The town of Lompoc boasts a population of roughly thirty-six thousand, with single-family homes ranging in price from $225,000 to $250,000. There’s a small airport, a U.S. penitentiary, an attractive public library, pocket parks, good schools, and three percent more single men than single women, if you happen to be husband hunting. The surrounding area produces half the flower seeds grown in the world, which means that in May, thousands of acres of flowers are visible from the road. This was early in the season, but in another couple of months the fields would be sprouting the colors of a Persian carpet.

The business district was low-key, with wide streets and few structures over two stories high. Hale Brandenberg was on the second floor of a chunky office building. At ground level, to the right, there was a real estate company, its front windows papered with photographs of houses for sale; on the left, a title company. A glass-paneled door between the two opened onto a wide carpeted staircase. The directory posted on the wall showed his suite number as 204.

I went up the stairs, marveling at the proportions of the place. The windows in the upper hallway were huge and the ceilings were easily twenty feet high. A race of giants could have moved in and had headroom to spare. The corridor was dead quiet. I counted eight offices, each entrance marked by a transom above the door, the old-world equivalent of air-conditioning. I was taking a chance he’d be out, but when I tapped on his door and then opened it to stick my head in, he was sitting on the floor in the middle of his one-room suite, rubbing saddle soap into one of two worn leather-upholstered chairs.

His office was sparsely furnished—leather-top desk, the two leather chairs, and a bank of filing cabinets. His windows, like those in the corridor, were big and bare, spotlessly clean, revealing an uninterrupted expanse of blue sky. I caught sight of a patch of green across the street, trees just leafing out.

“Housekeeping chores,” he said, explaining his homely activity.

“So I see. Mind if I come in?”

He was a rangy-looking man somewhere in his sixties, with a thin face and a cleft in his chin. His fair hair, cropped short, was threaded with gray. He wore faded jeans and cowboy boots, a Western-cut shirt, and a string tie. He looked like he’d be happier outdoors, preferably on horseback. He’d finished conditioning one of the leather chairs and was working on the second. The sections he’d finished looked darker and more supple. “If you’re looking for Ned, he’s across the hall.”

“I’m looking for you, if you’re Hale Brandenberg.”

“You selling something?”

“No.”

“Serving papers?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“Come on in and have a seat. You can use my desk chair since it’s the only one available. You mind if I work while we talk?”