He followed Dale Winters past a guard at a desk, who waved them on without resorting to the sign-in sheet, and into the elevator. The door opened on the fourth floor, and he followed Winters into the 467 suite. He had memorized his guide’s name as effortlessly as he memorized the names of other inferiors he met. It would still be present in the front of his brain until he left Los Angeles, and then it would dissolve.

They moved into the reception area, but there was no receptionist. Everyone here, male or female, was a lawyer or an accountant, or both. There were no clients or customers to visit the office, so there was no one to greet them and no waiting room for them, only a high gray counter like a bulwark facing the doorway.

The two men walked past the barrier and into the office of Brian Summers. There was nobody behind the desk, and nobody was surprised, because the death of Summers was the reason for this occasion.

A moment later an older man stepped in and held out his hand. “Mr. Duquesne? I’m Tyler Walsh. We’ve got the papers prepared for you. Would you like to look at them here in Mr. Summers’s office or in the conference room?”

Charlie said, “Out of respect for old ‘Brian,’ I think I prefer the conference room.”

“And what can I bring you while you’re at it—coffee, a soft drink, water, sparkling or flat?”

“Coffee, cream no sugar, Tyler,” Charlie said. “Are you the attorney who worked on the papers?”

“I’m one of them, sir.”

“Then maybe Dale can get the coffee. Would you mind, Dale?”

“I’m happy to, sir,” said Dale. He moved toward the door with alacrity. Charlie could tell that, as he had expected, he had made a convert of Dale, who was gratified that a member of the Duquesne family had remembered his name for three or four minutes.

The two older men entered the conference room. Charlie said, “I hope that wasn’t out of line, and Dale is still young enough to fetch coffee.”

“Of course, sir.”