Jack stared into the narrow confines of the six-foot length of steel… just the length of a coffin. But coffins probably were a lot roomier. What if he got stuck in there?

Milkdud had given him a few hints on how to maneuver in a tight spot. This might be the time to try them out.

Jack turned off the headlamp. Then, with his right arm extended ahead and his left arm close against his side, he squeezed himself diagonally into the duct.

Tight. Very tight.

Now he truly appreciated what Dud had meant about claustrophobia being a deterrent to hacking.

Slowly, silently, he inched forward until he had about eighty percent of the office in view.

A plump, red-haired man in a white shirt—Gordon Haffner, Jack hoped—sat behind the desk, talking on the phone. Jack could hear him perfectly. As he watched, two other men entered. Jack recognized one from the van on Thursday night: Thomas Clayton. The other was new—dark-skinned, dark-haired, bearded, very intense-looking, with an accent from somewhere in the Middle East.

Jack smiled. He figured he was looking at Thomas Clayton’s backer—the guy who was killing anyone who stood between him and the Clayton House. Excellent. Now, if they’d all just be so good as to discuss exactly why they wanted the house so badly, Jack could get the hell out of here.

But they didn’t. They talked about Alicia and how they hoped she’d come up with a sale price this morning so they could settle the matter of ownership, but the reason was never mentioned.

And what was Thomas doing here? Sean had told Haffner that Alicia didn’t want her brother present at the meeting. But here he was, and the clock was ticking, getting close to nine-thirty. He was sure Alicia would pop her cork if she saw him here. This was no way to get her to cooperate. What were they thinking?

And then Haffner’s intercom buzzed, announcing “Mr. O’Neill and Ms. Clayton.” Haffner got up, slipped on his suit jacket, and said he’d be back as soon as he finished speaking to her.

Jack’s head jerked up and almost struck the ceiling of the duct.

What?

The meeting was supposed to be in Haffner’s office, just the other side of the register. Where the hell was he going?

Not that the meeting itself mattered. Alicia could fill him in later on anything important. Jack had crawled through these ducts to hear the postmortem. If he had any chance of picking up some choice tidbits of unguarded conversation about the Clayton house, that would be the time.

But if the meeting was being held somewhere else, so might the postmortem.