The return to the Hilton was entirely without incident; nobody reported violence, and the satellite that the company had tasked to check in on her from time to time hadn’t registered any activity that would read as suspicious. There were six company-owned Walleye satellites in geosynchronous orbit over Seattle, each one able to track various citizens throughout the city. Satellite time was costly, especially in the case of advanced miniature sats like those, so tracking a stripper’s whereabouts wasn’t exactly the way money would usually be spent. Given what she was mixed up in, however, Administration wasn’t fucking around. According to their watchful eyes, Angie had simply gone home, slept, and come back to work - or at least, that’s what the conglomeration of their watch-windows had read. There was always room to miss something when you only looked in every hour or so.

Arriving at the Autumn Heights, Gray had put on his game face and bellied up to the bar. The bartender was there, the same guy from before - only this time, the fear that he’d wore the first time he’d seen Gray had been replaced with a species of defiance. “Angie ain’t here, Detective,” he said before Gray could get a word out. “Why don’t you go head back downstairs?”