“A book is a piece of living history.” I could hear him say it as clearly as though he were here in the room with me.

“So what the hell did you do with this piece?” I wondered aloud. “And where’d you put your damn journal?”

My eyes narrowed as I scanned the compact space again. It was identical to Abraham’s workroom two doors down. Modular shelving and cabinets in a blond wood veneer lined three walls, and the large worktable and stools filled the remaining middle space. The ceiling was high, the lighting decent. It was a clean and orderly room with everything neatly arranged.

Abraham, however, had always been a whirlwind of creative energy, an artist who left his mark wherever he went. In other words, he was a slob. As I looked around at this assigned space, I realized the man never would’ve kept anything important here. He might’ve been forced to work in this room, but he didn’t live here, didn’t create here, didn’t leave his mark here.

The man I knew had kept every notebook and journal he’d ever written on every project he’d ever worked. He was a pack rat. So where were all the papers and notebooks and journals the Winslow project would’ve generated?

Had someone stolen them? Was that why he was killed?

Taking one more glance around, I realized I wouldn’t find the answers here.

There was only one place I could think of looking and that was at Abraham’s rambling home studio at the commune in Sonoma. I still had a key to the place.

My stomach growled. I checked my watch and realized it was almost noon. As I tidied up, I calculated that if I could make it to my car within ten minutes, I’d have time to go to the drive-through at Speedy Grill and get a junior double cheeseburger, mega fries and an Oreo milk shake, and still make it to Sonoma by two o’clock.

It was almost twelve thirty when I passed the busy Presidio toll plaza and drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d made decent time from the Covington, despite the noontime drive-through stop at not-so-Speedy Grill. It was worth the wait, though, because there was no better cheeseburger in the world. Theirs was made with Niman Ranch beef, slices of heirloom tomato and sweet Walla Walla onion, a fluffy homemade bun and an aioli-based secret sauce worthy of a Cordon Bleu chef. Critics insisted and I concurred, it was the best in the City.

Sadly, I was so hungry that by the time I hit the bridge, the burger was a vague, happy memory. Luckily, I still had some fries and most of my milk shake left for the rest of the trip north.

My hands clutched the steering wheel a little too tightly as I played back my latest run-in with Derek Stone before leaving the library. I’d tried to track down Ian, but he’d left his office and I wasn’t willing to trust the Winslow Faust to anyone else but Derek.

But did he appreciate my concern? No. He demanded to know where the hell I was going and when I told him I needed to visit my mother, he snatched the book away and made an annoying crack about my lackadaisical working hours. My sad comeback was something along the lines of “bite me.”

I forced him out of my head and tried to enjoy the drive. The Golden Gate Bridge and the view of the bay never failed to impress me. The sky was still a gorgeous blue, but it was colder and the crosswinds were gusty.

Stop-and-go traffic plagued the southbound drivers, but I was able to zip along at the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit after carefully dodging an ancient pop-top minivan that appeared to be readying for liftoff. Two little boys in the back were sticking out their tongues and making naughty finger gestures that the harried, white-knuckled driver-their mother, I presumed-wouldn’t have approved of. But Mom seemed oblivious of the little monsters, too busy fighting to keep the car grounded against the buffeting winds.

Two minutes later, I was off the bridge and safely back on terra firma in Marin County. I drove through the rainbow tunnel and as I whizzed past the first San Rafael turnoff, my cell phone bleated out a generic sound, meaning I had no clue who was calling. I grabbed the phone anyway and fumbled for the button. “Hello?”

“You left without signing the papers.” It was Ian.

Damn. The Covington employment contract.

“Sorry, but I tried to find you,” I said. Then I went rigid. “You got the Faust, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I let out a breath. “Good.”

“But I wish you’d stuck around,” he said. “The Winslows were here. They wanted to meet you.”

“Oh, darn.”

“Something wrong?” he asked, unexpectedly attuned to my dripping sarcasm.

“No, everything’s great,” I said, pumping up my enthusiasm. “I’m sorry I missed them but my mother called.”

“Is she okay?”

“Oh yeah. But she needed me to, um, pick something up for her.”

Not too clever as excuses went, but I wasn’t ready to tell him what I’d discovered inside the Faust-or rather, what I had not discovered-until I actually found whatever it was. And I didn’t want the Winslows to know what I was looking for. Which wouldn’t be a problem since I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for, anyway.

I frowned. Even I was confused.

“Well, say hi to your mom for me,” Ian said.

“Ah,” I said, remembering where I was and who I was talking to. “I will. Hey, you should come up for dinner one of these days. Austin thinks this year’s pinot is bordering on world class. He’s forcing everyone to taste it.”

“That bastard.”

I laughed. Since Ian had been Austin’s college buddy as well as my short-term fiancé, he was no stranger to my family and the commune.

“I know my parents would love to see you,” I said, steering around an idiot in red spandex riding a ten-speed. On the freeway? But it was Marin, after all.

“I’d love to see everyone,” he said, sounding wistful. “I’ll give them a call soon.”

“Great.” I slammed on my brakes to avoid sideswiping a vintage copper Mustang whose driver thought he owned the road. Cool car. Dumb driver. “I’ll try to get back there later today,” I added, knowing it was a lie.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “You can sign everything tomorrow. You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

“Of course,” I said, feeling the pressure of employment all of a sudden. This was why I owned my own business. I didn’t work well in captivity. “I’ll be there every day until the book’s done, I promise. This was just, you know, an extenuating circumstance.”

“No problem, kiddo. I’ll call the Winslows and let them know to come by tomorrow.”

“Dandy,” I lied. Again. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good-o,” he said, and signed off.

I hung up. The good news about Ian’s call was that it had helped me ignore the cheesy condo-clogged hill-sides of Sausalito and all the minimalls and car lots that lined the freeway through San Rafael.

The bad news was that I’d have to deal with the Winslows tomorrow. I wondered again whether the conversation I’d overheard the night of Abraham’s murder had something to do with his death. I tried to recall their words.

“Son of a bitch.” “Problem with a book.” “I took care of it.”

It all sounded suspicious. Without thinking, I checked my rearview mirror. I had the abrupt and uncomfortable feeling that someone was following me.

I took the turnoff to Route 37 and for the next few miles there was little but wide-open marshland that spread clear to the eastern side of the bay. I could see no sinister cars behind me. And no black Bentley, either.

Miles later, grassy hills melded into vineyards. I finally made it through Glen Ellen, the southern boundary of the region known locally as the Valley of the Moon. Three miles beyond town, I turned onto Montana Ridge Road and headed for Dharma.

The day we moved here so many years ago, Montana Ridge Road had been a pitted, one-lane gravel road bordered by rickety wood fences and rusted chain link. We’d driven past broken-down barns, funky farmhouses and tarnished trailers. Most front lawns featured the requisite bullet-riddled washing machine. Lots of tarnished RVs were parked on the driveways as extra housing for the in-laws.