Walker opened boxes until he had a complete outfit laid out on the seat beside him and the tags removed, then waited for Stillman to reach the freeway before he began to change. When he had finished, Stillman took the Colorado Boulevard exit and drove another fifteen minutes along tree-lined side streets before he stopped the car at the curb. "This is it," he said.

Walker looked at the two-story stone building and recognized a bra.s.s plaque that appeared to be a replica of the one on the mainoffice building in San Francisco. It said, in bold letters, MCCLAREN MCCLAREN and, in smaller ones below, and, in smaller ones below, LIFE AND CASUALTY LIFE AND CASUALTY. He got out and stood on the sidewalk. When Stillman came around the car he studied Walker. "Good. You look about right."

Stillman pretended to be searching for something in his coat pockets. "Keep your eyes open. This isn't a cordial visit to a field office, it's an investigation. Watch everybody you can see all the time. People are going to smile and shake your hand, but they're no friends of yours."

He stepped off, opened the door to let Walker go in ahead of him, then lingered for a moment. There was a young woman at the front desk who wore a thin wire telephone microphone that came from a spot above her right ear across her cheek to a place just to the right of her lips. She was looking at them while she spoke, but Walker couldn't tell at first whether she was speaking to them. Then she repeated, "May I help you?" more pointedly.

"This is Mr. Walker, and I'm Stillman," said Stillman. Walker noticed that Stillman's manner seemed to have changed subtly. He was putting Walker ahead of him.

The girl's eyes focused ahead as she pressed a b.u.t.ton and said, "The gentlemen are here for your meeting." Then she pressed the b.u.t.ton again, took off her headset, and stood up. "I'll show you the way," she said, and left the telephone b.u.t.tons to blink soundlessly.

Walker waited for Stillman to lead, but a steady pressure of Stillman's hand on his back made him move ahead. He had not been imagining it: Stillman was keeping everyone's attention on Walker. He stepped off smartly, looking around him at the office with frank curiosity. There were three people at desks that would have been like his if they had been in cubicles-a man in his thirties, a woman in her sixties, and a girl who looked like she was barely out of high school. He could tell from the forms on their desks and in their trays that they must be a sales support staff, processing new policies.

Then there was a hallway with doors on the right side. The first room they pa.s.sed held a couple of fax machines, a copying machine, and the cache where the policy forms had come from. The second was a tiny office. At the corner of the building was a conference room.

As he entered, Walker could see there were three people already sitting around the long rectangular table. He sensed that he was supposed to take their minds off Stillman, so he became uncharacteristically aggressive. He smiled and said, "h.e.l.lo. I'm John Walker, from the San Francisco office." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And this is Mr. Stillman."

A tall, beefy man about Stillman's age in a dark gray suit and a white shirt that was too tight around his neck returned his smile and wrapped his sausagelike fingers around Walker's hand to give it an enthusiastic shake. "Dale Winters," he said. "I manage the Pasadena office. This is Daphne Pool, my a.s.sistant."

A thin woman about forty-five years old with sharp gray eyes and silver gla.s.ses chained around her neck over a slate-gray suit moved a silver pen to her left hand, gave Walker's hand a quick squeeze, and released it.

The third man was in his early thirties, three inches shorter than Winters, with blond hair that was just a bit too long and too expensively sculpted to belong to someone who worked in the insurance business. He jumped up with an abrupt energy and leaned across the table to shake Walker's hand, his coat open and his tie a little loose, but he didn't smile. He sat down again with exactly the same energy. Walker heard Winters saying, "And this is Mr. Werfel."

Walker's eyes shot to Stillman, whose face had a.s.sumed the remote, peaceful calm of a statue of Buddha presiding silently in the dim recesses of an empty temple. Walker forced his face into an achingly false smile and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Werfel."

He took a seat across the table from Werfel and watched Daphne Pool's thin hand slide a red binder onto the table under his chest. He nodded to her and opened the cover. There was a photocopy of an insurance policy. He saw the name Andrew Werfel and turned past it to the next divider. There was the death certificate of Andrew Werfel, then a series of copies: a birth certificate that said Alan Weems Werfel, and a driver's license that said the same and had a picture of the man across from him looking with half-lidded eyes and disarranged hair at the camera. Then there was a copy of the first page of a pa.s.sport with a much better picture of Alan Werfel. The final section contained copies of the standard forms for settling an insurance claim, all signed Alan Werfel Alan Werfel and and Ellen Snyder. Ellen Snyder.

