The speedboat cut through the dark water like a razor through silk, and Jack Merriweather stood at the bow with a cigarette burning between his fingers and a headache brewing behind his eyes like a storm that wouldn't break. The San Pedro harbor lay behind him in a scatter of sodium lights—orange and wet and tired, the way everything looked at three in the morning when the good guys had gone home and the bad guys were just getting started.

"First time on the island, Jack?"

Jack looked at Mouse. The LAPD detective was sitting in the stern, cleaning his gun with the calm concentration of a man performing a religious ritual. Mouse was Japanese-American in a city that wasn't ready to accept Japanese-Americans in uniform, and he wore his name like a challenge and his gun like an apology.

"First time," Jack said. "First time anywhere that matters."

Mouse smiled without looking up from his gun. "There aren't many."

The island rose from the water ahead—a cluster of white buildings on a low hill, visible from the Hollywood hills on clear nights. They weren't clear tonight. The fog was rolling in, thick and gray, swallowing the island piece by piece as they approached. The buildings looked like they'd been painted white by someone who'd never seen a real building and was just guessing.

"Whispering Rock Sanatorium," Mouse said. "Private facility. Owned by the Ashford Corporation. Specializes in—well, that's classified. Officially, they treat nervous disorders. Unofficially, they treat anything the wealthy don't want the public to see."

"Like what?"

"Like a daughter who ran off with a boxer. Like a senator's mistress. Like a newspaper editor who knew too much about the city council." Mouse holstered his gun and checked the magazine. "Like Evelyn Cross."

Jack flicked his cigarette into the water. "The shipping magnate's wife."

"The shipping magnate's wife. Vanished from her room last night. Room was locked. Windows barred. No footprints on the beach. She's either a ghost or she has a helicopter."

They docked at a private pier. A man in an expensive suit waited for them—tall, thin, with the kind of smile that was designed to be reassuring and achieved only the opposite. He introduced himself as Mr. Sterling, the facility's administrator.

"Agent Merriweather," Sterling said. "And Detective Morita. We've been anticipating your arrival. Please—allow me to show you to Ms. Cross's room."

The room was exactly what Jack expected and exactly what he didn't. White walls, white sheets, white marble bathroom. The kind of room where you'd expect to find a beautiful woman waiting to be rescued, but instead there was only an empty bed and a note on the pillow.

Jack picked it up. The handwriting was elegant, feminine, precise:

Four is the rule.

I am 47.

They were 80.

You are 3.

We are 4.

But who is 67?

Jack read it twice. "When was this found?"

"By the head nurse at ten o'clock. She came to check on Ms. Cross, found the room locked from the outside, used her key, and discovered the room empty."

"Any idea where she went?"

Sterling's smile was fixed. "That's what you're here to find out, Agent Merriweather. That's what you're here to find out, and that's what we're paying you to find out."

Jack looked at the note again. He didn't know cryptography, but he knew numbers, and numbers were the only honest things in a city full of liars.

Forty-seven. Eighty. Three. Four. Sixty-seven.

He lit another cigarette and thought about it while Sterling droned on about security protocols and staff schedules and insurance policies. He thought about Evelyn Cross—shipping magnate's wife, socialite, ghost. He thought about the note and the numbers and the white room and the way Sterling's smile never reached his eyes.

He thought: this place is a lie. And in Los Angeles, a lie is just the truth wearing a disguise.

That night, in the room they'd given him—a spartan chamber with a view of the ocean and a bed that squeaked when you moved—Jack sat at the small desk and wrote a list. Every name he knew. Every name anyone had mentioned. Every name on the patient roster Mouse had photocopied. He drew lines between names and crossed them out and drew new lines. He wasn't a detective by training—he was a PI by necessity. But he knew how to follow money, and money was the only truth in Los Angeles.

By dawn, he had his answer.

Forty-seven: the number of shell companies the Ashford Corporation used to move money. Eighty: the number of bank accounts. Three: the number of LAPD officers on the Ashford payroll. Four: the four city councilmen who took Ashford donations. Sixty-seven: the number of people who had "disappeared" from Los Angeles between 1940 and 1947—people who had seen something they shouldn't have, asked questions they shouldn't have asked, or knew too many names.

Sixty-seven dead people. Sixty-seven souls buried in the ocean off San Pedro. And the sanatorium was where the names were kept.

Jack picked up his gun and went to find Mouse.

They found Sterling in his office, drinking scotch and listening to a jazz record. He looked up when they entered and didn't bother hiding his surprise.

"Agent Merriweather. Detective Morita. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Money," Jack said.

Sterling set down his glass. "Excuse me?"

"Money. That's what this is about. Evelyn Cross isn't missing. She knows about the money. She knows about the sixty-seven people. She knows about her husband's little side operation. And she threatened to talk unless you silenced her."

Sterling's smile was gone now. "You have no evidence of any of this."

"I have the note," Jack said. "Evelyn left it for me. She knew I'd come. She knew I'd figure it out. The numbers aren't a cipher—they're a list. Forty-seven companies. Eighty accounts. Three cops. Four councilmen. Sixty-seven bodies."

Jack stepped closer. "And you, Sterling, you're the bookkeeper. You keep the records. You launder the money. You make the disappearances look like madness."

Sterling was very still. "And what will you do with this information, Agent Merriweather?"

Jack looked at Mouse. Mouse was cleaning his gun again, which in his language meant: whatever happens, I'm with you.

Jack looked back at Sterling. "I'm going to do what every honest man in this city does when he finds the truth. I'm going to walk out of here, and I'm going to keep walking, and I'm going to never look back."

He turned and walked out. The ocean was gray and flat in the morning light, and the fog was lifting, and for the first time in months, Jack Merriweather felt like he could breathe.

Mouse fell into step beside him. "Where to?"

"Where we always go," Jack said. "Down the street."

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