The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker, turns the streetlights into smeared watercolors on wet asphalt, makes the neon signs bleed their colors into the gutters where they belong.
Victor Lane sat in his office on Hollywood Boulevard, third floor, front window fogged with cigarette smoke and the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. His desk was a disaster of unpaid bills, half-empty whiskey glasses, and case files he had started and abandoned with equal enthusiasm. The door opened without knocking. A woman stood in the doorway, wearing a black raincoat that cost...
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