Logan liked the Blue Lobster the moment he stepped into the bar. It was pleasantly dark, beer fragrant, and unpretentious. Unlike many of the fussy, trendy restaurants in town, its bill of fare — scrawled in chalk on a blackboard hanging over the bar — consisted of only four dishes: fish and chips, cheeseburgers, lobster rolls, and clam chowder. The establishment was situated on the second floor of the Newport Commercial Fisherman’s Cooperative. It was just six o’clock, and through the west-facing windows, fishing boats could be seen chuffing up to the wharves, ready to unload the day’s catch.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Logan saw the person he’d come here to meet: a slender woman in her early thirties, with long brunette hair, dark eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She was sitting at one of the heavily scarred wooden tables overlooking the wall of windows. She stood up as he approached, smiling a little shyly, or perhaps — Logan thought — with chagrin.

Pamela Flood. She had called not an hour before, using the cell number on the card he’d given her, apologized for her curtness that morning, and asked whether she could buy him a drink.

They shook hands and sat down. A barmaid came over, with a weathered face and arms muscular enough to have spent a decade or two before the mast. “What’ll it be?” she asked him.

Logan glanced over at what Ms. Flood was drinking. “Another Sam Adams, please.”

“You got it.” And the woman walked off into the gloom.

“Thanks for coming,” Pamela Flood said. The smile had not left her face.

“Thanks for inviting me, Ms. Flood.”

“Please. Call me Pam. And I want to apologize again for the way I practically threw you out this morning.”

“It’s all right. I’ve been thrown out of better places.” And they both laughed.

His beer arrived and Logan raised the glass. “So architecture runs in the family.”

“My great-grandfather and grandfather were architects. My father was a lawyer.”

“Don’t tell me — the family pariah.”

“Something like that.” She laughed again. “I was building houses out of Legos at age two. Spent my entire childhood growing up around building plans and plats and construction sites. It never entered my head to do anything else.” She took a sip of her beer. “Look. Almost as soon as you left this morning, I began feeling like a complete idiot. And then a few minutes later I realized where I’d seen your face before — on the cover of People magazine — and felt even worse. So I thought the very least I could do was buy you a drink, tell you why I acted the way I did, and find out what it was you came to see me about.”

Logan sipped his beer. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s just that…” She hesitated. “Well, you aren’t the first person to come around, wanting to see those blueprints.”

“Really?” Logan sat up. “Tell me about it.”

“It was about six months ago. The doorbell rang and I answered it. There was a man standing outside. I knew right away he wasn’t a potential client.”

“How?”

“When you’ve done as many building projects as I have, you just know. Anyway, he started in asking about the original plans for Lux. Said he would pay money, quite a lot of money, for a look at them. Something about him gave me a bad vibe. I said the plans weren’t available anymore. But he wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just stayed on my doorstep, asking where they were, how he could get them, demanding to know who he needed to pay. For a minute I thought he was going to force his way in and search the house. Finally, I closed the door in his face.”

“Did he say who he represented?” Logan asked.

“He gave me a business card. Some firm I’d never heard of, Iron Fist or something. I think I threw it into the trash first thing.”

“What did the man look like?”

She thought for a moment. “I can’t give you many specifics. It was late winter, he wore sunglasses and a hat, and he kept the collar of his coat up around his neck. About your height, but beefier.” She paused to take another sip of her beer. “But it was his behavior more than his appearance that gave me the creeps. He was just short of threatening. I almost called the cops — but what hard evidence did I have? And then, for a couple of weeks afterward, I had this strange sensation I was being followed. Nothing I could be sure about — just a feeling.”

“And that’s why you gave me the bum’s rush. Can’t say I blame you.”

“But everything’s been normal for months now. He never came back. I had no reason to act that way.”

The nearby panes of glass shivered under the blast of an approaching boat horn. “Why don’t you tell me why you want to see the building plans for Dark Gables?” she asked. “I mean, they have copies of the plans at Lux. They’re the ones we worked from in refitting the West Wing.”

Logan rolled the glass between his hands, stalling for a little extra time.

“Does it have to do with Will Strachey’s death?” she prompted.

Logan looked at her quizzically.

“You must know that I worked with him on the plans for the West Wing revision.”

“Yes.”

“A tragedy. He was such a nice man.”

“How was he to work with?”

“Great. Except that he became something of an enthusiast. He wanted to understand every last architectural detail.”

“How did he seem to you over the last several weeks?”

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen him in almost three months.”

“Isn’t that unusual? I mean, you worked with him on the refitting of the wing.”

She shrugged. “Once the major structural work was complete, he brought in a general contractor to oversee the day-to-day details. So, anyway: what does this have to do with poor Willard’s death?”

“I can’t comment on that, except to say that my interest in the plans is only tangentially related.” He paused. He could make something up, of course. But, though he barely knew Pamela Flood, instinct told him that the truth — or at least a subset of the truth — would probably yield better results. “It’s rather sensitive,” he said. “Lux is a very private outfit.”

“Oh, I’m good at keeping my mouth shut. You’d be surprised how many secrets people want built into their houses.”

“As it happens, that’s exactly what I’m looking into — a secret. You see, we’ve stumbled upon a very unusual architectural detail inside the mansion.”

Now it was her turn to look quizzical. “A detail?”

“One that’s remained hidden for years. It isn’t shown on any of the blueprints in the Lux files. So naturally I was curious as to whether your great-grandfather — who probably kept a more complete set of plans — could shed any more light on things.”

“A detail,” she said again. “How mysterious.” She finished her beer. “Tell you what. Fact is, I do have my great-grandfather’s files — including the original plans and specifications for Dark Gables. If you can come by the office sometime — say, the day after tomorrow — we can look them over together. How about it?”

Logan drained his own glass. “Just name the time,” he said.

“Yes, I saw him,” Roger Carbon said. “It’s no secret.”

“When was this, exactly?” Logan asked. The two men were sitting around a table in the capacious lab suite that Dr. Carbon shared with another scientist.

“Perhaps ten minutes before he died, as near as I can make out. It was in the first-floor corridor, not far from the central staircase. Under escort, as I recall.”

“Being taken to the visitor’s library,” Logan said, more to himself than Carbon. He’d already spoken to the guards who’d undertaken this — they knew nothing of value. He glanced at the evolutionary psychologist. “Did he say anything?”

“He was too busy frothing at the mouth.”

This was in exceedingly bad taste, but Logan didn’t rise to the bait. He was near the end of the list of Lux employees and Fellows whom he’d planned to interview about Strachey, and — knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant — had put Carbon off to the end. “That made you one of the last to see him alive.”