"And what did he say to that?"

"He said I was in danger, too. He told me I should leave town for a while. Go visit my sister in Oregon. But I won't."

Her towel was coming loose. Margo tightened it, lowering it across her firm, enhanced breasts. "So I'm telling you, George went into hiding," she said. "And I think you better find him fast, because the man needs help."

"I see," Evans said. "But I suppose it's possible he isn't in hiding, that he really crashed his car.... In which case, there are things you need to do now, Margo."

He explained to her that if George remained missing, his assets could be ordered frozen. Which meant that she ought to withdraw everything from the bank account into which he put money for her every month. So she would be sure to have money to live on.

"But that's silly," she protested. "I know he'll be back in a few days."

"Just in case," Evans said.

She frowned. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"

"No," Evans said. "I'm just saying, it could be a while before this thing gets cleared up."

"Look," she said. "He's sick. You're supposed to be his friend. Find him."

Evans said that he would try. When he left, Margo was flouncing off to the bedroom to get dressed before going to the bank.

Outside, in the milky afternoon sunlight, fatigue overwhelmed him. All he wanted to do was go home and go to sleep. He got in his car and started driving. He was within sight of his apartment when his phone rang again.

It was Jennifer, asking where he was.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't come today."

"It's important, Peter. Really."

He said he was sorry, and would call her later.

Then Lisa, Herb Lowenstein's secretary, called to say that Nicholas Drake had been trying to reach him all afternoon. "He really wants to talk to you."

"Okay," Evans said, "I'll call."

"He sounds pissed."

"Okay."

"But you better call Sarah first."

"Why?"

His phone went dead. It always did in the back alley of his apartment; it was a dead spot in the cellular net. He slipped the phone into his shirt pocket; he'd call in a few minutes. He drove down the alley, and pulled into his garage space.

He walked up the back stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door.

And stared.

The apartment was a mess. Furniture torn apart, cushions slashed open, papers all over the place, books tumbled out of the bookshelves and lying scattered on the floor.

He stood in the entrance, stunned. After a moment he walked into the room, straightened one of the toppled chairs and sat down in it. It occurred to him that he had to call the police. He got up, found the phone on the floor, and dialed them. But almost immediately the cell phone in his pocket began to ring. He hung up on the police and answered the cell phone. "Yes."

It was Lisa. "We got cut off," she said. "You better call Sarah right away."

"Why?"

"She's over at Morton's house. There was a robbery there."

"What?"

"I know. You better call her," she said. "She sounded upset."

Evans flipped the phone shut. He stood and walked into the kitchen. Everything was a mess there, too. He glanced into the bedroom. Everything was a mess. All he could think was the maid wasn't coming until next Tuesday. How could he ever clean this up?

He dialed his phone.

"Sarah?"

"Is that you, Peter?"

"Yes. What happened?"

"Not on the phone. Have you gone home yet?"

"Just got here."

"So...did it happen to you too?"

"Yes. Me too."

"Can you come here?"

"Yes."

"How soon?" She sounded frightened.

"Ten minutes."

"Okay. See you." She hung up.

Evans turned the ignition of his Prius and it hummed to life. He was pleased to have the hybrid; the waiting list in Los Angeles to get one was now more than six months. He'd had to take a light gray one, which wasn't his preferred color, but he loved the car. And he took a quiet satisfaction in noticing how many of them there were on the streets these days.

He drove down the alley to Olympic. Across the street he saw a blue Prius, just like the one he had seen below Margo's apartment. It was electric blue, a garish color. He thought he liked his gray better. He turned right, and then left again, heading north through Beverly Hills. He knew there would be rush hour traffic starting at this time of day and he should get up to Sunset, where traffic moved a little better.

When he got to the traffic light at Wilshire, he saw another blue Prius behind him. That same ugly color. Two guys in the car, not young. When he made his way to the light at Sunset, the same car was still behind him. Two cars back.

He turned left, toward Holmby Hills.

The Prius turned left, too. Following him.

Evans pulled up to Morton's gate and pressed the buzzer. The security camera above the box blinked on. "Can I help you?"

"It's Peter Evans for Sarah Jones."

A momentary pause, and then a buzz. The gates swung open slowly, revealing a curving roadway. The house was still hidden from view.

