Then the brush exploded in a shower of branches and leaves, and a massive black shape hurtled out of the night.

On the advice of Simon Lawrence, Andrew Wren enjoyed a leisurely dinner at Roy’s, topping it off with the chocolate soufflé because everyone around him seemed to be doing the same. He was not disappointed. Then he went back out into the lobby for a nightcap. He drank a glass of port and engaged in conversation with a computer-software salesman from California who was in town to do a little business with Microsoft, picking up a few new tidbits of information on Bill Gates in the process (he never knew what was going to prove useful in his business). So it was nearing nine o’clock when he went up to his room to turn in.

He saw the manila envelope as soon as he opened the door, a pale square packet lying on the dark carpet. Wary of strange deliveries and having known more than one investigative journalist who had been the recipient of a letter bomb, he switched on the light and knelt to examine it. After a careful check, and noting how thin it was, he decided it was safe and picked it up. No writing on it anywhere. He carried it over to the small table by the window and set it down. Then he walked to the closet and hung his coat, turned on a few more lights, called the message service to retrieve a call that had come in over the dinner hour from his editor, and finally went back to the table, sat down in the straight-backed chair tucked under it, and picked up the envelope once more.

He knew what it was before he opened it. His intuition told him in a loud, clear voice. It was the material he had been looking for on Simon Lawrence. It was the evidence he had come to find. Maybe it was from his mysterious source. Maybe it was from someone else. Whoever it was from, it was either going to propel the stalled investigation of the Wiz to a new level or it was going to end it once and for all.

Wren separated the flap from the envelope and slipped out the sheaf of papers nestled inside. He set the envelope aside and began to read. It took him a long time because the material consisted mostly of photocopies of bank accounts, transfer slips, records of deposits and withdrawals, and ledger pages, and it was difficult to follow. Besides, he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. After a while, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His glasses slid down his nose, and his face assumed an intense, professorial look that accompanied deep thought. His burly body slouched heavily in the hard-backed chair, but he paid no attention to his discomfort. Outside, on the rain-slicked streets below, a stream of traffic crawled by, and every so often someone would forget what city they were in and honk their horn in irritation.