Into the Fire(24)

Evan didn’t answer. He clicked. And he read.

For a long time, there was no sound save Max’s breathing and the occasional tap of water dripping from a sweating pipe. The glow from the dim can lighting was as faint as the laptop screen, a chiaroscuro contrast of shadows and silhouettes.

Max said, again, “What is it?”

“Gimme a sec,” Evan said.

“It’s been forty minutes, man.”

Evan checked the Victorinox fob watch clipped to his belt loop, the time surprising him. “Come over here,” he said.

Max shoved off the wall and joined Evan in the weak orb of light thrown by the laptop. “It looks like a set of books.”

“Two sets of books,” Evan said.

“Why two?”

“One cooked. And one real. The real one shows the actual money flow.”

“Laundering,” Max said.

Evan scrolled through entry after entry of figures in the low thousands. Dozens a day. “See—they’re smurfing it through these entities, breaking it up into amounts small enough not to raise any red flags.”

The light reflected in Max’s eyes. “That’s gotta be three, four million dollars a month,” he said. “What do you think it’s from?”

“Could be anything,” Evan said. “Drugs. Foreign money. Gunrunning.”

“No wonder Grant was digging into it. But who was he working for?”

“See this client code?” Evan pointed to where “HWDPD” recurred at the top of each page. “That’s Hollywood Community Police Station.”

“They hired him?”

“Yes. Seems like a big case for a community station—this sort of stuff usually gets kicked downtown.”

“Even if the crimes are taking place in their jurisdiction?”

Evan nodded. “I’m thinking they were piecing it together, prepping it for the handoff to Vice.” With a knuckle he tapped the screen. “This set of spreadsheets tracks the three steps of the process—injection, confusion, and acquisition. You inject the cash into the financial system. Then you camouflage its source through wires between various accounts. Look here. Then it loops through there, see?”

Max nodded, tracing a figure between documents on the screen. “And then back into this account.”

“Right. And once it’s been run through the system and cleaned up, the money’s acquired ‘legitimately’ here. See these withdrawals? Grant was still figuring it out, helping Hollywood PD shore up the case.”

“Against who?” Max said.

“Doesn’t say. We have the dirty books but not the names attached to them. I’m guessing these codes here are initials. But there are plenty of blanks and question marks. The case was still being built. Grant was in the process of identifying the players. Which explains why the cops couldn’t protect him. They weren’t sure who to protect him from.”

“So what next?”

Evan thought of the shooter from Grant’s office, nursing that injured arm. Right now he’d be fighting off the inevitable. Trying to convince himself that it would get better, that he could deal with the pain, that he wouldn’t have to go in and get that dislocated radial head popped back into place.

Evan said, “Next I take names.”

He snapped the laptop shut and stood. Max found his feet as well. “Should we turn this over to the cops?”

“Sure,” Evan said. “They’ll continue the investigation. Send you on your way. And you’ll wind up like your cousin or Lorraine Lennox.”

Max’s eyes got glassy. “Right. But how are you gonna figure out who’s behind it?”

“Not being bound by the law enables me to be more … efficient.”

Max nodded a few times rapidly. “Grant dealt with a lot of criminals. But something about these guys was scary enough for him to decide to put a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency option in place. And the guy at my apartment? He makes the dude who shot at us look like a minor-leaguer. These are bad men.”

Evan handed Max a roll of hundred-dollar bills and a burner cell phone. “I’ve dealt with a lot worse than money launderers and street-level hit men.” Evan started for the door. “Don’t use any credit cards. Don’t contact anyone. Don’t leave this place except to buy food. Use the phone I left you only to reach me. I’ll come back and update you on my progress tomorrow.”

The air of the entryway was humid and thick, tinged with the soggy reek of mold.

Evan had his hand on the doorknob when Max said, “Wait.”

He turned around.

“I didn’t have a chance to thank you,” Max said. “I don’t know where I’d be if it wasn’t for you. No—scratch that. I’d be dead al ready. I know that after the stuff with Violet … You may not be glad you’re helping me. But I am.”

Evan nodded. When he opened the front door, the chill night air blew across him, a refreshing break from the stillness of the house. He stepped out onto the porch.

“They say being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared,” Max said. “It means you’re scared and do it anyway.”

Evan halted. He didn’t answer. But he turned around.

Max scratched at his neck, his fingernails raising red streaks. He was backlit, the shadows catching on his face, veiling his eyes. “Is that … is that true?”