While he waited, Evans glanced down the road to his left. A block away, he saw the blue Prius coming up the road toward him. It passed him without slowing down, and disappeared around a curve.

So. Perhaps he was not being followed after all.

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

The gates swung wide, and he drove inside.

HOLMBY HILLS.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5.

3:54 P.M.

It was almost four o'clock as Evans drove up the driveway to Morton's house. The property was crawling with security men. There were several searching among the trees near the front gate, and more in the driveway, clustered around several vans marked anderson security service.

Evans parked next to Sarah's Porsche. He went to the front door. A security man opened it. "Ms. Jones is in the living room."

He walked through the large entryway and past the staircase that curved up to the second floor. He looked into the living room, prepared to see the same disarray that he'd witnessed at his own apartment, but here everything seemed to be in its place. The room appeared exactly as Evans remembered it.

Morton's living room was arranged to display his extensive collection of Asian antiquities. Above the fireplace was a large Chinese screen with shimmering gilded clouds; a large stone head from the Angkor region of Cambodia, with thick lips and a half-smile, was mounted on a pedestal near the couch; against one wall stood a seventeenth-century Japanese tansu, tansu, its rich wood glowing. Extremely rare, two hundred-year-old wood-cuts by Hiroshige hung on the back wall. A standing Burmese Buddha, carved in faded wood, stood at the entrance to the media room, next door. its rich wood glowing. Extremely rare, two hundred-year-old wood-cuts by Hiroshige hung on the back wall. A standing Burmese Buddha, carved in faded wood, stood at the entrance to the media room, next door.

In the middle of the room, surrounded by these antiquities, Sarah sat slumped on the couch, staring blankly out the window. She looked over as Evans came in. "They got your apartment?"

"Yes. It's a mess."

"This house was broken into, too. It must have happened last night. All the security people here are trying to figure out how it could have happened. Look here."

She got up and pushed the pedestal that held the Cambodian head. Considering the weight of the head, the pedestal moved surprisingly easily, revealing a safe sunk in the floor. The safe door stood open. Evans saw neatly stacked manila folders inside.

"What was taken?" he said.

"As far as I can tell, nothing," she said. "Seems like everything is still in its place. But I don't know exactly what George had in these safes. They were his safes. I rarely went into them."

She moved to the tansu, tansu, sliding open a center panel, and then a false back panel, to expose a safe in the wall behind. It, too, was open. "There are six safes in the house," she said. "Three down here, one in the second-floor study, one in the basement, and one up in his bedroom closet. They opened every one." sliding open a center panel, and then a false back panel, to expose a safe in the wall behind. It, too, was open. "There are six safes in the house," she said. "Three down here, one in the second-floor study, one in the basement, and one up in his bedroom closet. They opened every one."

"Cracked?"

"No. Someone knew the combinations."

Evans said, "Did you report this to the police?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I wanted to talk to you first."

Her head was close to his. Evans could smell a faint perfume. He said, "Why?"

"Because," she said. "Someone knew the combinations, Peter."

"You mean it was an inside job."

"It had to be."

"Who stays in the house at night?"

"Two housekeepers sleep in the far wing. But last night was their night off, so they weren't here."

"So nobody was in the house?"

"That's right."

"What about the alarm?"

"I armed it myself, before I went to San Francisco yesterday."

"The alarm didn't go off?"

She shook her head.

"So somebody knew the code," Evans said. "Or knew how to bypass it. What about the security cameras?"

"They're all over the property," she said, "inside the house and out. They record onto a hard drive in the basement."

"You've played it back?"

She nodded. "Nothing but static. It was scrubbed. The security people are trying to recover something, but..." She shrugged. "I don't think they'll get anywhere."

It would take pretty sophisticated burglars to know how to wipe a hard drive. "Who has the alarm codes and safe combinations?"

"As far as I know, just George and me. But obviously somebody else does, too."

"I think you should call the police," he said.

"They're looking for something," she said. "Something that George had. Something they think one of us has now. They think George gave it to one of us."

Evans frowned. "But if that's true," he said, "why are they being so obvious? They smashed my place so I couldn't help notice. And even here, they left the safes wide open, to be sure you'd know you'd been robbed..."