It was an enormous concrete structure, adjacent to a vast parking lot on the outskirts of Oakland. It was lit by harsh halogen lights. Behind the cyclone fence, most of the cars in the lot were junkers, but a few Cadillacs and Bentleys were there, too. Their limousine pulled up to the curb.

“Why are we here?” Bradley said. “I don’t understand.”

A policeman came to the window. “Mr. Evans? Peter Evans?”

“That’s me.”

“Come this way, please.”

They all started to get out of the car. The cop said, “Just Mr. Evans.”

Bradley sputtered, “But we are—”

“Sorry, sir. They just want Mr. Evans. You’ll have to wait here.”

Jennifer smiled at Bradley. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Great.”

Evans got out of the car and followed the policeman through the metal door into the garage itself. The interior space was divided into long bays, where cars were worked on in a row. Most of the bays seemed to be given over to the repair of police cars. Evans smelled the sharp odor of acetylene torches. He sidestepped patches of motor oil and gobs of grease on the floor. He said to the cop accompanying him, “What’s this about?”

“They’re waiting for you, sir.”

They were heading for the rear of the garage. They passed several crushed and blood-covered wrecks. Seats drenched in blood, shattered windows dark red. Some wrecks had pieces of string that stretched out from them in various directions. One wreck was being measured by a pair of technicians in blue lab coats. Another crash was being photographed by a man with a camera on a tripod.

“Is he a policeman?” Evans said.

“Nah. Lawyer. We have to let ’em in.”

“So you deal with car wrecks here?”

“When it’s appropriate.”

They came around the corner and Evans saw Kenner standing with three plainclothes policemen, and two workers in blue lab coats. They were all standing around the crushed body of Morton’s Ferrari Spyder, now raised on a hydraulic lift, with bright lights shining up at it.

“Ah, Peter,” Kenner said. “Did you make the identification of George?”

“Yes.”

“Good man.”

Evans came forward to stand beneath the car. Various sections of the underside had been marked with yellow cloth tags. Evans said, “Okay, what’s up?”

The plainclothesmen looked at one another. Then one of them began to speak. “We’ve been examining this Ferrari, Mr. Evans.”

“I see that.”

“This is the car that Mr. Morton recently bought in Monterey?”

“I believe so.”

“When was that purchase made?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Evans tried to think back. “Not long ago. Last month or so. His assistant, Sarah, told me George had bought it.”

“Who bought it?”

“She did.”

“What was your involvement?”

“I had none. She merely informed me that George had bought a car.”

“You didn’t make the purchase or arrange insurance, anything like that?”

“No. All that would have been done by George’s accountants.”

“You never saw paperwork on the car?”

“No.”

“And when did you first see the actual car itself?”

“The night George drove it away from the Mark Hopkins Hotel,” Evans said. “The night he died.”

“Did you ever see the car prior to that evening?”

“No.”

“Did you hire anyone to work on the car?”

“No.”

“The car was transported from Monterey to a private garage in Sonoma, where it remained for two weeks, before being taken to San Francisco. Did you arrange the private garage?”

“No.”

“The rental was in your name.”

Evans shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “But Morton often put rentals and leases in the name of his accountants or attorneys, if he didn’t want the owner or lessee to be publicly known.”

“But if he did that, he would inform you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“So you didn’t know your name was being used?”

“No.”

“Who worked on the car, in San Jose?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because, Mr. Evans, somebody did rather extensive work on this Ferrari before Morton ever got into it. The frame was weakened at the places you see marked by the yellow tags. Anti-skid—primitive, in a vehicle this old—was disabled, and the discs were cross-loosened on the left front, right rear. Are you following me, here?”

Evans frowned.

“This car was a death trap, Mr. Evans. Someone used it to kill your client. Lethal changes were made in a garage in Sonoma. And your name is on the lease.”

Downstairs in the car, Ted Bradley was grilling Jennifer Haynes. She might be pretty, but everything about her was wrong—her manner, her tough-guy attitude, and most of all her opinions. She had said she was working on the lawsuit, and that her salary was paid by NERF, but Ted didn’t think it was possible. For one thing, Ted Bradley was very publicly associated with NERF, and as a hired employee she should have known that, and she should have treated his opinions with respect.

To call the information he had shared with those kids “bullshit”—a talk he didn’t have to give, a moment he had offered out of the goodness of his heart and his dedication to the environmental cause—to call that “bullshit” was outrageous. It was confrontational in the extreme. And it showed absolutely no respect. Plus, Ted knew that what he had said was true. Because, as always, NERF had given him a talking points memo listing the various things to be emphasized. And NERF would not have told him to say anything that was untrue. And the talking points said nothing about the fucking Ice Age. Everything Jennifer had said was irrelevant.

Those trees were magnificent. They were sentinels of the environment, just as the talking points claimed. In fact, he pulled the talking points out of his jacket pocket to be sure.

“I’d like to see that,” Jennifer said.

“I bet you would.”

“What is your problem?” she said.

See? he thought. That kind of attitude. Aggressive and confrontational.

She said, “You’re one of those television stars who thinks everyone wants to touch your dick. Well, guess what, oh Big Swinging One, I don’t. I think you’re just an actor.”

“And I think you’re a plant. You’re a corporate spy.”

“I must not be a very good one,” she said, “because you found me out.”

“Because you shot your mouth off, that’s why.”

“It’s always been my problem.”

