He sat down in the road and put his head in his hands. And cried.

POINT MOODY.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5.

3:10 A.M.

By the time the police were finished talking with them, and a rescue team had rappelled down the cliff to recover the shoe, it was three o'clock in the morning. They found no other sign of the body, and the cops, talking among themselves, agreed that the prevailing currents would probably carry the body up the coast to Pismo Beach. "We'll find him," one said, "in about a week or so. Or at least, what's left by the great whites."

Now the wreck was being cleared away, and loaded onto a flatbed truck. Evans wanted to leave, but the highway patrolman who had taken Evans's statement kept coming back to ask for more details. He was a kid, in his early twenties. It seemed he had not filled out many of these forms before.

The first time he came back to Evans, he said, "How soon after the accident would you say you arrived on the scene?"

Evans said, "I'm not sure. The Ferrari was about half a mile ahead of us, maybe more. We were probably going forty miles an hour, so...maybe a minute later?"

The kid looked alarmed. "You were going forty in that limo? On this road?"

"Well. Don't hold me to it."

Then he came back and said, "You said you were the first on the scene. You told me you crawled around at the edge of the road?"

"That's right."

"So you would have stepped on broken glass, on the road?"

"Yes. The windshield was shattered. I had it on my hands, too, when I crouched down."

"So that explains why the glass was disturbed."

"Yes."

"Lucky you didn't cut your hands."

"Yes."

The third time he came back, he said, "In your estimation, what time did the accident occur?"

"What time?" Evans looked at his watch. "I have no idea. But let me see..." He tried to work backward. The speech must have started about eight-thirty. Morton would have left the hotel at nine. Through San Francisco, then over the bridge..."Maybe nine-forty-five, or ten at night."

"So, five hours ago? Roughly?"

"Yes."

The kid said, "Huh." As if he were surprised.

Evans looked over at the flatbed truck, which now held the crumpled remains of the Ferrari. One cop was standing on the flatbed, beside the car. Three other cops were on the street, talking with some animation. There was another man there, wearing a tuxedo. He was talking to the cops. When the man turned, Evans was surprised to see that it was John Kenner.

"What's going on?" Evans asked the kid.

"I don't know. They just asked me to check on the time of the accident."

Then the driver got into the flatbed truck, and started the engine. One of the cops yelled to the kid, "Forget it, Eddie!"

"Never mind, then," the kid said to Evans. "I guess everything's okay."

Evans looked over at Sarah, to see if she had noticed Kenner. She was leaning on the limousine, talking on the phone. Evans looked back in time to see Kenner get into a dark sedan driven by the Nepali guy, and drive off.

The cops were leaving. The flatbed turned around and headed up the road, toward the bridge.

Harry said, "Looks like it's time to go."

Evans got into the limousine. They drove back toward the lights of San Francisco.

TO LOS ANGELES.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5.

12:02 P.M.

Morton's jet flew back to Los Angeles at noon. The mood was somber. All the same people were on board, and a few more, but they sat quietly, saying little. The late-edition papers had printed the story that millionaire philanthropist George Morton, depressed by the death of his beloved wife, Dorothy, had given a disjointed speech (termed "rambling and illogical" by the San Francisco Chronicle San Francisco Chronicle) and a few hours later had died in a tragic automobile crash while test-driving his new Ferrari.

In the third paragraph, the reporter mentioned that single-car fatalities were frequently caused by undiagnosed depression and were often disguised suicides. And this, according to a quoted psychiatrist, was the likely explanation for Morton's death.

About ten minutes into the flight, the actor Ted Bradley said, "I think we should drink a toast in memory of George, and observe a minute of silence." And to a chorus of "Hear, hear," glasses of champagne were passed all around.

"To George Morton," Ted said. "A great American, a great friend, and a great supporter of the environment. We, and the planet, will miss him."

For the next ten minutes, the celebrities on board remained relatively subdued, but slowly the conversation picked up, and finally they began to talk and argue as usual. Evans was sitting in the back, in the same seat he had occupied when they flew up. He watched the action at the table in the center, where Bradley was now explaining that the US got only 2 percent of its energy from sustainable sources and that we needed a crash program to build thousands of offshore wind farms, like England and Denmark were doing. The talk moved on to fuel cells, hydrogen cars, and photovoltaic households running off the grid. Some talked about how much they loved their hybrid cars, which they had bought for their staff to drive.

Evans felt his spirits improve as he listened to them. Despite the loss of George Morton, there were still lots of people like these-famous, high-profile people committed to change-who would lead the next generation to a more enlightened future.

He was starting to drift off to sleep when Nicholas Drake dropped into the seat beside his. Drake leaned across the aisle. "Listen," he said. "I owe you an apology for last night."

"That's all right," Evans said.

"I was way out of line. And I want you to know I'm sorry for how I behaved. I was upset, and very worried. You know George has been acting weird as hell the last couple of weeks. Talking strangely, picking fights. I guess in retrospect he was beginning to have a nervous breakdown. But I didn't know. Did you?"

"I am not sure it was a nervous breakdown."

"It must have been," Drake said. "What else could it have been? My God, the man disowns his life's work, and then goes out and kills himself. By the way, you can forget about any documents that he signed yesterday. Under the circumstances, he obviously was not in his right mind. And I know," he added, "that you wouldn't argue the point differently. You're already conflicted enough, doing work both for him and for us. You really should have recused yourself and seen to it that any papers were drawn up by a neutral attorney. I'm not going to accuse you of malpractice, but you've shown highly questionable judgment."

Evans said nothing. The threat was plain enough.

"Well, anyway," Drake said, resting his hand on Evans's knee, "I just wanted to apologize. I know you did your best with a difficult situation, Peter. And...I think we're going to come out of this all right."

The plane landed in Van Nuys. A dozen black SUV limos, the latest fashion, were lined up on the runway, waiting for the passengers. All the celebrities hugged, kissed air, and departed.

Evans was the last to leave. He didn't rate a car and driver. He climbed into his little Prius hybrid, which he'd parked there the day before, and drove through the gates and onto the freeway. He thought he should go to the office, but unexpected tears came to his eyes as he negotiated the midday traffic. He wiped them away and decided he was too damned tired to go to the office. Instead, he would go back to his apartment to get some sleep.

He was almost home when his cell phone rang. It was Jennifer Haynes, at the Vanutu litigation team. "I'm sorry about George," she said. "It's just terrible. Everybody here is very upset, as you can imagine. He pulled the funding, didn't he?"

"Yes, but Nick will fight it. You'll get your funding."

"We need to have lunch," she said.

"Well, I think-"

"Today?"

Something in her voice made him say, "I'll try."

"Phone me when you're here."

He hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately. It was Margo Lane, Morton's mistress. She was angry. "What the fuck is going on?"

"How do you mean?" Evans said.

"Was anybody going to fucking call me?"

"I'm sorry, Margo-"

"I just saw it on TV. Missing in San Francisco and presumed dead. They had pictures of the car."

"I was going to call you," Evans said, "when I got to my office." The truth was, she had completely slipped his mind.

"And when would that have been, next week? You're as bad as that sick assistant of yours. You're his lawyer, Peter. Do your fucking job. Because, you know, let's face it, this is not a surprise. I knew this was going to happen. We all did. I want you to come over here."

"I have a busy day."

"Just for a minute."

"All right," he said. "Just for a minute."

WEST LOS ANGELES.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5.

3:04 P.M.

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."