Margo Lane lived on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise apartment building in the Wilshire Corridor. The doorman had to call up before Evans was allowed in the elevator. Margo knew he was coming up, but she still answered the door wrapped in a towel. “Oh! I didn’t realize you’d be here so soon. Come in, I just got out of the shower.” She frequently did something like this, flaunting her body. Evans came into the apartment and sat on the couch. She sat opposite him. The towel barely covered her torso.

“So,” she said, “what’s all this about George?”

“I’m sorry,” Evans said, “but George crashed his Ferrari at very high speed and was thrown from the car. He fell down a cliff—they found a shoe at the bottom—and into the water. His body hasn’t been recovered but they expect it to turn up in a week or so.”

With her love of drama, he was sure Margo would start to cry, but she didn’t. She just stared at him. “That’s bullshit,” she said.

“Why do you say that, Margo?”

“Because. He’s hiding or something. You know it.”

“Hiding? From what?”

“Probably nothing. He’d become completely paranoid. You know that.”

As she said it, she crossed her legs. Evans was careful to keep his eyes on her face.

“Paranoid?” he asked.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know, Peter. It was obvious.”

Evans shook his head. “Not to me.”

“The last time he came here was a couple of days ago,” she said. “He went right to the window and stood back behind the curtain, looking down onto the street. He was convinced he was being followed.”

“Had he done that before?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him much lately; he was traveling. But whenever I called him and asked when he was coming over, he said it wasn’t safe to come here.”

Evans got up and walked to the window. He stood to one side and looked down at the street below.

“Are you being followed, too?” she said.

“I don’t think so.”

Traffic on Wilshire Boulevard was heavy, the start of afternoon rush hour. Three lanes of cars moving fast in each direction. He could hear the roar of the traffic, even up there. But there was no place to park, to pull out from the traffic. A blue Prius hybrid had pulled to the curb across the street, and traffic was backing up behind it, honking. After a moment, the Prius started up again.

No place to stop.

“Do you see anything suspicious?” she asked.

“No.”

“I never did either. But George did—or thought he did.”

“Did he say who was following him?”

“No.” She shifted again. “I thought he should have medication. I told him.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said I was in danger, too. He told me I should leave town for a while. Go visit my sister in Oregon. But I won’t.”

Her towel was coming loose. Margo tightened it, lowering it across her firm, enhanced breasts. “So I’m telling you, George went into hiding,” she said. “And I think you better find him fast, because the man needs help.”

“I see,” Evans said. “But I suppose it’s possible he isn’t in hiding, that he really crashed his car…. In which case, there are things you need to do now, Margo.”

He explained to her that if George remained missing, his assets could be ordered frozen. Which meant that she ought to withdraw everything from the bank account into which he put money for her every month. So she would be sure to have money to live on.

“But that’s silly,” she protested. “I know he’ll be back in a few days.”

“Just in case,” Evans said.

She frowned. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” Evans said. “I’m just saying, it could be a while before this thing gets cleared up.”

“Look,” she said. “He’s sick. You’re supposed to be his friend. Find him.”

Evans said that he would try. When he left, Margo was flouncing off to the bedroom to get dressed before going to the bank.

Outside, in the milky afternoon sunlight, fatigue overwhelmed him. All he wanted to do was go home and go to sleep. He got in his car and started driving. He was within sight of his apartment when his phone rang again.

It was Jennifer, asking where he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t come today.”

“It’s important, Peter. Really.”

He said he was sorry, and would call her later.

Then Lisa, Herb Lowenstein’s secretary, called to say that Nicholas Drake had been trying to reach him all afternoon. “He really wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Evans said, “I’ll call.”

“He sounds pissed.”

“Okay.”

“But you better call Sarah first.”

“Why?”

His phone went dead. It always did in the back alley of his apartment; it was a dead spot in the cellular net. He slipped the phone into his shirt pocket; he’d call in a few minutes. He drove down the alley, and pulled into his garage space.

He walked up the back stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door.

And stared.

The apartment was a mess. Furniture torn apart, cushions slashed open, papers all over the place, books tumbled out of the bookshelves and lying scattered on the floor.

He stood in the entrance, stunned. After a moment he walked into the room, straightened one of the toppled chairs and sat down in it. It occurred to him that he had to call the police. He got up, found the phone on the floor, and dialed them. But almost immediately the cell phone in his pocket began to ring. He hung up on the police and answered the cell phone. “Yes.”

It was Lisa. “We got cut off,” she said. “You better call Sarah right away.”

“Why?”

“She’s over at Morton’s house. There was a robbery there.”

“What?”

“I know. You better call her,” she said. “She sounded upset.”

Evans flipped the phone shut. He stood and walked into the kitchen. Everything was a mess there, too. He glanced into the bedroom. Everything was a mess. All he could think was the maid wasn’t coming until next Tuesday. How could he ever clean this up?

He dialed his phone.

“Sarah?”

“Is that you, Peter?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“Not on the phone. Have you gone home yet?”

“Just got here.”

“So…did it happen to you too?”

“Yes. Me too.”

“Can you come here?”

“Yes.”

“How soon?” She sounded frightened.

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay. See you.” She hung up.

Evans turned the ignition of his Prius and it hummed to life. He was pleased to have the hybrid; the waiting list in Los Angeles to get one was now more than six months. He’d had to take a light gray one, which wasn’t his preferred color, but he loved the car. And he took a quiet satisfaction in noticing how many of them there were on the streets these days.

He drove down the alley to Olympic. Across the street he saw a blue Prius, just like the one he had seen below Margo’s apartment. It was electric blue, a garish color. He thought he liked his gray better. He turned right, and then left again, heading north through Beverly Hills. He knew there would be rush hour traffic starting at this time of day and he should get up to Sunset, where traffic moved a little better.

When he got to the traffic light at Wilshire, he saw another blue Prius behind him. That same ugly color. Two guys in the car, not young. When he made his way to the light at Sunset, the same car was still behind him. Two cars back.

He turned left, toward Holmby Hills.

The Prius turned left, too. Following him.

Evans pulled up to Morton’s gate and pressed the buzzer. The security camera above the box blinked on. “Can I help you?”

“It’s Peter Evans for Sarah Jones.”

A momentary pause, and then a buzz. The gates swung open slowly, revealing a curving roadway. The house was still hidden from view.

While he waited, Evans glanced down the road to his left. A block away, he saw the blue Prius coming up the road toward him. It passed him without slowing down, and disappeared around a curve.

So. Perhaps he was not being followed after all.

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

The gates swung wide, and he drove inside.