“I wondered how long it would take you,” Lana Park said.
“You could have made it faster,” Sienna said. “You had my number. You used it often enough.”
A short sound on the line — not quite a laugh. “Come up. Fourth floor. Bring the captain, since he’s standing next to you pretending not to listen.”
Dean raised an eyebrow at the phone.
They went up.
Lana Park’s apartment looked like a person who had left a career in a hurry and then organized the wreckage. Boxes along one wall, labeled in neat marker. A desk with two laptops. A kettle already on.
She was mid-forties, silver threading through dark hair, with the particular stillness of someone who had spent twenty years standing behind podiums making other people sound better than they were.
“Ask your questions,” she said, pouring tea
