“She began as a systems analyst—which was not the reason I noticed her, I can tell you. But Johanna was very clever, very precise. Soon, she was invaluable to me. And of course, I was in love.”

“She was too—if I’m hearing you right.”

“Lucky for me . . . ”

Carson checked the passenger side view and eased toward the highway.

“The first exit,” Lespasse said. “Don’t get on Inter—Don’t get on Route Four.”

The Prius took the ramp with ease.

“Jean-Marc, I see you’re not wearing a ring . . . ”

He undid the top buttons of his Oxford and withdrew a chain he wore around his neck. It was looped around a gold wedding band.

“Jean-Marc . . . ”

“She was killed. On September 11, at the Pentagon. A new-business presentation scheduled for 10 in the morning. She was early, as usual. We had no chance for the business, of course. But that was Johanna. A fighter. Very American. Like you, Connie.”

Carson saw his bittersweet smile.

“Jean-Marc, I’m so sorry.”

“As am I. Thank you.” Lespasse peered through the windshield. “There’s the exit.”

Carson tapped the blinker.

“Cookie-cutter,” she said as they approached the long, one-story building in the corner of an industrial park just short of McKay Bay. “Glass and steel. They throw down a foundation and drop ’em out of the sky.”

“Yes, but this one has palm trees,” Lespasse said.

There were FedEx, DHL and UPS boxes out front, and a tin box labeled Doolittle Diagnostics with a warning that it contained blood products. On the first floor, drawn blinds revealed an empty lunchroom with vending machines and newspapers scattered on tabletops.

Carson and Lespasse entered the vestibule to look at a blackboard dotted with white plastic letters.

“Sindhu Power & Electric,” he said. “Twenty-six South. So they’re still here.”

“Unless no one cared to change the sign.”

“We can imagine Sikari has been here. Perhaps he returned.”

“OK. But I don’t guess we’ll find him at a desk.”

“No,” Lespasse said, as he continued to study the board. “But let’s see what we can see.”

They stepped toward the receptionist, a young, brown-skinned woman who was hiding a college textbook under the crescent-shaped desktop. She greeted them with a warm smile and a Cuban accent.

Lespasse said, “My wife and I have an appointment with Dr. Faraday.”

Carson nodded. “We know the way.”

The receptionist hesitated. “You can go,” she said finally.

As they turned onto a long carpeted corridor, Carson said, “Dr. Faraday?”

“His office is Eighteen South.”

“Ah.”

The wooden doors to each office were closed, muting the buzz of activity. At the end of the hall, two women were using a smaller reception area to review a presentation on a laptop. Lespasse followed Carson along a dogleg turn and soon they passed Dr. Faraday’s office.