He closed the notebook and glanced at Stillman, who was now leaning back beside him with his fingers knitted across his solar plexus and his eyes opaque. Walker tried to imagine what an important person from the home office would say, but he wasn't even certain that he knew what such a person would be doing here. He turned to Winters. "Dale, can you bring me up to speed? Where do we stand now?"

Winters looked uncomfortable. His eyes flicked up nervously toward Werfel, then he said, "That little binder tells you just about everything. There was a policy. Mr. Werfel senior pa.s.sed away. A gentleman purporting to be Mr. Werfel junior called the office to find out how to submit a claim. He was referred to our a.s.sistant manager, Ellen Snyder, who explained the procedures and set up an appointment. Meanwhile she researched the policy, got the necessary information, requested a settlement check, and so on. When she met with him, he had the proper identification ..." He glanced at Werfel again, this time in a way that seemed to be apologetic but wasn't quite. "Or what seemed to be proper. Miss Snyder certified the claim, and disbursed the death benefit."

Walker wished Winters had just said "money." "Is Miss Snyder going to be joining us?"

This made Winters so embarra.s.sed that Walker regretted the question. "She's not in today," Winters said numbly.

Walker pretended that had been an answer. He smiled again. "And, Mr. Werfel, I a.s.sume you showed up the same way later, to submit your claim?"

Werfel nodded sullenly.

Walker wondered what Werfel was doing here. It occurred to him that maybe he had been waiting for Walker. The thought made a chill start in the back of his neck and move down his spine. Stillman had given these people the idea that Walker was a high-level executive, brought him in here dressed like one, and duped him into acting like one. There seemed to be no way out except forward. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you, Mr. Werfel."

Werfel's face seemed to harden. "You know G.o.dd.a.m.ned well it has."

Walker turned to Winters for help. Winters said hastily, "It's a complicated matter. Lots of gray area. You see, the license and pa.s.sport and so on that the man submitted were genuine. The check was made out to Alan Werfel. It was endorsed in the name 'Alan Werfel.'"

"I don't think I understand," said Walker. "I had understood that we'd paid the money to the wrong man-an impostor?"

"It seems we did," said Winters. "But the question that remains to be settled is, was this the fault of the company, or does Mr. Werfel also, through negligence, share in the fault? That is, we are responsible for recognizing false pieces of identification. If the identification presented is genuine identification, and the genuine owner has taken no steps to report its loss or theft, is McClaren Life and Casualty the one at fault? The only one? If not, is the company liable for a second payment of the full amount, or should some middle ground be reached?"

"So we're here to discuss his claim," said Walker. He tried to hide his fascination.

Winters looked at him evenly. "If Mr. Werfel was the victim of a theft of ident.i.ty, then McClaren's certainly has to deplore that. But if, for instance, the impostor had executed a bank instrument in Mr. Werfel's name, and appropriated his bank account, who would take the loss? The financial inst.i.tution? Of course not. Mr. Werfel would. The principle has been tested in California courts. If the impostor had used Mr. Werfel's identification to secure a loan, who would be responsible? Mr. Werfel."

Walker looked at Stillman, who was still immobile. His hands had not stirred from their position clasped across his belly. He did not blink, look at Walker, or show any sign that he had heard. Walker didn't take his eyes off Stillman as he said, "Are you saying the company won't pay the death benefit twice?"

Winters responded, "Certainly not the entire amount? Not twelve million dollars."

Walker saw a slight twitch at the corners of Stillman's lips. It could easily have been a tiny disturbance in the course of his dream.

Werfel could remain silent no longer. He spoke in a tight, quiet voice. "You can't say that you paid money to me when I never saw it, never touched it, never knew about it. I didn't think I had to bring my lawyers with me today, but-"

Walker surprised himself. He held up his hand quickly to forestall the threat. "Wait, Mr. Werfel." He glared at Stillman, but Stillman looked as though he could be dead. "Mr. Winters, can I talk with you for a minute?"

"All right," said Winters resentfully. He stood up and said curtly to the wall across from him, "Excuse us."

