“I’m sorry,” a woman said, “he’s out with the flu, probably for a few days.”

Stone thanked her, hung up, and called Billy’s cell number.

“Billy Burnett,” a voice said.

“It’s Stone Barrington. I’m sorry to hear you’re ill.”

“Thanks, Stone, but I’m fine.”

“I just wondered if you’d heard anything from Morales or Croft.”

“Not a word,” Billy said, “but they’ve gone to San Francisco to talk with her.”

“How do you know that?” Stone asked.

Billy looked up and saw the red Korean car, which had been gone for nearly an hour, approaching the Grosvenor house again. “Trust me,” Billy said. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Stone. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up without waiting for a reply. He watched as the little car turned into the Grosvenor driveway.

—

MORALES AND CROFT followed the long driveway through some trees and up a hill and came to a halt in front of the house. “Nice place,” Morales said.

“Let’s get in there and brace her,” Croft said, opening the door.

“Shall we use our new SFPD ID?” Morales asked.

“We’re not in SF anymore,” Croft replied, ringing the bell.

A huge young man in a well-cut suit came to the door. “Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”

The two detectives flashed badges. “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

“May I know the nature of your business?”

“It’s police business,” Croft replied. “Tell her that.”

“Please come in,” the man said, stepping out of their way and indicating that they should go into a room to their left. “Please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

He left and the detectives found themselves in a handsome library, with shelves lined with leather-bound books. Croft took one off a shelf and looked at it. “Winston Churchill,” he said. He replaced the book.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Barbara Grosvenor said, in her pleasant, well-modulated voice.

They turned to find an elegantly dressed woman with straight gray hair to her shoulders. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grosvenor,” Morales said.

“Won’t you please sit down?”

They both sat on a sofa, and she took a chair opposite them. “Would you like some refreshment?” she asked. “It’s late in the day—perhaps something more substantial?”

“Anything soft would be very nice,” Morales said.

Barbara lifted a phone on the table next to her and said, “May we have a pitcher of iced tea, please?” She hung up. “It won’t be a moment. I understand you’re from Los Angeles, is that correct?”

“That is correct,” Morales said. “We’re conducting an investigation, and we think you can help us.”

She started to speak, but a uniformed houseman entered the room and set a pitcher of iced tea, three glasses, and a plate of cookies on the coffee table before them.

“Thank you, Benito,” Barbara said.