Gray was getting dinner when Black-Eyes called him back. It wasn’t what he wanted, sitting there eating vermicelli with grilled tofu chunks in another street stall, frowning at his bowl with the voice of the New Modern Devil tainting his earpiece rig. ”I’ve gotten the information you asked for,” he said, with a chuckle that made the blood run slow and cold in Gray’s veins. ”But I don’t know that you’ll like it.”
“I don’t like much of anything that’s come out of this situation so far,” Gray said, sipping from a bottle of Evian. ”So, you know, shoot.”
“The owner of the Autumn Heights is a man named Wilson Hammersmith,” said Black-Eyes.
“I don’t know that name,” said Gray.
“You don’t?” The young Satan sounded surprised.
“No, I don’t. Should I?”
“Tell your friend, the Vice officer. It might help his investigation quite a bit.”