Ted shook his head. "I seem to remember another time when I drank up fast. Have you got a cold beer in there?"

"Teddy, I absolutely have to insist that you stop referring to that night in a way that suggests you don't have complete recall."

Ted turned to look directly at Henry Bartlett, absorbing the man's silver hair, his urbane manner, the faint hint of an English accent in his voice. "Let's get something straight," he said. "You are not, I repeat not to call me Teddy again. My name, in case you don't remember it from that very sizable retainer, is Andrew Edward Winters. I have always been called Ted. If you find that too difficult to remember, you may call me Andrew. My grandmother always did. Nod if you understand what I just said."

"Take it easy, Ted," Craig said quietly.

"I'll take it a lot easier if Henry and I establish a few ground rules."

He felt his hand grip the glass. He was unraveling. He could feel it. These months since the indictment, he'd managed to keep his sanity by staying at his place in Maui, doing his own analysis of urban expansion and population trends, designing hotels and stadiums and shopping centers he would build when all this was over. Somehow he'd managed to make himself believe that something would happen, that Elizabeth would realize she was wrong about the time of the phone call, that the so-called eyewitness would be declared mentally incompetent…

But Elizabeth was sticking to her story, the eyewitness was adamant about her testimony and the trial was looming. Ted had been shocked when he realized his first lawyer was virtually conceding a guilty verdict. That was when he had hired Henry Bartlett.

"All right, let's put this aside until later," Henry Bartlett said stiffly. He turned to Craig. "If Ted doesn't want a drink, I do."

Ted accepted the beer Craig held out to him and stared out the window. Was Bartlett right? Was it crazy to come here instead of just working from Connecticut or New York? But somehow whenever he was at the Spa, he had a sense of calm, of well-being. It came from all the summers he'd spent on the Monterey Peninsula when he was a kid.

The car stopped at the gate to Pebble Beach onto the Seventeen Mile Drive, and the chauffeur paid the toll. The estate homes overlooking the ocean came into view. Once he had planned to buy a house here. He and Kathy had agreed it would be a good vacation place for Teddy. And then Teddy and Kathy were gone.

On the left side, the Pacific sparkled, clear and beautiful in the bright afternoon sun. It wasn't safe for swimming here-the undertow was too strong- but how good it would feel to dive in and let the salty water wash over him! He wondered if he would ever feel clean again, ever stop seeing those pictures of Leila's broken body. In his thoughts they were always there, gigantically enlarged, like bill-boards on a highway. And in these last few months, the doubts had begun.

"Quit thinking whatever you're thinking, Ted," Craig said mildly.

"And stop trying to read my thoughts," Ted snapped. Then he managed a weak smile. "Sorry."

"No problem." Craig's tone was hearty and genial.

Craig had always had a knack for defusing situations, Ted thought. They'd met at Dartmouth as freshmen. Craig had been chunky then. At seventeen, he'd looked like a big blond Swede. At thirty-four he was trim, the chunkiness hardened into solid muscle. The strong, heavy features were more becoming to a mature man than to a kid. Craig had had a partial scholarship to college but had worked his backside off at every job he could get-as a dishwasher in the kitchen, as a room clerk in the Hanover Inn, as an orderly in the local hospital.

And still he's always been around for me, Ted reminded himself. After college, he'd been surprised to bump into Craig in the washroom at the executive office of Winters Enterprises. "Why didn't you ask me if you wanted a job here?" He hadn't been sure he was pleased.

"Because if I'm any good, I'll make it on my own."

You couldn't argue with that. And he'd made it, clear up to executive vice-president. If I go to prison, Ted thought, he gets to run the show. I wonder how often he thinks about that. A sense of disgust at his own mental processes washed over him. I think like a cornered rat. I am a cornered rat!

They drove past the Pebble Beach Lodge, the golf course, the Crocker Woodland, and the grounds of Cypress Point Spa came into view. "Pretty soon you'll understand why we wanted to come here," Craig told Henry. He looked directly at Ted. "We're going to put together an airtight defense. You know this place has always been lucky for you." Then, as he glanced out the side window, he stüfened. "Oh, my God, I don't believe it. The convertible-Cheryl and Syd are here!"

Grimly he turned to Henry Bartlett. "I'm beginning to think you're right. We should have gone to Connecticut."

Min had assigned Elizabeth the bungalow where Leila had always stayed. It was one of the most expensive units, but Elizabeth was not sure that she was flattered. Everything in these rooms shouted Leila's name: the slipcovers in the shade of emerald green Leila loved, the deep armchair with the matching ottoman. Leila used to sprawl on that after a strenuous exercise class-"My God, Sparrow, if I keep this up they can measure me for a thin shroud"; the exquisite inlaid writing desk-"Sparrow, remember the furniture in poor Mama's place? Early Garage Sale."

In the short time Elizabeth had been with Min and Helmut, a maid had unpacked her bags. A blue tank suit and ivory terry-cloth robe were lying on the bed. Pinned to the robe was the schedule of her afternoon appointments: four o'clock, massage; five o'clock, facial.

The building housing the women's spa facilities was at one end of the Olympic pool-a rambling, self-contained one-story structure built to resemble a Spanish adobe. Placid from the outside, it was usually a whirlwind of activity within as women of all ages and shapes hurried along the tiled floors in terry-cloth robes, rushing to their next appointments.

Elizabeth braced herself to see familiar faces- some of the regulars who came to the Spa every three months or so and whom she had gotten to know well during her summers working here. She knew that inevitably condolences would be offered, heads shaken: "I never would have believed Ted Winters capable…"

But she did not see one single familiar face in the array of women padding from exercise classes to beauty treatments. Nor did the spa seem as busy as usual. At peak it accommodated about sixty women; the men's spa held about the same number. There were nothing like that many.

She reminded herself of the color coding of the doors: pink for facial rooms; yellow for massage; orchid for herbal wraps; white for steam cabinets; blue for sloofing. The exercise rooms were beyond the indoor pool and seemed to have been enlarged. There were more individual Jacuzzis in the central solarium. With a touch of disappointment, Elizabeth realized it was too late to soak in one of them for even a few minutes.

Tonight, she promised herself, she'd go for a long swim.

The masseuse who had been assigned to her was one of the old-timers. Small of frame but with powerful arms and hands, Gina was clearly delighted to see her. "You're coming back to work here, I hope? Of course not. No such luck."

The massage rooms had obviously been done over. Did Min never stop spending money on this place? But the new tables were luxuriously padded, and under the expert hands of Gina she could feel herself begin to relax.

Gina was kneading her shoulder muscles. "You're in knots."

"I guess I am."

"You have plenty of reason."

Elizabeth knew that that was Gina's way of expressing her sympathy. She knew too that unless she began a conversation, Gina would be silent. One of Min's firm rules to her help was that if guests wanted to talk, it was all right to converse with them. "But don't you be yakking about your own problems," Min would say at the weekly staff meetings. "Nobody wants to hear them."