Brady walked out of the bedroom buttoning his jeans, his black shirt thrown over his shoulder. “Am I dreaming, or do I smell bacon?” He was starving. Whatever was in that nasty swamp remedy, it had done the trick. If he hadn’t watched the video with his own eyes, Brady could almost convince himself he’d never gotten drunk at all. He saw a covered plate with a Post-it note beside it. Taking an office call then grabbing a shower for myself. Eat. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Brady saw the carafe of orange juice and poured some in a large glass with ice before carrying it and his plate to the living room. He’d been here before, though he’d spent most of his time across the hall in Tanaka’s office—basically a studio apartment filled with computer towers, monitors and the kind of surveillance equipment that would make any super spy envious. Ken didn’t just own a downtown loft in a refurbished three-story warehouse—he owned and lived in the entire building.
