To reach it, you had to take the freight elevator behind the fire-damaged Italian restaurant, walk past the humming electrical room that smelled of ozone and old coffee, and turn down a corridor where the carpet turned from industrial gray to a strange, burgundy velvet. The door itself was unremarkable—pebbled steel, a single deadbolt, and a mail slot that had been welded shut from the inside.
“They pay in cash,” Jerry said, scratching his neck. “Every first of the month. An envelope slides under my office door. No return address. Don’t ask questions, kid.” 1250 west glenoaks blvd., suite e-520 glendale, ca 91201
But I asked questions. That’s what they paid me for. To reach it, you had to take the