Starkey and I got out of my car for a better view. The valets glanced over at us, but probably thought we were deciding whether to try out the restaurant.

Marx glanced at the files as Munson said something, then Marx brought a briefcase from under the table. He put the files into it, then put it away and motioned a waiter over.

The head valet was openly watching us now, and growing suspicious. It wouldn't be long before he alerted someone in the restaurant.

Keep an eye on them. I'm going to pull around the corner for a better spot.

I moved my car into the shadows beneath a sycamore tree, then got out with my camera. The telephoto images would be grainy in the dim light, but the identities of the three people in the restaurant would be clear. The head valet didn't like seeing me with the camera, but couldn't do anything about it. Maybe he thought I was a paparazzo.

Starkey and I settled into my car and watched Marx and his inner circle share red wine and steaks for one hour and ten minutes. Then Marx paid the tab. The valets brought Munson's Mustang first, then a light-colored Toyota, then a dark Lexus sedan. When the cars were lined up nice and neat, Marx put his briefcase into the Lexus. Bastilla took a manila envelope from her car and gave it to Marx, who tossed it in with the briefcase. Munson took a cardboard file box from the Mustang's trunk, and put it into the back of Marx's Lexus. I photographed all of it. Everything was going with Marx.

Starkey said, What do you think he's going to do with it?

I don't know. Maybe nothing. We still don't know what they have.

Her stare was languid and thoughtful through vines of smoke.

Change it, more likely. You don't destroy that many records a couple of files, maybe, sure, anyone can lose a file but you can't explain it if that much stuff goes missing. So you change it. Take out the parts you don't like. Retype the pages if you have to. Then you put everything back in the system and hope nobody notices.

I was staring at her when she finished. She saw me staring, and shrugged.

Just saying.

Marx didn't say much when they finished. They slipped into their cars, and pulled into the oncoming traffic. Starkey and I followed Marx.

He climbed onto the Pasadena Freeway almost right away and never once exceeded the speed limit. The traffic was heavy, but smooth the lanes flowing with on-their-way-home-from-work freeway professionals who made this same drive at this same hour every day of the week. We crossed the river and cruised up through Montecito Heights, where the Pasadena officially becomes part of Route 66. Marx led us into South Pasadena, where the freeway ends, then along surface streets into the soft residential slopes of Altadena. We entered a neighborhood of neat, modest homes set among pepper trees that cast jagged shadows on the lawns. When his blinker came on, I cut the lights and pulled to the side.