All during this conversation, Bradley felt a peculiar tension building in his chest. Women did not argue with Ted Bradley. Sometimes they were hostile for a while, but that was only because they were intimidated by him, his good looks, and his star power. They wanted to screw him, and often he’d let them. But they did not argue with him. This one was arguing, and it excited him and angered him in equal proportions. The tension building up inside him was almost unbearable. Her calmness, just sitting there, the direct way she looked into his eyes, the complete lack of intimidation—it was an indifference to his fame that drove him wild. All right, hell, she was beautiful.

He grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her hard on the mouth.

He could tell she liked it. To complete his dominance he stuck his tongue down her throat.

Then there was a blinding flash of pain—in his neck, his head—and he must have lost consciousness for a moment. Because the next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor of the limousine, gasping and watching blood drip all over his shirt. Ted was not sure how he had gotten there. He was not sure why he was bleeding or why his head was throbbing. Then he realized that his tongue was bleeding.

He looked up at her. She crossed her legs coolly, giving him a glimpse up her skirt, but he didn’t care. He was resentful. “You bit my tongue!”

“No, asshole, you bit your own tongue.”

“You assaulted me!”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You did! You assaulted me!” He looked down. “Jesus, this was a new shirt, too. From Maxfield’s.”

She stared at him.

“You assaulted me,” he repeated.

“So sue me.”

“I think I will.”

“Better consult your lawyer first.”

“Why?”

She nodded her head toward the front of the car. “You’re forgetting the driver.”

“What about him?”

“He saw it all.”

“So what? You encouraged me,” he said, hissing. “You were being seductive. Any guy knows the signs.”

“Apparently you didn’t.”

“Hostile ballbreaker?” He turned and took the vodka bottle from the rack. He needed it to rinse out his mouth. He poured himself a glass, and looked back.

She was reading the talking points. She held the paper in her hands. He lunged for it. “That’s not yours.”

She was quick, holding the paper away from him. She raised her other hand, edge on, like a chopping knife.

“Care to try your luck again, Ted?”

“Fuck you,” he said, and took a big gulp of the vodka. His tongue was on fire. What a bitch, he thought. What a goddamned bitch. Well, she’d be looking for a new job tomorrow. He’d see to that. This bimbo lawyer couldn’t fuck around with Ted Bradley and get away with it.

Standing beneath the crashed Ferrari, Evans endured another ten minutes of grilling by the plainclothesmen who encircled him. Fundamentally, the story didn’t make sense to him.

Evans said, “George was a good driver. If all these changes were made to the car, wouldn’t he have noticed something was wrong?”

“Perhaps. But not if he was drinking heavily.”

“Well, he was drinking, that’s for sure.”

“And who got him the drinks, Mr. Evans?”

“George got his own drinks.”

“The waiter at the banquet said you were pushing drinks at Morton.”

“That’s not true. I was trying to limit his drinking.”

Abruptly, they changed course. “Who worked on the Ferrari, Mr. Evans?”

“I have no idea.”

“We know you rented a private garage outside Sonoma on Route 54. It was fairly quiet and out of the way. Any person or persons who worked on the car would have been able to come and go as they wished, without being seen. Why would you choose such a garage?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“Your name is on the lease.”

“How was the lease arranged?”

“By phone.”

“Who paid for it?”

“It was paid in cash.”

“By whom?”

“Delivered by messenger.”

“You have my signature on anything? Fingerprints?”

“No. Just your name.”

Evans shrugged. “Then I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about this. It’s well known that I’m George Morton’s attorney. Anybody could have used my name. If anything was done to this car, it was done without my knowledge.”

He was thinking that they should have been asking Sarah about all this, but then, if they were good at their jobs, they’d already have talked to her.

And sure enough, she appeared from around the corner, talking on a cell phone and nodding to Kenner.

That was when Kenner stepped forward. “Okay, gentlemen. Unless you have further questions, I’ll take Mr. Evans into custody on my recognizance. I don’t believe he is a flight risk. He will be safe enough with me.”

The cops grumbled, but in the end they agreed. Kenner handed out his card, and then he headed back toward the entrance, his arm firmly on Evans’s shoulder.

Sarah followed some distance behind. The cops stayed with the Ferrari.

As they neared the door, Kenner said, “Sorry about all that. But the police didn’t tell you everything. The fact is, they photographed the car from various angles and fed the shots into a computer that simulates crashes. And the computer-generated simulation didn’t match the photos of the actual crash.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Oh yes. Everybody uses computer models these days. They are de rigueur for the modern organization. Armed with their computer simulation, the police went back to the wreck itself, where they now decided that it had been monkeyed with. They never imagined this during their previous examinations of the wreck, but now they do. Clear example of using a computer simulation to alter your version of reality. They trusted the simulation and not the data from the ground.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And of course their simulation was optimized for the most common vehicle types on American roads. The computer had no ability to model the behavior of a forty-year-old, limited-production Italian racing car. They ran the simulation anyway.”

Evans said, “But what’s all this about a garage in Sonoma?”

Kenner shrugged. “You don’t know. Sarah doesn’t know. Nobody can even verify if the car was ever there. But the garage was rented—I’d guess by George himself. Though we’ll never know for sure.”

Back outside, Evans threw open the door to his limo and climbed in. He was astonished to see Ted Bradley covered in blood, all down his chin and shirt front.

“What happened?”

“He slipped,” Jennifer said. “And hurt himself.”