apartment block. Lock dropped into a modified Weaver stance, his SIG punched out ahead of him, and scanned the territory, ready to provide covering fire.
    Ty made it to the edge of the apartment block, and Lock sprinted to join him. He ran in a slightly irregular zigzag pattern to make the shooter’s job harder, but they were nowhere to be seen.
    They reached the metal grille where the shots had come from. Beyond it was the parking structure. A couple of car alarms wailed in protest, no doubt triggered by the fleeing gunman.
    They skirted around the edge of the building. Steps down to a door that opened into the garage. Lock pulled the door open. Ty spun through first, and gun-faced the empty space. Lock followed. He kicked out his heel to slow the closing door. It closed with a gentle click. They stood in the semi-gloom and listened. There were four rows of cars, each row two-thirds occupied by vehicles. Facing them was an elevator for residents who didn’t want to take the stairs.
    Slowly, Lock and Ty moved through the vehicles. There was no sign of anyone. On the other side of the parking lot, there was another set of stairs, and another door that led out to the other side of the block. The shooter would have had plenty of time to make it there before they arrived.
    They walked toward it. Took the steps, opened the door and stepped out into bright sunshine. Azure blue water lapped gently against the boats tied up in the marina. Nothing and no one stirred. Besides the wail of sirens in the near-distance, everything was perfectly quiet.
     
     

16
     
    Although two shots had been fired, including one that looked like it had been aimed at Tarian Griffiths’s head, the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department didn’t seem all that interested. The two officers who had responded went through the motions, but that was about it. Extra units arrived to search the complex for the gunman; they interviewed everyone present and took pictures. When that was done, they hooked their thumbs into their belts and began to study the carpet.
    Lock wasn’t entirely surprised. The empty apartment was a crime scene without a victim. There was no blood, no sign that anyone had been so much as injured, never mind killed. The only damage had been to the glass doors, the wall, and Tarian’s ankle, which appeared to be sprained rather than fractured.
    The possible involvement or whereabouts of Marcus Griffiths didn’t seem to trouble them much either. Given that his mother had spoken to him not so long ago, he couldn’t be considered a missing person. When it came to someone who had reached the age of majority, a certain amount of time had to elapse before the police would even register them as missing. As far as law enforcement was concerned, it added up to a bunch of not very much. If they’d found Marcus dead, or Lock hadn’t taken Tarian to the floor and she’d been shot, it would have been a very different story. But he wasn’t dead, and she hadn’t been shot, and cops didn’t get overly excited with things that might have happened. Hypothetical mayhem wasn’t popular with prosecutors and thus tended to be unworthy of court time.
    Lock, on the other hand, had