Douglas looked at Liz Madera and shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“You believe him?” she said.

“Why not?”

“You don’t know him. He doesn’t believe it was suicide. He never will.”

“What can it hurt, Liz? Just tell him what you know. I’d say he’s got a right, wouldn’t you?”

Liz gave in then, turning angrily away from both of them. Douglas shook Hook’s hand and said he was glad he had met him despite their problems, and that he hoped he had been of some help. Then he suggested that Liz walk with him to the car, and they went out onto the front deck and down the stairs and headed back toward the driveway. Hook lit a cigarette and went out onto the deck himself, into the sunshine. Hitching one leg up onto the railing, he sat there smoking and waiting, and finally he heard the car’s engine explode into sound.

When she returned, Liz Madera did not waste words. No matter what he or Jack Douglas might have thought, she was not in a mood to be grilled by anyone about anything, and was going for a walk on the beach, and if he wanted to go along with her that was his goddamn business, it was a free beach. She swept into the house then and came back out in a few minutes barefoot and wearing old chinos and a black sleeveless sweatshirt. As he followed her down the stairs she suggested that he leave his socks and shoes behind unless he wanted to get them wet, and while he was at it he might want to take off his tie and suit coat as well—not very many people on the beach these days were dressed for business, she threw back at him. So by the time he was properly stripped down Hook had to move quickly to catch up with her as she walked past the other two houses to a footpath that zigzagged down the sloping face of the cliff, which at that point was actually more a steep hill than a cliff. The path, moving through the chaparral, was liberally salted with horse manure, and Miss Madera explained that the Hope Ranch horsey set used the path to go down to the beach. They rode their mounts in the surf “just like on the tube,” she said. The horses loved it. Salt water was great for sore hooves. But then of course as a farmer he undoubtedly already knew that. Or didn’t he have horses?

“No,” he said. “Just cattle.”

“Just business, huh?”

“That’s right. Just business.”

Turning with the path, she looked back at him. “I’ve got to hand it to you, though—conning Jack the way you did. Not very many people con Jack Douglas.”

“And how did I do that?”

“Oh, you don’t have to pretend with me. That bit about your reaching dead end—you know, accepting the idea that it was a suicide. I call that conning somebody.”

Hook said nothing. They were almost down to the beach now, and he was watching both the path and her figure a few feet in front of him, her long dark hair burning in the sunlight and the clean curve of her back and her buttocks moving under the rough washed-out pants, and once again he hated her beauty, that it had cost him so dearly and still he could not ignore it.