inform the police. We were expressly ordered not to inform the police or Philip's life would be forfeit.»

Doyle rubbed his forehead and said nothing. He didn't look at Benedict or Matt.

Matt said, «I'm very sorry to inform you Mr. Benedict, but Phil was found shot to death this morning at Brea Tar Pits.»

The old man shook his head stubbornly.

Everyone's initial reaction was denial; Matt had been through this too many times to count. There was nothing for it but the straight truth. He drove on. «His body was recovered by some of the museum staff members working at the dig. Mr. Doyle made the initial identification, but we'll need confirmation.»

The door to the room opened and a tall, elegant woman strode into the room. She wore trousers-the kind that only certain rich, fashionable ladies wore-and her dark hair was coiled intricately on her head. «Dad, they're saying on the radio that Phil is dead.» She stopped short, taking in Doyle's presence. «Nathan…» she said. She looked at Matt. «So it's true.»

«Yes,» Nathan said. «I'm sorry, Ronnie.»

«Lt. Spain, Homicide Division,» Matt said. «And you are-?»

«Veronica Thompson-Arlen,» she said. «I'm married to Robert Arlen, Phil's brother.» She glanced at the old man sitting bent forward, head in hands, and she slipped past Matt and sat down beside him on the sofa, putting an arm around his shoulder. «Oh, Dad. I don't know what to say.»

She looked up at Nathan. «Couldn't there be any mistake?»

Nathan shook his head. «It's Phil.»

Matt said, «What do you know about this kidnapping?»

She barely glanced his way. «Not a lot. Bob, my husband, was supposed to deliver the ransom money on Monday night to the Griffith Park Observatory. He did. Everything went according to clockwork on our end.» She shook her head. «I can't understand why they would have killed him.»

«They?» Nathan asked. He caught Matt's eye and looked momentarily discomfited.

«I-I just assume there would be more than one of them. A gang, perhaps. It was a woman's voice on the telephone both times. But a woman wouldn't have been able to kidnap Phil without help of some kind, surely?»

«Both times?» Matt repeated, with an eye to Doyle.

«A woman called Sunday evening to tell us Phil had been kidnapped and that we had twenty-four hours to gather the ransom money. Then Monday evening she called and told us where to deliver the money. She promised that Phil would be released unharmed Tuesday, this evening-if everything went according to plan.»

«And the money was left at the Griffith Park Observatory? Inside or out?»

«Outside. The planetarium is only open in the day now to prevent enemy planes from using its lights to target the city. The money was to be put in a satchel and placed on the east observation terrace in a planter beside a little staircase leading to an arched doorway. Bob was supposed to leave the money and walk away-which he did.» She turned back to the old man. «He did everything they wanted, Dad. You know that.»

The old man said nothing.

«We'll need to talk to your husband, Mrs. Arlen.»

«Thompson-Arlen. Yes, of course. He's at home today. He wanted to be available … in case.»

Matt nodded thoughtfully, studying Benedict Arlen. The old man seemed to have retreated into his own dazed thoughts. He glanced at Doyle. He was watching the old man and the woman without emotion. The fireplace threw shadows across his thin face. Made his eyes glint oddly.

«Again, very sorry for your loss,» Matt said formally. «We'll keep you informed as the investigation develops.»

Neither the man nor the woman responded. Matt looked at Doyle again, and found him watching him. He said shortly, «Did you want to tag along to Robert Arlen's?»

«Sure.» Doyle's surprise was evident.

«Come on, then. You can introduce us.» Matt thought it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Mr. Doyle of the Tribune-Herald.

* * * *

«Why would they have killed him?» Doyle sounded like he was thinking aloud. Matt glanced his way, and Doyle glanced back. He seemed genuinely puzzled. «If the ransom was paid, why did they kill Phil?»

«I don't know. It's not good business,» Matt admitted. He was very conscious of Doyle sitting a few inches from him. Very conscious of his restless energy, of the faint, heathery aftershave he wore, of the fact that Doyle was as physically aware of him as he was of Doyle. He could tell from the way

Doyle avoided even the most casual physical contact, and from those flickery sideways looks he was giving him.

«They should have called us at the start,» Jonesy said. «They made a big mistake not calling us in.»

«It doesn't make sense,» Doyle said. «They have to realize that no one else will pay a ransom if there's no chance of getting the kidnap victim back alive.»

«They may not be professionals,» Matt said. «This may have been a one time only.»

Doyle thought this over. «True,» he said.

«Hell of a time for this,» Jonesy said. «Christmas.» He shook his head.

Matt spoke to Doyle. «What were you doing at the Arlen house?»

Doyle turned those cool, lake-water eyes his way. «I told you. I thought the old man should have fair warning before your lot turned up.»

«Us lot?» Matt said. Every so often Doyle had-not an accent, exactly, but an English turn of phrase. It sort of irritated Matt-and it sort of amused him. The more he saw of Nathan Doyle, the more interested he was. Mostly it was professional interest. Mostly. «Now why don't I believe that?»

Doyle stared. «I don't know. It's the truth.»

Now Matt was convinced it wasn't.

Maybe Doyle read that in his expression. He said, «All right, honestly, I'm not sure. I did think the news would come better from someone who wasn't a cop. But … maybe it was also curiosity. Reporter's instinct.»

Jonesy met Matt's eyes in the rearview mirror. Matt asked, «Did you know about the kidnapping?»

«No.» Doyle was definite, and Matt thought he believed him-on that point.

«What was Philip Arlen like?»

«I didn't know him well.»

«Yeah, you said. You're pals with the brother. Robert Arlen.»

«We aren't pals,» Doyle said. «We travel in different circles, but I knew Bob pretty well when we were at school. Phil was younger than us. I think there were about eight years between him and Bob. To tell the truth, he was a pain in the ass. The old man spoilt him rotten. I don't know how he turned out, but when he was a kid he was a tattletale and a sissy.» He met Matt's gaze. «I didn't like him much.»

«You're kidding.»

Doyle smiled-a quirky smile that creased his lean cheek and tilted his eyes. A very attractive smile. Matt ignored it.

«When was the last time you saw him?» Matt had asked this at the tar pit. He waited to hear what Doyle would say now that he'd time to think about it.

Doyle said vaguely, «I've seen him a couple of times at the Las Palmas Club. I can't tell you for sure.»

«Okay.» Doyle was too smart to tell an outright lie, but Matt was beginning to get the picture.

«How did the Brothers Arlen get along?»

Doyle's hesitation was noticeable. «Okay, I think. Phil was always the old man's favorite. I guess Bob had plenty of time to get used to the idea.»

They didn't talk much after that, listening to the police radio, and the hiss of tires on wet streets.

Jonesy pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard, and they could see the neon sign of the Bryson Apartment Hotel from blocks away burning bright in the gloomy late morning. The slick and crowded streets were decked in gaudy garland banners, palm trees twined with Christmas lights, and department store windows decorated with elaborate displays of Santa's villages and winter wonderlands.

Jonesy pulled up in front of the Bryson Apartment Hotel, and they got out, pulling hats down and collars up against the gray rain, and ducking between the classical columns with their irritable-looking stone lions balanced aloft.