"Here's my new number and a private e-mail address." Herman handed him one of his cheap Institute cards.

Zimmy shook Herman's hand. "You know what I always liked most about Roland?" he said unexpectedly.

Herman waited.

"Absolutely no phase-jitter, y'know? He was never afraid to throw it over the wall."

But that was Zimmy.

When Jack Wirta finally met Herman Strockmire Jr. he was disappointed. After hearing Susan talk about her father he was expecting a cross between Clint Eastwood and Clarence Darrow. What he got was a short, squat man who looked like he was in his fourth week of chemo. The only encouraging thing was the pad he was living in. It was a beautiful guest house that fronted a French Provincial mansion, with an Olympic-size pool on one side, and the rolling blue Pacific on the other.

The pool house decor was modern-lots of beige leather and polished chrome furniture. Small, round glass-topped tables were sprinkled here and there like art-nouveau mushrooms. A billiard table with a red-felt playing surface dominated the main room, squatting amidst the chrome and glass like a carved oak mistake. There was also a state-of-the-art entertainment center that put most studios' screening rooms to shame. Susan had mentioned that Whoopi Goldberg and Steven Spielberg were Institute friends, and that this was Barbra Streisand and Jim Brolin's house-so, if it was true, it seemed Herman Strockmire was in a high-celebrity orbit.

After the introductions they went out onto the back porch-or was it the front? Anyway, the one overlooking the ocean. They sat on Brown Jordan deck furniture watching the afternoon sun sparkle off the windblown surf. Jack took out the copy of the San Francisco ME 's report and handed it to Susan's father, then watched his face while he read it. Herman didn't screw up his features or grimace like most civilians as he went through the gruesome passages detailing the mutilation of his friend.

When he got to the stomach contents and the note, Jack could see a puzzled look cross Herman's face.

"You know what that could stand for?" Jack asked.

"Octopus," Herman said. Not a question, just a statement. Then he shook his head.

"It's probably some kinda acronym. The government loves acronyms," Jack theorized. " Operational Center to Protect the U.S. or something."

Herman leaned back and sipped on his Diet Coke. "What if it stands for exactly what it is?" he finally said. "Octopus: an eight-legged creature with tentacles."

"Why put that in code, Dad, if that's all it is?"

"Because it doesn't stand for a real octopus, but for something with the same properties: eight legs, tentacles, uses ink to camouflage itself-like a spy apparatus of some kind. Lemme get on my computer, maybe it's listed on one of my favorite conspiracy sites."

Jesus, Jack thought. This guy has "favorite" conspiracy sites.

"Those domains get lots of classified stuff. They have great antennae." Herman wandered into the house.

"Sounds like a great idea," Jack said to Strockmire's back as he left. Then Jack looked over and saw Susan glaring at him.

"Don't patronize him." There were sparks in her eyes.

Shit, Jack thought. She's reading me. I used to be better than this.

"Herman Strockmire Jr. is the most courageous, brave, dedicated person you will ever have the privilege of meeting." She was pissed.

"I'm already sensing that," he lied. "Really. I'm getting that loud and clear."

"And he is one of the few people you'll ever meet who has actually committed his life to making a difference. He's trying to stop the corruption of our national values."

"Right. Right. That's obvious to anybody who even looks at him." Jack was falling back, cursing his transparency.

He sensed that he was just seconds away from being fired. If he wanted to stay on the clock he needed to instantly find a way to make himself indispensable. He got up and went into the house before she could terminate him.

Once inside he saw Herman hunched over his portable computer. "Mr. Strockmire, I've got good federal contacts in L.A., and if this is a federal program, I think I can get a quick rundown on this Octopus thing for you. I have a buddy who's on the LAPD Anti-Terrorist task force. Guy's got top Pentagon and White House security clearance. Be no problem for him to punch it out for me. 'Course, it will mean you'll have to keep me on for at least another day. But I think it's probably a good investment, given what's happened."

Herman looked up at Jack and heaved a heavy, tired sigh. "I couldn't find anything about Octopus in here," he said.

"Whatta you think?" Jack prodded. "Should I stay on this one more day, see what I can turn up?"

Herman looked at Susan, who had just entered from the beach and was standing by the door frowning.

"If you have a good contact I guess we don't have much choice," Herman said. "Susan, write Mr. Wirta another check."

"Certainly, Dad." She turned to Jack. "I'll show you out."

She took Jack's arm and led him firmly through the guesthouse, out to the side of the pool.

Once there, she spun him around. It was surprising how strong she was. His back spasmed as she forced him to pivot.

"Stop trying to milk this," she said. "I'm trying to get him to go into the hospital. He's got a heart problem."

"Milk it? You kidding? You don't want me around, I'm gone. Just say the word."

They stood there glowering at each other. Actually Susan was the one glowering; Jack was just trying to look indignant. For some reason, his assortment of oft-used street expressions-so devastatingly effective on skid-row junkies-were useless with Susan Strockmire.

"One more day," she warned.

"In advance," he reminded her.

"One thousand dollars." She pulled out her checkbook and started writing him another rubber check.

"Uh-not to be troublesome, but how 'bout twelve hundred? Don't forget the two Benjies I advanced you."

"What a bargain," she growled as she ripped it off and thrust it at him. "Listen," she said as he put this check into his wallet, "this is important to him, okay? This is what his life is about and-"

"Don't rip him off. I know." Jack finished, trying to end the conversation. His back felt more tender than pounded steak. He needed to get the hell away from here and take two more pills.

"If you take advantage, if you try and play him or con him, I swear I'll find a way to kick your ass." That unfriendly thought hung there until Jack turned and walked through the gate at the side of the house.

Once he was in the car, Jack called his friend Chick O'Brian at the LAPD Anti-Terrorist squad and asked him what he could find out about Octopus. "Will do," the big, bullheaded detective agreed. Jack gave him his new number and address, then rang off.

An hour later Jack parked in his office lot, locked his primered and patched Fairlane, then walked around the corner past the 4:00 p.m. fishing party. Ten guys sitting on the wall in front of the Hollywood Sports Connection casting their lines at the cruising whitefish.

"Hey!" a short blond man with a sculpted upper body and a mesh T yelled at him. "Don't I know you?"

"Don't think so," Jack said as he kept moving.

"Do you have a little Scandinavian in you?"

" 'Fraid not."

"Want one?"

It drew a laugh from the others.

Jack hurried on.

He climbed the staircase to the third floor because there was a new Out of Order sign on the elevator. Although he had taken two pills at the beach just an hour earlier, his back was again beginning to spasm.