THE FOUR OF THEM piled into Laurence’s station wagon, since he and Theresa hadn’t seen much of the area, either. Stone drove, since he knew the territory.

A couple of miles up Tano Road, Stone saw a car in his rearview mirror. He had a couple of turns to make to get into the center of the city, and the car turned with him, though keeping well back. “Laurence,” he said, “remember the night I had a look at a car across the road from your house?”

“I do. Was it a silver Mini?”

“It was and is. It’s been following us since Tano Road.”

“It’s a local kid who’s a stringer for the National Inquisitor. It’s not the first time he’s made a bother of himself—he sneaked up on the house right after the security system was installed, and I nearly took a shot at him.”

“With what?”

“I bought a pistol.”

“I see.”

“He came to the press event that Faith Mackey set up, and I thought I’d seen the back of him, but I guess not.”

“Do you think he might be dangerous?”

“No, he’s just a skinny kid trying to make a few quid—excuse me, bucks.”

Stone turned onto Paseo de Peralta, which made a grand circle through some of the more interesting areas in town, then he turned onto Upper Canyon Road.

“Canyon Road? Isn’t this where the art galleries are?”

“That part is down the hill, I just want to get a closer look at our tail.”

Stone drove past houses that became less frequent as they climbed the mountain. At the very top of the road there was a turnaround, and momentarily, the Mini passed him on the way up and made the turn, too. Stone stopped the station wagon and turned to block the road, then he got out. “Stay here, please,” he said to the others.

The Mini had stopped, and the young man stared owlishly at him through black-rimmed glasses as he approached. Stone rapped on the window glass with a knuckle; the kid thought about it for a minute, then the glass slid down. “What’s on your mind?” Stone asked.

“Nothing, not a thing.”

“Don’t you know you can get into trouble doing this sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Annoying people who want privacy. That’s what you get paid for by the Inquisitor, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How about if I call Pat Bolton and tell him you’re lousy at your job?”

“Who’s that?”

“The guy you used to work for.”

“Used to?”

“Not after our conversation. You’ve been Mr. Hayward’s guest once, and that was supposed to be it. Pat agreed, along with the other editors, that Mr. Hayward wouldn’t be bothered again.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Hayward’s attorney. How do you like the Mini?”