“She left VerHauten?” Marge said.

“Yes. It surprised everyone.”

“Is VerHauten using her offices as a front for their business?”

“No, they couldn’t get away with that,” Guttenburg said. “Milligan deals in international business law. You know, she helps foreign investors wade through the mountains of red tape to set up business here. No, her practice is her own. But I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of her practice was dedicated to finding a way to get VerHauten into the American market legally.”

Decker asked, “Are they bankrolling her?”

“Let’s just say rumor has it that they have a great deal of confidence in Kate Milligan.”

Marge said, “The parting was very amicable.”

“More than amicable. VerHauten and Ms. Milligan are on the very best terms.”

Marge cupped her brow with extended fingers, protecting her eyes from the onslaught of the midmorning sun. “You’ve got to ask yourself why a top dog like Milligan would bother with Yalom. The answer is, he had something she wanted. But I can’t think that his stockholdings would be anything worth screaming about. Hell, if they were truly valuable, seems to me the easiest thing would be for VerHauten to buy the guy out.”

Decker said, “Agreed. Something else is at stake. You want to pay an impromptu visit to Ms. Milligan?”

“What are the chances that she’ll be in or that she’ll see us if she’s in?”

“Her offices are only a few blocks away. Let’s go for it.”

Marge shrugged. “You’re the veteran.”

Decker looked at the street signs. “This way. Let’s walk. The weather’s nice.”

Ten minutes later, Decker was standing in front of a waffled monolith of chrome and glass that reflected the glare of sunlight. He shielded his eyes and rolled his shoulder.

“Your bullet wound acting up?”

“Just when the weather’s been damp.” He smoothed back his hair. “Let’s do it.”

They went into a sunlit lobby, taking another express elevator. Decker felt his stomach lurch with each stop until they exited onto the twenty-third floor. Steel doors opened and they stepped into a paneled lobby. The entrance to the inner sanctum was blocked by a twenty-foot walnut desk manned by a pair of headphoned receptionists-one blonde, one brunette. The blonde had on a short-sleeved teal-blue dress; the dark-haired lass wore a tomato-red suit. Across the satin-smooth paneled barrier bronze capital letters spelled out MILLIGAN AND ASSOCIATES. The left side of the lobby held a six-foot leather couch; on the right were two wingback club chairs, between them a table holding several copies of the day’s Wall Street Journal. Decker approached the desk, attracting the attention of the blond receptionist. She smiled at him, but continued talking into her headphones. A moment later, she gave them her full attention.

“May I help you?”

Her voice was delicate, shaded with a South African accent. Decker said, “Kate Milligan, please.”

The blonde furrowed her brow. “And your name?”

“We don’t have an appointment.” Marge took out her badge. It attracted attention not only from the blonde but from the brunette as well.

The brunette said, “What’s this all about, Mae?”

Mae answered, “I don’t know.”

The phone rang. The brunette answered. “Milligan and Associates. This is Ellen. How may I direct your call?”

Mae said, “So Ms. Milligan isn’t expecting you?”

Decker smiled. “Just tell her the police are here.”

Mae seemed mired in indecision.

Decker said, “Why don’t you pick up your phone and call her?”

Mae seemed impressed by Decker’s solution. She pushed buttons on a switchboard, then turned her back. Neither Marge nor Decker could hear what she was saying. Then she swiveled back to face them. “May I have the nature of your business?”

Marge said, “Personal.”

Once again, Mae turned her back. Then she hung up the phone. “Ms. Milligan’s secretary is contacting her. Why don’t you have a seat for a few moments.”

The moments stretched to minutes, then to a half hour. Just as Decker was about to get up, Mae smiled at him. “That was Ms. Milligan’s secretary. He said that she’ll be down in a few moments.”

This time the moments were really moments. A woman appeared, and instantly, Decker felt his heart lurch in his chest. He cursed himself for reacting like a man first, a cop second. But he just couldn’t help himself. He stood, focusing on her face, trying to observe without staring.

Goddamn Guttenburg for not warning him.

She was beautiful-tall and lithe with skin as smooth as buffed bronze. Her bone structure was flawless, her eyes clearwater blue. Her hair was a wavy perm of copper-colored tresses. She wore a tailored ivory suit with a lace camisole peeking between the lapels. Her perfume was light with a floral hint. Decker’s eyes went from Milligan’s face to the shield in his hands.

“Ms. Milligan?” He showed her his shield. “Detective Sergeant Peter Decker from the Los Angeles Police Department. This is Detective Dunn. We’d like to have a word with you.”

Milligan stared at the badge, then at Decker. “What’s this about?”

Of course, her voice had to be husky.

“Arik Yalom,” Marge said.

“Oh, not him!” She became cross, her South African accent pronounced with her anger. “I can’t actually believe he’s sicced the police on me! I resent having to deal with such rot! While I have nothing but admiration for law and order, I am very busy. You may feel free to take any official matters up with my personal lawyers. Their offices are on the floor above. I’ll even have Ellen ring them up for you.”

“Can we just have a few minutes of your time, Ms. Milligan?” Decker said. “I promise we’ll be brief.”

Milligan’s eyes met his. They were exquisite but unreadable. “All right. Come.”

She turned on her heels, expecting to be followed. Decker looked at Marge, who rolled her eyes. They walked behind Milligan’s long legs, her heels clackety-clacking on the hallway’s floor. Up yet another two flights in an elevator. Decker never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but he felt a sweat coming on.

Maybe it was the woman.

Milligan turned into her executive secretary’s office, waltzing past the young man’s desk. She led them into a grand-sized room sporting a panoramic view of downtown LA.

Decker’s sweat had turned suddenly cold. Maybe that was the office-all chrome and glass and ultra-modern with wall art that didn’t believe in anything representational. Expensive though. Big canvases and big names, the most notable being the dripping style of Jackson Pollock. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, but instead of providing warmth and softening, it only added heat and glare. About as inviting as the spotlight on an operating table.

“Have a seat,” Milligan said.

But she remained standing by her desk-an enormous high-polished piece of granite rock. Behind the desk was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The top half held law books-American law, South African law, English law and international law. The lower half was dedicated to books on economics. Books by John Maynard Keynes and Milton Friedman. There was one full row of books on the post-World War II economies of Germany and Japan.

Immediately, the phone rang. Milligan told her secretary to hold all calls and slammed the receiver down.

“He sees I’m leading two people into my office, you’d think he’d know better than to ring a call through.” Milligan shook her head. “But he’s loyal. Followed me from VerHauten. I suppose you can’t put a price tag on allegiance.” Absently, she leafed through a folder that was lying on her desk. “You said you’d be brief. I’m already behind schedule.”

She’d pronounced the last word sheduel.

Decker pocketed his shield. He sat on a black leather couch big enough to accommodate his frame. Marge sat next to him, spine ramrod straight. They both were intimidated by the wealth, the power. A big no-no for a detective, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.