Ingleside hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve driven through here. The houses are all still small, square, and crammed together, and lining some of the steepest hills in San Francisco with a rainbow of colors—everything from muted gray to Pepto-Bismol pink. Bars cover the first-floor windows of the seedy corner stores and the houses, telling me that the area’s issues with burglary haven’t abated.

I leave my car a full block down from Ned Marshall’s address and walk the rest of the way, keeping my baseball cap pulled down over my face. Of the few people I pass, the majority are Asian. That’s a plus. Most prosecutors consider them unreliable witnesses when it comes to identifying Caucasian suspects. Not that I expect to get caught.

I spot the number up ahead and turn to climb the steep steps like I belong here, at this house on the corner with decorative white grates to protect it from invaders. I prefer window entry, but it would require scaling the walls to the second story here, leaving me exposed. So I’m left with going through the front door.

The gate lock takes me ten seconds to pick, allowing me into the small, secluded entranceway, littered with old running shoes and a can of sand filled with cigarette butts. A flawed and idiotic set up in home design. You’re just giving people like me cover while they spend the extra time to pick your dead bolt and get into your house. Of course, a dead bolt isn’t child’s play. It would cause issues for a local thug looking to lift a TV or cash, but it’s not going to stop a guy like me, who was picking locks for fun long before I had any real reason to.

I’m inside in another thirty seconds, securing the door quietly behind me. I stop to listen for creaks and voices, the cold metal of my Beretta pressed against my leg, ready to be pulled out of my boot if necessary. I’m ninety-five percent certain that no one else is here. The guy who jumped into an airport taxi this morning with a suitcase was clearly leaving, and there were no signs of anyone else here after the girl left for the shop.

Ned Marshall was an avowed bachelor, that much is obvious. A few mismatched chairs are scattered throughout the living room, a four-person glass-and-brass table with tall-backed white kitchen chairs—the ones from the eighties, with the trademark blue, green, and pink patterned cushions—fill the dining room. My parents had those when I was growing up.

The walls are a faded mint green, probably painted by the previous owner, or maybe an ex-wife, and empty save for a few Zeppelin and Willie Nelson posters. In my initial scan, I see nothing of value, other than the fifty-inch flat-screen hanging on the wall and the corner cabinet of liquor bottles.

But there may be something of worth within these walls. Something that will destroy all the good work that Alliance has done if it gets into the wrong hands.

I slip on my gloves and begin my search.

This is what happens when you put a bullet in a guy’s head before you get the fucking information that you need out of him.

I wipe the sheen of sweat off my forehead with my forearm, my frustration settling uncomfortably on my nerves. I’ve searched under every piece of furniture, in and behind every drawer. I even crawled through the narrow attic.

There’s no videotape.

If it’s not in this bedroom, then it’s not in this house.

I check my watch, keenly aware of the time and how long I’ve been here. Hours. It’s six now. I’m guessing that the girl doesn’t often come home to eat, given that a look inside the fridge revealed nothing but soda cans and ketchup. Still, I’ve mapped my escape route. The window in the back bedroom, which lets out above a small shed in the prison-cell-size concrete backyard, will work if I need it.

Strolling over to the unmade mattress that sits on the carpet, I crouch down to lift red lace panties lying haphazardly on top. This is obviously the girl’s room. It feels like it would be her room. Chaotic. Clothes are scattered all over the floor, overflowing from the open suitcase that lies there. That’s probably been sitting there since she landed in San Francisco seven months ago.

With only a two-drawer chest and a small closet for her clothes, she could use the lack of storage space as an excuse. With a recent death in her family, she could use the excuse of being in mourning. But my five-minute read of her today told me she’s the type that just doesn’t give a shit about order on any given day.

I, on the other hand, thrive on order.

I begin searching the usual spots—furniture, mattress, vents—and when that turns up nothing, I move on to the nightstand. Sliding open the drawer, I find no videotape. What I do find is an open box of condoms and a pink vibrator. I’m going to assume that the condoms mean she doesn’t hate men, though today’s encounter would suggest otherwise. Bentley’s report said nothing about a boyfriend, and if there were even a hint of a boyfriend, it would have been in that report. A twenty-five-year-old girl who keeps a box of condoms in her nightstand is definitely responsible and possibly promiscuous. Or at least she isn’t opposed to spontaneous sex. She’s not keeping these in her dresser for when she meets “the right guy.” Women who do that hide their stash in the bottom of their dresser drawer until the guy is actually in the picture.

I reach down and pick up the long, smooth pink vibrator that lies next to the condoms, rolling it in my gloved hand. A tube of lubricant is also in the drawer, and it’s half used, telling me that this toy isn’t collecting dust, and that this unfriendly girl likes to get off.

She’s a bit scrawny for my taste. I like my women with some meat on them. Tits that bounce and hips to grab. Still, invading her most private things right now is stirring my blood.

I set the toy back in the drawer and push it shut, quietly chastising myself. I never have trouble focusing on my task. That’s why Bentley trusts me. This must be because my targets have always been middle-aged men with vile reputations.

I move on to a collection of mostly black and purple clothes, rifling first through the mess on the floor and then in the drawers that house her collection of bras and panties. Surprisingly, I find a lot of pink-and-white lace and silk. A feminine contradiction to her edgy exterior.

A well-used sketchbook rests on the floor next to my foot, distracting me from her intimates. I pick it up and begin flipping through. Each page is filled with portraits of various faces, everything from little girls to weathered old men. The detail is impressive, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I already knew she was a talented artist.

I know I won’t find any tapes in this room, and yet I’m not ready to leave. There could be something of use here. Something that helps me understand her and where she might have hidden it. Or where her uncle might have hidden it for her to find.

A bottle of perfume sits on the counter. I wonder if it’s the same intoxicating scent my nose caught in Black Rabbit earlier today. I’ve been trained to rely heavily on all of my senses, so I tend to process my surroundings differently than a civilian would. The way a specific door hinge squeaks or a person’s footfall scrapes against the floor, the scent of a cologne that may help identify a person who was in a room just moments ago, the taste of a smoke in the air—it’s how I’ve survived this long.

Pulling my gloves off so as not to get any of the perfume on the leather, I pick up the bottle and spray a small stream into the air. The girlish mix of almonds and coconut permeates the room, and I close my eyes, reveling in its femininity for a few long moments while I clear my thoughts.