Take the call.”

The phone stopped chirping and went dark. Matt glanced back at Cabrera, then reached inside and carefully lifted it up and out of the SUV. He could feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on him as he flipped it over and slid the lock open with his thumb.

The phone lit up, indicating that the caller had left a message. A long moment passed as Matt gazed at the display and noticed that the usual banter that makes up a crime scene had been overwhelmed by a wave of absolute silence. His eyes made a second sweep across the display; then he clicked through to the next screen. The murder victim had just received a text message. It was short and to the point. All it said was: Dinner off. Call me.

CHAPTER 3

Matthew Trevor Jones. Matthew Trevor Jones. I’m jonesing for Jones. Ya hear that, Jones? Everybody here’s jonesing for Jones. Now cut the shit and wake the fuck up. We got your ass, ya know what I’m sayin’, Jones? We got your sorry ass outta that desert shithole and brought it the fuck back to—

The dream had a roll to it. Movement, but no definition. Matt wasn’t really sure what had happened.

He could see a blanket draped over his body and feel the rails of a rescue stretcher below his waist. An EMT was leaning against the open rear door of an ambulance but had turned away to wave at someone just as their eyes met. When Matt thought he heard the rotors from a chopper, he looked toward the sound, but all he saw was a bus lumbering through an intersection on a busy street.

A busy street in the US.

He filled his lungs with air and, as he exhaled, tried to break through the fog. He could see a parking attendant’s shack on the other side of the lot, a billboard, and the rear entrance to a restaurant called Musso & Frank, but nothing about the place registered. Squinting at the bright work lights mounted on stands to his right, he noticed that they were pointed at a black SUV. A handful of people were here—some wearing police uniforms, others dressed in street clothes—yet every one of them seemed infatuated by that SUV.

He turned back to the ambulance. A man with a badge clipped to his leather jacket had joined the EMT, and it looked like they were whispering.

Something about the cop’s face seemed familiar, but as he sized him up, he couldn’t find the memory. He was dressed casually and wore a heavy sweater beneath his jacket. Matt guessed that he stood just short of six feet tall and was about thirty years old. His black wiry hair was cropped so close to his skull that it looked more like a three-day beard against his dark complexion. When he finally stopped whispering to the EMT and turned to him, Matt noticed that his eyes were glazed. It seemed more than obvious that he was deeply troubled about something.

Matt heaved his body forward and struggled to sit up. Both men rushed over, but he pushed them away, rubbing his fingers back and forth over his eyes and forehead. He could hear the cop jabbering in his ear through the haze.

Matt, are you okay? You blacked out, man. Are you okay, Matt? Are you okay?

The wind picked up.