I was on the 55, and then Newport Boulevard and the Pacific Coast Highway, and then out along the harbor. The meeting with Doña Elena and Congressman Montes had reminded me of Haley, as almost everything seemed to do. The city below their plate-glass windows, the presence of a film star, his arm around her shoulders, the way she leaned into him. My hands grew slippery with sweat on the wheel of the Bentley. It was a Continental GT. The V-8 convertible with the burled walnut-and-camel interior, and the four-layered fabric top that was so silent you couldn’t tell it wasn’t made of steel. It was a good car. A lovely car, excellent and praiseworthy in all regards. But it was Haley’s car.

I drove through the massive gates, rolled up the winding driveway, and pulled into the long garage between Haley’s Range Rover and the stretch Mercedes. Her Escalade was in the fourth bay down. All excellent vehicles. All around me, everything was good. All of it was noble. But none of it was mine, or ever would be, just as Haley was no longer mine, and never would be mine again.

I was raised by God-fearing grandparents to believe in Jesus Christ. I was raised to believe it’s a sin to drink to excess. A man should never lose control of his mind. If I had learned anything in the hospital, it was that. Insanity was losing control of your mind, so of course it made no sense at all to meet insanity with alcohol, which made you lose control. But insanity was insane,

after all. Sense had nothing to do with it. I went into the guesthouse kitchen and poured myself a Scotch.

When that first glass was empty, I drank three fingers more. I thought of what was true. It was twenty-five years old, that Scotch. That meant it had been sitting in an oaken barrel in the Scottish Highlands on the day I signed with the Marines. Now it was sitting in my otherwise empty stomach. Whatever is excellent must include that Scotch, but three fingers or three hundred, it didn’t matter. There wasn’t enough of that kind of excellence in the universe to make up for the loss of Haley.

I carried the bottle into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

That’s where Simon found me the next afternoon.

He had a cup of french roast in his hand. He put it on the coffee table, then walked to the windows and drew back the drapes.

“Whaa?” I said, squinting toward the light.

He said, “You have a visitor.”

“Dah?” I mumbled.

“A lovely lady, if I may be permitted to say so.”

I cleared my throat and decided the Scotch on an empty stomach might have been a mistake, regardless of how old it was. “Who?”

“A Miss Soto. She said you met last evening.”

Memories returned of the woman who had admitted me into the Montes’s home, and that amazing smile. “Where?”

“I believe she awaits you in the garage.”

I sat up a little and took my first sip of the french roast. What a heavenly elixir. I silently apologized to Jesus for getting drunk and promised not to do it, ever again, if he would only make the headache disappear. I blinked and tried to focus on Simon’s face. I tried to use my words.

I said, “The where?”

“The garage.”

“That’s strange.”

“I thought as much myself; however, she mentioned a certain fascination with the Bentley, which she said she noticed you were driving yesterday, and she asked if she could see it. I saw no reason to refuse. I hope that is acceptable.”

I sat up farther and took a good long drink of the coffee. “Simon, we need to talk.”

“Indeed?”

“Congressman Montes? The State Department? The Foreign Office?”

Simon’s facial expression grew slightly more neutral than usual, if such a thing were possible.

“Come on, man,” I said. “Explain yourself.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“What? You call me ‘sir’ against my will and tell me nothing?”

“Would you care to dine? Some eggs and bacon, since you are just awakening? Or perhaps something more substantial, since it is almost dinnertime?”

“Don’t chastise me, Simon. So I had a little party with myself last night. So what?”

Simon’s hand was on the doorknob. “One did notice the depleted Glenlivet on the floor beside the sofa.”

“How about this: I’ll tell you a secret from my time in special operations, and you tell me something about whatever you and Hector Montes were up to back in the good old days. We’ll trade.”

“I should think that would be most unwise, sir.”

“Oh, all right. But just so you know, my special-ops stories are pretty interesting.”

“I am certain of it, sir.”

“Will you please stop calling me that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Simon left.

I considered the little I knew about the man. He had been working for Haley long before I met her. I guessed he was in his late fifties, or maybe as old as sixty, but I had often noticed that he moved with an athletic grace that belied his age. He had traveled with Haley all around the world, apparently at ease in every situation, and I had heard him speak several languages with apparent fluency. Always before I had assumed he was comfortable in foreign situations because of this training and experience as a servant to the wealthy, but now that Doña Elena Montes had told me he was once employed by the English Diplomatic Service, that seemed a more likely explanation. I wondered what his role in government had been exactly. Probably he had been a lower-level diplomat of some kind. It would explain how he and Congressman Montes had met.

Ten minutes later, I was walking across the grounds toward the garage. I wore my usual pair of cargo shorts, white polo shirt, pair of flip-flops. I had also donned a pair of Oakley wraparound sunglasses with polarized lenses, since it seemed to be in my best interest to avoid the slightest ray of sunlight. The only problem was the earpieces were a little wide, which made it hard to rub my temples.

One of the center garage doors was open. Olivia Soto stood in the shadows beside the Bentley. She had opened the hood, or bonnet as they called them at the Bentley dealership, and she was leaning over the engine compartment looking closely down at something. She heard my footsteps on the gravel.

“Oh, hi,” she said, pulling back from the engine. “Remember me?”

“Of course,” I said, which was pretty clever considering the thickness in my brain.

“So, you’re not just a private investigator. You’re also a chauffeur.”

“That’s right. I can also throw in personal security, if you’re in the market.”

She smiled. “You live here?”

“They’ve allowed me to stay on until they get it sold.”

“Is that normal, living in a client’s house?”

“It is for bodyguards. Hard to protect someone when you’re not close. But I don’t actually live in Miss Lane’s house. I stay over there.” I pointed at the guesthouse.

“And they let you drive the Bentley. That’s nice work if you can get it.”

“You bet.”

She gestured toward the open engine compartment. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. It’s good to meet a fellow car fanatic.”

“I see they’ve got a hydraulic car lift here, and you’re set up with air tools.”

“Yep. Also impact wrenches, air hammers, die grinders, polishers, you name it.”

“And a Matco tool box on castors in every bay. Amazing.”

She turned back toward the engine. Her thick black hair was still in the long, loose french braid that hung halfway to her waist, but she was dressed more casually than the day before, in a pair of huarache sandals; a loose-fitting, lilac-colored T-shirt; and white cotton shorts. The shorts were pretty short. Her legs looked strong, slender, nicely tanned and lovely.

She said, “It’s the new V-8, isn’t it?”

“You know Bentleys.”

“I know about them. I’ve never had one, of course. But I’ve been wanting to get my hands on this new model ever since it came out. What a beautiful machine.”