She had not come to the cemetery in the white Mercedes 450 SL, but in a beige Ford van that was parked in the shade of a tree. She wasn’t the driver. A man stood by the vehicle, waiting for her. Even in shadow, he was recognizable. When he stepped into sunlight, there could be no doubt that he was Patrick Michael Lynam Corley, who had died of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-nine, seven years earlier.

| 33 |

Directly from the cemetery, David departed for Santa Barbara. Using phone numbers provided in the report by Lew Ross, the private detective hired by Isaac Eisenstein, he placed two calls before he crossed the Newport Beach city limits, made contact with both subjects, and arranged meetings with them.

Then he phoned the offices of Gilbert Gurion, expecting that the lawyer would decline to speak to him on the grounds that even deceased clients, whose estate he might still represent, deserved attorney-client privilege.

As it turned out, however, Gurion was an avid reader and aware of David’s novels. “May I assume, Mr. Thorne, you’re considering writing about these murders?”

Because anyone with experience of people in the media expected them to claim noble intentions and slather on flattery as thick as mayonnaise, while in fact being deceitful above all things, a blunt and obviously facetious response might disarm a man like Gurion. David said, “If I swear with seeming sincerity that all I want is justice for Ephraim and Renata Zabdi, and if I make an unsecured promise that I’ll write a book with nary a single salacious note, will that assure me of a meeting with you?”

Gurion laughed softly and perhaps proved himself a man of some common sense when he said, “It won’t hurt.” They agreed to meet this same day at noon.

Having set out after the morning rush, David made good time and reached Santa Barbara at 10:16. Almost eight hours remained before he would be late for dinner with Maddison.

Estella Rosewater lived in a large house on an eye-pleasing street shaded by old magnolia trees that the weather and intelligent city arborists had shaped well. In a state that for decades had suffered under politicians who were even more incompetent than they were corrupt, David found it heartening to encounter proof that at least in days past, even if in the misty long ago, government had not only served the people well but had a hand in making beauty.

The tile-roof white-plaster Spanish Mediterranean residence featured a crescent-shaped front porch that hugged an entrance rotunda. A housekeeper in black slacks and white blouse answered the doorbell. David was expected. She led him across the limestone of the rotunda, along a hallway of Santos mahogany, to the back of the house, where a study overlooked a rose garden.

The mahogany continued from the hall and bore upon it a Persian carpet with an intricately figured overall gold-and-red pattern set against an indigo field. Although the study was elegantly furnished, it clearly functioned as a workplace, not merely a room dedicated to afternoon tea or evening brandy.