The rain on Sunset Boulevard didn't wash anything clean. It just made the neon bleed.
Jack Mercer stood under the awning of the Pan-Pacific Diner, cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers, watching the water sheet off the chrome trim of a Packard parked across the street. The Packard belonged to a man named Voss who worked for The Corporation's Southern Division. Voss had been dead for thirty-six hours, found in his apartment with a single gunshot wound to the...
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