“Have you spoken with her husband?”

“I finally called him at work. He sounded mad and said he didn’t know where she was. I don’t even know if I should come in tomorrow. I mean, I don’t run this place. She’s my boss. She’s supposed to tell me what to do.”

It was strange, Leigh not showing up for work and not calling. “You should continue to come to work until you hear either from Leigh or her husband,” Kat advised, again slipping into her older, wiser persona.

“We have clients calling, wanting to know how the work is going. I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell them it’s in progress. There will be a slight, a very slight, delay. And you’ll get your check soon; don’t worry.”

Relieved sigh. “Okay.”

“Do you know Leigh’s husband?”

“Not really.” A pause. “She brags about him sometimes, how successful he is, how smart. But she makes as much as he does. Sometimes more.”

“Really?”

“She’s not famous like him. She’s nobody as far as his world is concerned but she has a fabulous reputation around here. People adore her furniture. That’s what this town worships, quality. You wouldn’t believe some of her clients. Movie stars, directors, producers-”

“So where is she, I wonder?”

“If you talk to her, tell her Ashley is having a fit. I mean, I hope she’s okay, but damn. I can’t run this place alone, and I can’t work for nothing.”

Ray worked at Wilshire Associates, an architectural firm, in an office he kept intentionally low-tech. Other than a laptop and a big flat-screen monitor he attached when needed, he spent most of his time at a large, north-facing drafting table that overlooked the tall shining glass windows with a view of West L.A., drawing freehand with soft, smeary charcoal pencils. The architectural offices, on the fifth floor of a building on the boulevard, featured one whole wall of windows almost two stories high. He and Martin Horner, as partners and senior architects, had the views. Associates and assorted other support rabble skulked on the darker backside of the floor, which, true to the classy image the firm enjoyed cultivating, also had windows, only smaller.

Today he worked at his tilted table on the Antoniou mansion. Deadline for the preliminary drawings was only three days away, on Thursday. Achilles Antoniou, a restaurant owner originally from Athens, thought Ray was designing the Parthenon warmed over for his eight-bedroom spread in Laguna Cliffs, and Ray had started out with enough Doric columns to satisfy him, but this morning he had tossed the preliminary drawings and started over with a stunning modern structure that would give Antoniou the thing he was actually looking for, social cachet. Ray could talk him into the new design, he was sure.

He had never done this before, ignored the client’s vague wishes. He had always teased them out and brought them to life before.

Today he felt unable to do that. Everything else in his life had gone to hell. He did not want this project to go the same way. Antoniou would get what he needed, not what he thought he needed. And so would Ray.

People knew better than to interrupt him when he was sketching, and Suzanne fielded his calls, so he spent most of the morning alone. At quarter to one, he put his pencil down. He would grab something from the vending machines, then take off. He checked the hallway. No one. Good.

Too late, he spotted Martin, and Martin spotted him.

“Hang on, Ray. I need to talk to you. I’ll just be a minute here.”

Ray grunted and sat down in a chair at a messy desk. Meanwhile, Martin, continuing a process that had gone on for quite some time already judging by the client’s fatigued look, worked his charm by the overgrown acacia tree in the far corner, where the windows were high and the view awe-inspiring. “We create a vision for you, something supremely yours, something that says, hey, I’ve made it, and I get to make things look how I think they should look.”

The potential client, a director with fashionably thick intellectual glasses and a beard, who was famously rich and image-conscious, nodded.

“You want an indoor-outdoor pool, we provide it. The parties will never end.”

The potential client took off his glasses and wiped them with a sparkling clean ironed handkerchief.

That’s a no, Ray thought to himself, but not to worry. Martin was on top of it. “Or a Japanese garden with pines imported from Kyoto and nephrite boulders taken from the coastal waters off Big Sur. We can do that, too.”

The beard moved as though the guy was preparing to smile. Bingo.

“A teahouse,” Martin crooned. “Wabi-sabi walls, golden bamboo. Gravel walks. Ginkgos. Peace. A wonderful torii gate. We can build you that.”

“I have always wanted to visit the temples at Kyoto.”

“You could look for some very special addition to your garden there. Or look for tea-bowls. I know a dealer in the Ginza who has eighteenth-century bowls from a Zen monastery. I’ll call him. You are gonna impress the hell out of your neighbors. Not that you care about that.” Martin got a full nod there, wild enthusiasm from this cautious man.

Not a great architect, Martin was a great people-reader. Ray often watched client sessions with reverence. These people danced with Martin, and they danced to Martin’s music, however vulgar and jerky.

“Look, I know you’ve interviewed a few other firms. That’s just smart business, and you’re a savvy guy; everybody knows that. An investment like this, of course you’ve got to be careful. But here’s what we can give you that they can’t.”

Ray was dying to hear what that could be.

“A chance to play God.”

An eyebrow raised slightly.

“A chance to create your personal universe. You are part of the creation, every step of the way.”

The guy totally bought Martin’s horseshit. When Ray next passed the desk, Martin was shoveling paperwork toward the client, smooth-talking in between signatures, chuckling like a little kid.

“How come he got born under the brightest lucky star?” Martin said after the new client left.

“You’re doing okay, last time I looked.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Thanks for waiting. I hate waiting and I know you do, too.”

“No, it’s a rare privilege to get a close-up view of a sea lion devouring an otter. Nature at its most bestial.” Ray looked at his watch. “I’m in a rush. I have to run.”

“What’s up?”

“I have an appointment on the museum project in a few minutes.” In fact, the appointment wasn’t until the next morning, but he didn’t want to talk to Martin, didn’t want to spend time with him, didn’t want to deal with him. At some point, he was going to have to figure out what he did want to do to Martin. “One of the directors asked for another model on grounds that ours is white Styrofoam and looks it. Our competitor spent at least thirty grand on their model and it shows.”

Martin shook his head. “I hate losing that competition, but that’s more money than we can front on spec. These people have no idea how much time, money, and expertise goes into building a model. Also, they have no imagination.”

“Don’t worry, we can talk him out of it. Models are a thing of the past.” Funny thing to say, Ray thought, interrupting himself momentarily. “Wait until he gets a load of the computer renderings. I’m taking along the Parks project, too, just to shut the director up. Denise says the final presentation’s coming along well, although you know Denise. She never panics until the last minute.”

Denise Bell, one of the windowless-office denizens, took their models and made them look absolutely real by combining real photos with computer jazz. Then she created presentations that were more like mini-Hollywood films, including music, interviews, narration, and sound effects. Her talent brought them a lot of business.