“I don’t know what ‘up to something’ means,” I said, annoyed. “I worked very hard arranging Gail’s composition, and anyone who has some awareness of my craft would tell you it was quite a challenge. It’s amazing I got it done in the time allotted. I’ve run around getting the best copyist for her composition, I’ll be assisting the first rehearsal of the piece this afternoon—probably without Gail under these terrible circumstances—and for my services I’m receiving all of fifty dollars, even though I’ve already spent close to a hundred for the copying and related expenses.”

Culpepper smiled at me. “Why?”

“What?”

The road angled sharply. We were now on a cliff, and the most spectacular view suddenly revealed itself on our left. But Culpepper knew he could see this view anytime and kept the questions coming. “I mean, it’s very nice of you to lose money on the deal, but how come, Ray? I look at Gail and have to ask myself, Is it because you’re sweet on her? Fooling around with her?”

“Certainly not!” I said indignantly.

He laughed pleasantly, and I realized he was far more dangerous than I’d thought. “Why the outraged ‘certainly not’? What would be wrong with the two of you having a necking session? You’re single, so’s she, she’s plenty attractive—so why is that idea such an insult? I’m trying to figure you out, Ray, and it’s not the easiest thing to do.”

We passed a black-and-white squad car that was parked alongside the edge of the cliff. Culpepper made a tight U-turn, and for a moment I thought we’d be going off the cliff ourselves. But he knew the cabriolet down to the last dime it could turn on, and we pulled up perfectly parked behind the police car.

When we got out I, being on the passenger side, found myself warily regarding the edge of the clumpy cliff only a few feet from where I set down my feet.

A policeman, introduced to me as Officer Ciancimino, conferred privately for a few moments with Culpepper.

I detected a criminal lurking on the premises. It was the City of Oakland. How could they not have installed a guardrail or, minimally, a row of reflectors along the cliff’s edge, which patiently waited only a few hundred feet beyond a sharp, blind downhill turn.

Staring straight out to the southwest, you could easily scan past the bay to where the Pacific’s horizon became a thick line of navy blue ink drawn with a wide-nibbed pen.

Staring straight down, however, you could see a plateau bearing the remains of more than twenty cars, mangled and misshappen in a Sargasso Sea of Lost Sedans. Each looked as if it had been ripped apart and torched by a dragon’s claws and breath.