There was silence on the other end. Then, ‘You got something, don’t you?’

‘Turns out,’ Hardy said laconically, ‘odds on you were right.’

He told him about the body, which was on its way, or had just arrived at, the morgue – the hand bitten off, and where the shots had gone.

‘He was shot? Somebody killed him you mean?’

Hardy thought of where Glitsky thought the first bullet had gone. He felt he could rule out suicide. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Somebody killed him.’

‘God, that’s great!’ Elliot nearly shouted. ‘That is just great!’

‘The guy’s dead,’ Hardy reminded him. He took a sip of his beer. ‘That’s not so great.’

‘The story, I meant the story.’

‘I know what you meant. Listen, if you’ve got a file picture on Nash, you might bring it down with you, remove any doubt in case no one’s identified him yet.’

‘Good idea!’

‘Oh, and Jeff, if Mr Farris or Celine Nash – Owen’s daughter – is down at the morgue, try to rein in the enthusiasm a little, would you? I don’t think they’re going to be as happy about it as you are.’

‘No, I understand that. Of course.’

Hardy rang off. ‘Of course,’ he said.

It was going to the front page in tomorrow’s edition, Jeffs first front-page story. Not the main headline, but lower right, three columns, his byline – not too shabby.

Not only that, but the lead graphs had already gone out on the wire that night, and Jeff had received a followup call from the L.A. Times, la-di-da, and from Drew Bates over at KRON-TV, who wondered if he – Jeff – had anything more to give out on the Owen Nash murder. Imagine, TV coming to him! The L.A. Timesl

He had left his forwarding number at night reception and now sat in the bowels of the building where he worked, checking the Nexis listing on Owen Nash. It was nine-thirty at night, and he’d been up since six, but he felt completely fresh. Parker Whitelaw, his editor – Christ, THE EDITOR – said he’d give him a sidebar on Nash, they’d run with the pickup on the back page of the first section, but he had to have it done by eleven-thirty. Did Jeff think he could do it?

Jeff thought for a lead story and a sidebar he could stand on his head and spit nickels, dance with Nureyev, run a ten-flat hundred. He looked at the mute reminder, his crutches, leaning on his right against the table. Well, the hell with them. He could get this done. He had the raw data – now it was just putting it together. Piece of cake, though there was more than he would have thought – and he had to get it down to three hundred words maximum. Well, hit the high spots.

Jeff had started the Nexis search at quarter to seven after getting back from the morgue. Almost three hours, close to two hundred articles – some merely a mention at a society event, a few substantial interviews, a cover story in ‘87 in Business Week. Owen Nash, from the evidence here, had been a very major player. He’d been mentioned in one U.S. publication or another on an average of once every six weeks or so for what seemed like the past twenty years.

Jeff looked away from the orange-tinted screen. He was having a problem reconciling the Owen Nash in these articles to the body he’d witnessed at the morgue.

He’d gotten there as a limo had been pulling up. Ken Farris and his wife had recognized him immediately from the previous night, and while they didn’t seem all that happy to see Jeff, they were also too distracted to make any real objection when the hawk-faced black inspector with the scar through his lips admitted them.

The other woman in the limo was Celine Nash, Owen’s daughter. She was much older than Jeff, probably near forty, but something about her, even in grief, made him react. He didn’t know if it was posture, attitude or the shape of her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Stupid really. A cripple like him stood no chance with most women, much less a beauty of her class and caliber -if that powerful a sexual draw could be called beauty – but he thought there couldn’t be any harm in letting it wash over him.

Until, of course, they saw Owen Nash. At the sight of him, everything else vanished. The assistant coroner had pulled back enough of the sheet to show the face, and there was no question of identification. Celine sobbed once. Farris hung his head and pulled his wife closer to him.

The inspector – Glitsky – had asked the formal question and the assistant was pushing the body back, when Celine told him to stop. She wanted to see her father one last time.

Nobody moved. The assistant coroner looked at Glitsky, who nodded, and the sheet came off, revealing Owen Nash, naked and blue, on the gurney.

First, of course, was the hand, or the lack of hand. The ragged stump without any cauterizing or sutures – one pink tendon extending two inches beyond the rest.

Jeff had seen pictures of the damage a shark bite could do to, for example, a surfboard, but he found that it did not prepare him for the sight of Nash’s ribs opened by the slashing teeth, the wedge taken out of his lower leg.

Celine walked up to the body. Her eyes, he noticed, were dry in spite of the sob. Perhaps they glistened with shock. The coroner’s assistant made a motion to come and steady her, but something in her bearing stopped him. The room became for an instant as silent and colorless as an old black-and-white snapshot – all the life, not just Owen’s – leached out by the tension.

Celine put a hand on the body’s chest, another on the thigh. It might have only been five seconds, but it seemed she stood there forever, unmoving, taking it in. Now a tear did fall. She leaned over and placed her lips against the center of his stomach.

Suddenly it was over. She nodded at the inspector, then turned around and walked past them all to the door and on out without looking back.

In the lobby, Ken and Betty thanked Glitsky. Celine was already in the limo. The evening light was startling -Jeff remembered walking out of matinees as a child, how the Saturday-afternoon light after the dark theater was so jarring, so unexpected. He’d felt that way, squinting against the setting sun.

He knew he should have asked someone more questions – the assistant, Glitsky, Ken or Betty – but he’d been too shaken. By the time he recovered, the limo had driven off. Glitsky had gone into the Hall of Justice. He couldn’t bring himself to go back into the morgue.

He shook himself, pulling out of the memory. The orange screen still hummed in front of him. He looked at his watch and saw that he’d wasted twenty minutes. He had to get down to work.

There was, first, the business side. In 1953, Owen had borrowed $1,500 from a G.I. loan program and put a down payment on a near-bankrupt television repair shop in South San Francisco. He began tinkering with used parts, and within two years had perfected and patented an improved insulation technique for the hot tubes of early TV. General Electric picked it up, and Owen was on his way. He diddled with vacuum tubes, invested in copper wiring, got into simple components before the microchip came along. By the time Silicon Valley exploded, he was ready for it.

Shares of Owen Industries, Inc., were trading on the New York Exchange for $17 a share, and Nash himself had controlled eight hundred thousand shares when he took the corporation public in 1974. Figuring three or four stock splits minimum, Nash’s personal worth on stocks alone, at the time of the Business Week cover story, was close to $70 million.

His other assets were also substantial. Besides the $250,000 Eloise and his Seacliff mansion, he owned a house and more than a thousand acres of land in New Mexico, pied-a-terres in Hong Kong and Tokyo, a condominium in New York. According to Business Week he also held part or controlling interest in three hotels, ski resorts in Lake Tahoe and Utah, a restaurant on St. Bart’s in the Caribbean. His one failure, as of five years ago, had been an airline, the Waikiki Express, which had made two round trips daily between Oahu and Los Angeles for sixteen months before it went bankrupt.