Winters was twice Walker's age, a head taller, and so broad that he seemed to fill the narrow hallway outside the conference room. He glowered down at Walker and waited.

Walker said, "I don't think this compromise thing is working. I don't think he's going to let us hold back what his father paid for."

Winters leaned forward a little, his face knowing and superior. "I can tell you that San Francisco is not going to let us pay out twelve million dollars on a clerical error."

Walker could barely keep his eyes on the face. It was almost a snarl, the face of a cornered criminal-angry and full of hatred, but frightened, too. Walker felt sorry for him. He had probably been selling insurance from this office since before Walker was born, and he was afraid of being fired. Walker guessed from his first glance at Werfel that he was the sort of rich that would have made working a ludicrous activity. His suit was a breathtakingly expensive example of the latest cut, but he wore it with a kind of carelessness, as though if he pa.s.sed a rugby match on his way to his car, he might join it without giving his clothes a thought. Walker said, "This isn't your fault."

Winters looked only slightly less hostile: now he was suspicious.

Walker tried to soothe him. "The arguments you were making were right. Your office had a guy come in who must have looked like Werfel and had Werfel's identification. Your a.s.sistant manager had him sign the releases and quitclaims before she paid him. She followed the company's procedures. The position you're taking is correct: everything was done right. But the place for that conversation is inside the company, not with the beneficiary."

Winters shook his head as though to clear it of Walker's nonsense. "It's twelve million. Suppose it was you. Suppose you could get a smaller amount-say five million, or six-today. Or, you could go to court for years, waiting and paying legal fees, and maybe never get a dime. Would you take the offer?"

"Yes," said Walker. "I would. But the reason I would is that I don't have five million, and never expect to. If I were Alan Werfel, I think I would sue for it."

Winter smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Let him."

Walker tried again. "The company will get its money back when this fake Werfel is caught. Maybe all of it, maybe just a big part of it. The company has a really good record of recovery in simple fraud cases. Seventy-six point eight percent last year." He wished he had not said that. He was sounding like an a.n.a.lyst; high-level executives probably didn't have statistics spilling from their memories into their conversations.

"That could be the compromise," said Winters triumphantly. "McClaren's will pay Werfel some portion-say, four million-and if we recover the first twelve million, Werfel will get his other eight."

"We keep his eight million because he lost his driver's license?" asked Walker. "It's not fair."

Winters leaned close to Walker and his voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "We've got to get something."

"What?"

"You and me. Here and now. It's our chance to cut this loss. If we don't, we'll lose our jobs."

Walker thought for a moment. "Did somebody tell you that?"

"They don't have to."

As Walker stared at the face filled with despair, he considered. He said, with a confidence that he didn't feel, "I'll take the blame. We'll say I made the decision. You'll be in the clear, and I'll take my chances. Okay?"

Winters was angry and desperate, his eyes bulging. "No. It's not okay. Twelve million is too much blame for one person to take. The excess spills over on everyone. We have to get some of it back."

"By holding back eight million from the legitimate beneficiary?"

"By negotiating!"

"It's not right, and it won't even work."

"We'll see," said Winters. He stepped toward the conference room and reached for the door handle, while Walker took a deep breath.

"No," he said sharply. "We won't."

Winters turned toward him. "What did you say?"

"Excuse me," said Walker. He opened the conference room door. "Mr. Stillman?"

Stillman's eyes rose from the spot on his belly that he seemed to be looking at. He silently pointed at his chest: Me? Then he stood and joined them in the hallway.

Walker kept his eyes on Winters. "Mr. Stillman, can you get Mr. McClaren on the phone for me, please?"

Winters's face began to turn pale, but he let his features show no sign of surprise.

Stillman said, "Sure. I'll get him." He took his cell phone out of his coat pocket, turned it on, and listened for a dial tone, then punched in the numbers. His face showed no emotion. He kept the phone at his ear. "h.e.l.lo. This is Stillman. Yes. Could you get Mr. McClaren for me, please?"

Winters made a grab for the telephone, but Stillman seemed to know it was coming. He half-turned his body quickly so that Winters's involuntary lunge was stopped when it hit Stillman's shoulder. Winters's breath came out in a huff, and he stood gasping, clutching the s.p.a.ce under his ribs.

