He felt better for the preparation. If he needed to get out of town on short notice, he could.

He put the car into gear and drove away.

There was someone he wanted to see.

32

The man was in his early forties, in decent shape, just a little under six foot tall and with the kind of naturally lean frame that has gone a little soft with the onset of middle age. He had dark hair with flecks of grey throughout it and the expensive glasses he wore were borne a little uncomfortably. His clothes were neat and tidy — a crisp polo shirt, chinos and deck shoes — the whole ensemble marking him out as a little vain. Milton had parked in the lot for thirty minutes, the angle good enough for him to see the place side on, and to see all the comings and goings. It was more like a campus than an office. It looked like a busy place. The lot was full and there had been a steady stream of people going in to start their working day. He had been waiting for one man in particular and, now, here he was. Milton eyed him as he opened the passenger door of his red Ferrari Enzo and took out a rucksack.

Milton looked at the scrap of paper that he had stuck to the windshield of the Explorer.

It was a picture.

The man in the Ferrari and the man in the picture were the same.

Jarad Efron.

Milton got out of his car, locked the door and followed the man as he exited the parking lot and started towards the office. The campus was out in the hills outside Palo Alto, surrounded by a lush forest bisected by streams, hiking paths and mountain bike trails. The wildness of the landscape had been transplanted here, too, with grasses and wildflowers allowed to grow naturally; purple heather clustered around the paths and coneflowers, evening primroses and asters sprouted from natural rock gardens. Milton quickened his pace so that he caught up with Efron and then overtook him. He gave him a quick sidelong glance: he had white iPhone earbuds pressed into his ears, something upbeat playing; his skin was tanned; his forehead was suspiciously plump and firm; there was good muscle tone on his arms. He was gym fit.

Milton slowed a little and followed into the lobby just behind him.

After he had spoken with Beau yesterday morning he had spent the afternoon doing research. Three hours at the local library. They had free internet and cheap coffee there and he had had plenty of things that he wanted to check.

Jarad Efron was familiar to him from the news and a quick Google search filled in the details: the man was CEO of StrongBox, one of the survivors of the first dotcom bubble that had since staked a claim in the cloud storage market. He was a pioneer. The company owned a couple of massive data farms in South Carolina, acres of deserted farmland rammed full of servers that they rented out to consumers, and, increasingly, to big tech companies who didn’t want to build facilities of their own. They offered space to Netflix and Amazon, among others. The company was listed on the NASDAQ with a price of $54 per share. Another search revealed that Efron had recently divested himself of five per cent of the company, pocketing thirty million bucks. He still owned another 2,000,000 shares.

A paper fortune of $108,000,000.

Efron was born and raised in Serbia, buying his first computer at the age of ten. He taught himself how to program, and, when he was twelve, he sold his first piece of software: a game he created called Battlestation Alpha. At the age of seventeen, he moved to Canada to attend Queen’s College, but he left to study business and physics at the University of Pennsylvania. He graduated with an undergraduate degree in economics and stayed for a second bachelor’s degree in physics. After leaving Penn, he moved to Stanford to pursue a PhD in energy physics. The move was perfectly timed with the first Internet boom, and he dropped out after just two days to become a part of it, launching his first company. He sold that for $100 million and set up StrongBox with the proceeds.

Milton looked around quickly, taking everything in. The lobby was furnished sparsely, minimally, but every piece of furniture — the leather sofas, the coffee table — looked exceedingly expensive. Two security guards in light blue uniforms and well shined shoes, big boys with a stiff posture. They both had holstered .45s hanging from their belts. The staff behind the reception desk looked like models from a high-end catalogue, with glossy, air-brushed skin and preternaturally bright eyes. Milton knew he only had one opportunity at this and, straightening his back and squaring off his shoulders, he followed right alongside Efron as the man beamed a bright smile of greeting to the girls and headed for the elevators. One of the girls looked past him at Milton, a moment of confusion breaking across her immaculate face, but Milton anticipated it and shone out a smile that matched Efron’s for brightness and confidence. Her concern faded and, even if it was with a little uncertainty, she smiled right back at him.

Milton dropped back again and let Efron summon an elevator. There were six doors: one of the middle ones opened with a pleasant chime and he went inside.

Milton stepped forwards sharply and entered the car as the doors were starting to close.

“Which floor?” Efron asked him absently.

Milton looked: ten floors, and Efron had hit the button for the tenth.

“Five, please.”

Efron pressed the button and stood back against the wall, leaving plenty of space between them.

The doors closed quietly and the elevator began to ascend.

Milton waited until they were between the second and third floors and hit the emergency stop.

The elevator shuddered and came to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Efron protested.

“I’ve got a few questions. Answer them honestly.”

“Who are you?”

Efron’s arm came up and made a sudden stab towards the button for the intercom. Milton anticipated it, blocked his hand away with his right and then, in the same circular motion, jackhammered his elbow backwards into Efron’s gut. It was a direct hit, just at the right spot to punch out all the air in his lungs, and he staggered back against the wall of the car with his hands clasped impotently to his sternum, gasping for breath. Milton grabbed the lapels of his jacket, knotted his fists into the fabric and heaved him backwards and up, slamming him into the wall so that his feet were momentarily off the ground. Then he dropped him.

“Hello?” said a voice through the intercom speakers.

Efron landed on his behind, gasping. Milton lowered himself to the same height, barred his forearm across the man’s throat and pressed, gently.

“It’s in your best interests to talk to me.”

“They’ll call … the police.”

“Probably better for you if they didn’t. The police are going to want to talk to you soon anyway, but you’ll do better with a little time to prepare. If they show up now, they’ll ask me what I was doing here. And I’m going to tell them all about the party you had in Pine Shore.”

“What party?”

“I was there, Mr. Efron. I drove Madison Clarke. You remember — the missing girl? I went inside. I saw it all. The people. I recognised some of them. The drugs. I have an eye for detail, Mr. Efron, and I have a very good memory. You want the police to know that? The press? I know a man like you, in your position, you definitely don’t want this in the papers. Bad publicity. It’d be a scandal, wouldn’t it? So we can speak to them if you want — go right ahead. I’ll wait.”

Milton could see him working out the angles, a frown settling over his handsome face. “Fuck,” he cursed angrily, but it was from frustration, backed by resignation; there was no fight there.

“Better sort that out.” Milton indicated the intercom. “You hit the button by mistake. Tell them it’s alright.”