The full story was on the news that afternoon. The body of millionaire financier George Morton had washed up on the shore near Pismo Beach. The identification was made from clothing and from a watch on the victim’s wrist. The body itself was mutilated, the result of shark attacks, the newscaster said.

The family of the philanthropist had been notified, but no date for the memorial service had been set. There was a statement from Morton’s close friend Nicholas Drake, director of NERF. Drake said that Morton had devoted his life to the environmental movement and to the work of organizations like NERF, which had just recently named him their Concerned Citizen of the Year.

“If anyone was concerned about the terrible changes that are taking place around our globe, it was George Morton,” Drake said. “Ever since we learned he was missing, we have been hoping against hope that he would be found in good spirits and good health. I am saddened to learn that this is not the case. I mourn the loss of my dear and dedicated friend. The world is poorer without him.”

Evans was driving when Lowenstein called him on the car phone. “What’re you doing?”

“Coming back from the press conference I was ordered to attend.”

“Well, you’re going to San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“Morton’s been found. Somebody has to identify the body.”

“What about his daughter?”

“She’s in rehab.”

“What about his ex-wife? What about—”

“Evans, you’re officially assigned. Make your arrangements. The forensic guys don’t want to delay the autopsy so they need him ID’d before dinner.”

“But—”

“Get your ass up there. I don’t know what you’re bitching about. Take the guy’s plane, for Christ’s sake. You’ve certainly been helping yourself to it lately, from what I hear. Now that he’s dead you’d better be more careful. Oh, one more thing. Since you’re not family, they’ll need two people to ID him.”

“Well, I can take Sarah, his secretary—”

“No. Drake wants you to take Ted Bradley.”

“Why?”

“How the hell do I know? Bradley wants to go. Drake wants to indulge him, keep him happy. Bradley probably thinks there’ll be news cameras there. He is an actor, after all. And he was George’s close friend.”

“Sort of.”

“He was at the banquet table with you.”

“But Sarah would be—”

“Evans, what part of this do you not understand? You’re going to San Francisco and you are taking Bradley with you. Period.”

Evans sighed. “Where is he?”

“He’s in Sequoia. You have to stop and get him.”

“Sequoia?”

“National Park. It’s on the way.”

“But—”

“Bradley’s already been notified. My secretary will give you the number for the San Francisco morgue. Good-bye, Evans. Don’t screw up.”

Click.

Jennifer said, “Problem?”

“No. But I have to go to San Francisco.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said. “Who is Sarah?”

“Morton’s personal secretary. His old assistant.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” Jennifer said. “She doesn’t look very old.”

“Where did you see pictures?”

“In a magazine. They were at a tennis tournament. She’s a championship tennis player, something like that?”

“I guess.”

“I would have thought that since you spent so much time with Morton, you’d know her well.”

“Not really,” he said, shrugging. “I mean, we’ve spent a little time in the last few days.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked at him, amused. “Peter,” she said. “I don’t care. She’s very pretty. It’s only natural.”

“No, no,” he said, reaching for the phone. “It’s nothing like that.” Desperate to put an end to this conversation, he dialed the Beverly Hills police and asked for Detective Perry. The detective was not yet back from court. Evans left a message and hung up. He turned to Jennifer. “How does it work if they issue a warrant for your arrest?”

“Criminal,” she said. “Not my area. Sorry.”

“Me neither.”

“Somebody going to arrest you?”

“I hope not.”

Then Lisa, Herb Lowenstein’s chatty assistant, called. “Hi, Peter. I have the numbers for Mr. Bradley and for the San Francisco morgue. They close at eight. Can you make it by then? Herb wants to know. He’s very upset.”

“About what?”

“I’ve never seen him this way. I mean, not for a few weeks.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I think he’s upset about George. Such a shock. And then Drake is giving him fits. He must have called five times today. And I think they were discussing you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Lisa lowered her voice, taking on a conspiratorial tone. “Herb had his door closed while he was talking, but I, uh, I heard a few things.”

“Like what?” Evans said.

“Don’t say anything.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean I wasn’t—I just thought that you would want to know.”

“I do.”

“Because there’s a lot of talk here,” she said, dropping her voice even lower, “about whether you have to leave.”

“Leave the firm?”

“Be, uh, let go. I thought you would want to know.”

“I do. Thanks. Who’s talking?”

“Well, Herb. And Don Blandings, and a couple of other senior partners. Bob and Louise. Because for some reason Nick Drake is furious with you. And somebody you are spending time with, a person named Kanner or Connor?”

“I see.”

“Mr. Drake is very upset about Mr. Connor.”

“Why is that?”

“He says he is a spy. For industry. For polluters.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, the feeling is Mr. Drake is an important client and you’ve pissed him off. Even so, they would never dare fire you if Morton were alive. But he’s not, anymore. And you’re gone all the time. And the police are calling here for you, which I have to tell you is not good. It makes everybody nervous. And then they—what are you doing with this Mr. Connor, anyway?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Peter. I told you.” She sounded sulky. He knew he would have to trade information.

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound reluctant. “I’m carrying out an assignment that Morton gave me, before he died.”

“Really? What is it?”

“It’s a secret, I can’t tell you yet.”

“George Morton gave you an assignment?”

“In writing,” he said. Thinking: That will cool their jets.

“Wow. Really. They don’t dare fire you if you’re on the business of the firm.”

“Lisa, I have to go.”

“And if they did, you would have such a wrongful termination action.”

“Lisa…”

“Okay, okay. I know you can’t talk. But just…good luck!”

He hung up. Jennifer was smiling. “That was very skillfully done,” she said.

“Thank you.”

But he wasn’t smiling back. As far as he was concerned, the world was closing in around him. It didn’t feel good. And he was still very, very tired.

He called Sarah to arrange for the plane, but got her voice mail. He called the pilot and was told that he was in the air.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s flying, right now.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir. Would you like his voice mail?”

“No,” Evans said. “I need to charter a plane.”

“When would you like it?”

“In half an hour. To go to San Francisco, with a stop at whatever the airport is nearest Sequoia. Returning tonight.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

And then fatigue overcame him. He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car.

Jennifer said, “What’s the matter?”

“You know the way to Van Nuys?”

“Sure.”

“Then you drive.”

He dropped into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. He watched her pull into traffic, and then closed his eyes and slept.