“Cedros spent thirty-five minutes with Mike Tavarez that afternoon,” said Birch. “They talked privately, in the presence of an attorney—no listeners, no recordings.” The worst of Stromsoe’s fears brushed up against him like something in deep water: Mike had tried to have Frankie Hatfield murdered. It was outrageously logical. It was how he did his business. But with Frankie now tossed into this violent river—a psychopath’s notion of poetic vengeance—Stromsoe replaced the word “business” with the word “evil.” Tavarez was evil. Stromsoe hoped this knowledge might be reassuring but it wasn’t. It put Mike in a dark league and gave him invisible allies and powers, as if the tangible legions of La Eme weren’t enough. “We have to tell the cops,” said Birch. “It will take them weeks to get to this. They’re not looking at Pelican Bay.” Stromsoe thought. “Let me talk to Cedros first. I want to hear what he’s got to say.” Birch nodded. “How come the lawyer isn’t on this list?”
