“Great,” the man said, his smile more functional than earnest. “My name is Frank. No bags?”

“Just what we’re carrying.”

This didn’t seem to surprise him. He’d undoubtedly seen it all in his job. “Would you like to wait here while I get the car?”

“We’ll come with you.”

Frank drove them to the San Fernando Valley and dropped them off at the Days Inn in Studio City. Kolya and Petra found the dark gray Buick Lucerne that Mikhail had arranged for them parked near the back. No paperwork, no way to trace the vehicle to them. If they were being tracked, the trail would end at the motel.

“Keep to the speed limit,” Petra instructed, not wanting to draw the attention of the police.

Once they were back on Ventura Boulevard, she entered their destination into the GPS mounted in the dash, then examined the route. Laurel Canyon Boulevard was a mile to the east. From there it would be a quick drive into the hills to Winters’s house. She guessed ten minutes tops.

Above them, the sky had turned a deep blue, but few stars were visible through the haze of the city lights. Just like Moscow, Petra thought.

The pay-as-you-go cell phone she’d acquired in New York buzzed in her bag. “What happened?” Mikhail asked before she could say anything. “You were supposed to call hours ago.”

“Our flight was delayed after we’d already boarded. If you had checked our status online, you would have known that.”

Mikhail was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Where are you?”

“We just retrieved the car from the motel.”

“No problems?”

“None. Anything on Moody yet?”

“I found someone who remembered him. A neighbor. Said he thinks Moody moved to New York, but he wasn’t sure.”

Petra frowned. “Keep looking.”

“What do you think I’m doing? Sitting in a bar getting drunk?”