The anteroom was gray, cold, and smelled of disinfectant. The man behind the desk wore a lab coat. He typed at his keyboard. “Morton…Morton…Yes. George Morton. Okay. And you are…”

“Peter Evans. I’m Mr. Morton’s attorney,” Evans said.

“And I’m Ted Bradley,” Ted said. He started to extend his hand, then thought better of it, pulled it back.

“Oh. Hey,” the technician said. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re the secretary of state.”

“Actually, I’m the president.”

“Right, right, the president. I knew I’d seen you before. Your wife is a drunk.”

“No, actually, the secretary of state’s wife is a drunk.”

“Oh. I don’t get to see the show that often.”

“It’s off the air now.”

“That explains it.”

“But it’s in syndication in all the major markets.”

Evans said, “If we could make the identification now…”

“Okay. Sign here, and I’ll get you visitor tags.”

Jennifer remained in the anteroom. Evans and Bradley walked into the morgue. Bradley looked back. “Who is she anyway?”

“She’s an attorney working on the global warming team.”

“I think she’s a plant for industry. She’s obviously some kind of extremist.”

“She works right under Balder, Ted.”

“Well, I can understand that,” Bradley said, snickering. “I’d like her working under me, too. But did you listen to her, for God’s sake? Old-growth forests ‘suck?’ That’s industry talking.” He leaned closer to Evans. “I think you should get rid of her.”

“Get rid of her?”

“She’s up to no good. Why is she with us now anyway?”

“I don’t know. She wanted to come. Why are you with us, Ted?”

“I have a job to do.”

The sheet draping the body was spotted with gray stains. The technician lifted it back.

“Oh Jesus,” Ted Bradley said, turning quickly away.

Evans forced himself to gaze at the body. Morton had been a large man in life, and now he was even larger, his torso purple gray and bloated. The odor of decay was strong. Indenting the puffy flesh was an inch-wide ring around one wrist. Evans said, “The watch?”

“Yeah, we took it off,” the technician said. “Barely got it over the hand. You need to see it?”

“Yes, I do.” Evans leaned closer and stiffened his body against the smell. He wanted to look at the hands and the nails. Morton had had a childhood injury to the fourth nail on his right hand, leaving the nail dented, deformed. But one of the hands of this body was missing, and the other was gnawed and mangled. There was no way he could be sure of what he was seeing.

Behind him, Bradley said, “Are you done yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Je-sus, man.”

The technician said, “So, will the show go back on the air?”

“No, it’s been canceled.”

“Why? I liked that show.”

“They should have consulted you,” Bradley said.

Evans was looking at the chest now, trying to recall the pattern of chest hair that Morton had had. He’d seen him often enough in a bathing suit. But the bloating, the stretching of the skin made it difficult. He shook his head. He could not be sure it was Morton.

“Are you done yet?” Bradley said.

“Yes,” Evans said.

The drape went back on, and they walked out. The technician said, “Lifeguards in Pismo made the discovery, called the police. The police ID’d him from the clothes.”

“He still had clothes on?”

“Uh-huh. One leg of the pants and most of the jacket. Custom made. They called the tailor in New York and he confirmed that they had been made for George Morton. Will you be taking his effects with you?”

“I don’t know,” Evans said.

“Well, you’re his lawyer…”

“Yes, I guess I will.”

“You have to sign for them.”

They went back outside, where Jennifer was waiting. She was talking on her cell phone. She said, “Yes, I understand. Yes. Okay, we can do that.” She flipped the phone shut when she saw them. “Finished?”

“Yes.”

“And was it…”

“Yes,” Ted said. “It was George.”

Evans said nothing. He went down the hall and signed for the personal effects. The technician brought out a bag and handed it to Evans. Evans fished in it and pulled out the shreds of the tuxedo. There was a small NERF pin on the inside pocket of the jacket. He reached in and came out with the watch, a Rolex Submariner. It was the same watch Morton wore. Evans looked at the back. It was engraved gm 12–31–89. Evans nodded, put it back in the bag.

All these things belonged to George. Just touching them now made him feel inexpressibly sad.

“I guess that does it,” he said. “Time to go.”

They all walked back to the waiting car. After they got in, Jennifer said, “We have to make another stop.”

“Oh?” Evans said.

“Yes. We have to go to the Oakland Municipal Garage.”

“Why?”

“The police are waiting for us.”