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Jane was on her feet.
    Patty nodded. “Some important agent from D.C. is going to be here at four, too. He’s already on his way.”
     
    Jules Cassidy hated L.A.
    He hated it for the usual reasons—the relentless traffic jams, the unending sameness of the weather, and the air of frantic, fear-driven competition that ruled the city. It was as if all four million inhabitants were holding their breath, terrified that if they were on the top, they’d fall; if they were climbing, they wouldn’t make it; and if they were at the bottom, they’d never get their big break.
    It was called the City of Angels, but the folks who gave it that name had neglected to mention that the particular angels who lived there didn’t answer to the man upstairs.
    Jules could almost hear one of those satanic types laughing as he gazed at his current number one reason why he hated L.A.
    A kid, barely out of his teens, was pointing a handgun at Jules’ chest. “Give me your wallet!”
    There had been a sign saying, “Park at your own risk” posted at the entrance to this parking garage that was cut into the hillside beneath his West Hollywood hotel. But Jules had foolishly assumed any risk would occur at night, not during broad daylight. Of course, in here it was shadowy and dank. The small lot was only half-filled, and no other people were in sight.
    The garage walls were concrete block, and the ceiling looked solid, too. A bullet would ricochet off rather than penetrate and injure someone on the other side. The open bay doors on his right, however, led directly to the street. It wasn’t a major thoroughfare, but there was occasional traffic.
    “You don’t want to do this,” Jules said, carefully keeping his hands where the kid could see them, even while he inched his way closer. He was glad his sidearm was in a locked suitcase in the trunk of the car, so he could hold his jacket open and take his wallet out of his pocket with two fingers without flashing his shoulder holster. “Just turn around and walk away—and do yourself another favor while you’re at it. Wipe the gun so your prints aren’t on it and—”
    “Shut up,” the kid ordered him. He had primitive tattoos on his knuckles—despite his tender age he’d already done prison time. His hands were also shaking, another bad sign. He was obviously in dire need of a fix—the most desperate of all the desperate Los Angelenos.
    He was in such bad shape, he’d forgotten to pull his ski mask down over his face. He was wearing it on top of his head, which didn’t do much to conceal his identity.
    Clear thinking wasn’t part of the heroin withdrawal process, so Jules tried to eliminate any confusion on his end.
    “I’m putting this on the ground”—Jules did just that—“and here’s my watch and my ring, too.” The ring—nothing fancy, just a simple silver band—was going to do the trick. The kid’s hands were shaking too much to be able to pick it up without his looking down, and when he did . . . “I’m going to back away—”
    “I said shut the fuck up, faggot!”
    Well, all-righty then. Jules could just imagine the conversation shared over a needle.
Hey, if you ever need some fast cash, go on over to West Hollywood and rob a homo. They’re all rich, and if you do it right, you can probably make ’em cry, which is good for a laugh. . . .
    “So this is a hate crime?” Jules asked in an attempt to distract because he just couldn’t bring himself to cry. But it was too late. The time for conversation was definitely over.
    The kid realized that his mask was up.
    Jules wasn’t sure what changed, but he got a heavy whiff of
I can’t go back to prison,
which wasn’t a good emotion to combine with
I need a fix. Now.
    He couldn’t wait for the kid to fumble with the ring.
    Instead, Jules rushed him, taking care to knock his gun hand up and to the left, away from the open bay door, which proved to be unnecessary as the weapon went flying, unfired.
    It skittered