Ah, okay.

I could page him again.

No need. Listen, is he working at home?

I don't know, Mr. Cole. You know Alan. He might be writing a brief or doing research. He's hard to keep up with when he gets like this.

I hung up, then called a real estate agent I know who has access to the property tax rolls. Six minutes later I had Alan Levy's home address and was heading toward Santa Monica. It was afternoon when I arrived. I shouldn't have gone, but I did. I should have waited for the police, but I didn't.

The address brought me to a large two-story Cape Cod home three blocks from the beach in a lovely residential area. It was a family neighborhood with curbed sidewalks, kids on skateboards, and a hybrid in every drive, but it was also near the beach in Santa Monica, which meant the families were rich. I parked across the street. Two kids roared past on skateboards and a woman who was probably someone's housekeeper stood on a nearby corner. Gardeners worked at several of the houses, but the Levy residence was still. A gate across the drive hid the garage, so I couldn't see if Alan's car was at home or not. This time of the summer his kids would be out of school, but I couldn't tell if anyone was home. Maybe they were away at camp, but maybe they were splashing and grab-assing in their pool, and Alan was splashing with them. Or maybe he was crouched inside the house, watching the street through a gap in the shades.

I took my gun from beneath the seat, wedged it under my shirt, then strolled up the sidewalk. My phone vibrated as I reached the curb, but it was Bastilla. I ignored her.

The front door was large and heavy as a coffin lid. I knocked politely, then rang the bell. No one came, so I climbed over the driveway gate into a spacious backyard featuring a beautiful pool with used-brick decking and a lovely rose garden. No kids were splashing. Levy's family wasn't enjoying the breathtaking summer day. A single leaf floated in the pool. The water was so clean it might have been floating on air.

I walked along the back of the house, rapping on glass sliders and French doors, but nothing and no one moved.

Hey, Alan, it's Elvis Cole. Anyone home?

Not even a housekeeper.

I went to the garage. The garage door was down and the side door was locked. I didn't want to waste time picking the lock, so I returned to the French doors. I broke a pane, reached inside, and let myself in. I should have been holding my gun, but I put it away. I didn't want to scare his children. They might be inside, sleeping. Maybe all of them were sleeping.

Is anyone here?

I stood just inside the door, listening, but the house remained quiet. I called out still louder.