Stillman's voice was even and affable. "Wait, I think you'd better cancel that. I'm on a cell phone, and I seem to be getting interference. Tell him I may call later." He switched off the telephone and turned to face Winters.

Winters's own action had shocked him. His eyes were on Walker, but they seemed to be looking inward.

Walker said quietly, "Can you get somebody here to cut him a check?"

"All right," said Winters.

"I'll wait here." He watched Winters walking toward the rear office, then noticed that Stillman had already moved off to the front of the building, where the support staff was working.

When Winters returned, Walker opened the conference room door. Walker sat down beside Daphne Pool and waited for Winters to speak. Werfel was up, staring out the window with his hands in his pockets, but Walker could see from the way the beautiful suit hung that the hands must be clenched fists.

Winters said, "Mr. Werfel, we apologize for the delay, and we thank you for your patience while we worked our way through the bureaucratic difficulties. We've received permission to let you have your full payment today."

Werfel spun around, stared at Walker, and grinned. Walker didn't smile back.

7.

Stillman walked out to the car carrying an armload of papers in files and binders, put them into the trunk, and got into the driver's seat. He had already started the car before Walker could slip in beside him. Then Stillman drove, maintaining his mysterious, peaceful expression.

"Aren't you going to say anything about it?" Walker demanded.

Stillman seemed to consider the question for a few seconds, as though he were deciding not how to answer it, but whether it had been addressed to him.

Walker persisted. "Did you know about that-that Werfel was going to be there? Did you set me up to take a fall?"

Stillman's eyes were cold when he turned toward Walker. "I don't see anything wrong with having you all together in one room. You're the insurance company, and he's your client. If you end up taking a fall, it's your fall."

Walker was silent for ten minutes while Stillman drove along surface streets, accelerating at the start of each block, then coasting to a stop to wait for each interminable red light. His mind vacillated between hating Stillman and wondering why what he had said seemed perfectly true.

After a long time, Stillman said, "Don't be so gloomy. What you got was worth the tuition."

"It was?" said Walker bitterly.

"Sure. One day out in the real world and you got your freedom."

"Oh, yeah," said Walker. "They used to call it 'at liberty,' didn't they?"

"Look at the dark side, then," Stillman said. "Say in ten minutes McClaren calls. He's got my cell phone number. He just heard you bluffed Winters into giving Werfel twelve million, and you're fired. No, let's make it good. You're fired, he's already having his secretary call other companies to make sure you never work in that business again, and he's going to sue your a.s.s to recover the twelve. You don't have it, of course, but the story will be in the papers and you'll never work anywhere again."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Walker thought for a few seconds. "Let's see. I guess I'd lose the lawsuit, and go bankrupt. Then I'd learn to live without credit cards and try to start over someplace where all that doesn't matter. Maybe I'd learn to do something-I know-I could go back to college for a year or two to pick up a credential, and try to teach. By then n.o.body in schools would remember I got sued, and they wouldn't care whether I lost twelve million or twelve cents." He paused for a moment, then said, "I wouldn't make as much money, but at the end of my life I'd probably feel better than I do right now."

"I doubt it," said Stillman. "At the end of your life you're dying. Probably feels like s.h.i.t."

"In the larger sense."

"Not scared of it, are you?" asked Stillman.

Walker hesitated. "Not that I can detect, other than the dying part."

"That's freedom," Stillman said. "You've set yourself free. If you're doubting the value of that, go back and take a look at Winters-heart pumping, cold sweat, the taste of metal in his mouth. You should celebrate."

"I don't think I can afford it," said Walker. He was quiet for a moment. "But I think you're right. Maybe I'll quit before they fire me."

"Don't be too hasty," Stillman mumbled uncomfortably.

"I went to work at McClaren's because it had a famous name and they wanted me. I went along doing my reports, and after a while, I thought I knew more than I did. McClaren's is a fraud."

Stillman frowned at him for a second, then said reluctantly, "Well, not entirely." He looked at him again, then said, "I didn't want to tell you this right away, because it might cloud the issue and deprive you of your full measure of freedom. But you aren't going to get fired for what you did in there."

"I'm not?" He felt the unmistakable jolt of a parachute opening and jerking him to a near stop. He floated down in amazement.