David still had two hours before the funeral, so he propped himself up in bed and opened the paper. There were the usual stories-trouble in the Middle East in the front section, a profile of one of the Dodgers in Sports, the second of a two-parter on infidelity in Life amp; Style, and, because it was an industry town, there was a piece about a film that had run over budget in Calendar. He was about halfway through the business section when he saw Knight International in bold type.

Despite troubles in the Asian markets, he read, Knight's stock had climbed another seventeen points in the last week. The reporter, a Pearl Jenner, had interviewed a couple of brokers who observed that the recent action was due to the fact that Knight's board and its minority shareholders had accepted a bid for purchase by media and manufacturing giant Tartan Incorporated. She also interviewed Henry Knight, the colorful chairman of the company, who said, "I've spent my life building this company. We've always done well. But in this last year our sales have skyrocketed thanks to Sam amp; His Friends. If there's a time to sell, this is it."

The reporter didn't see it that way. Why sell the company when the financial forecast looked so rosy, with Knight's new technologies guaranteed to expand profits geometrically in the next century? She went on to answer her question. Henry Knight wasn't as young as he once was. He'd been in and out of the hospital for heart problems during the last two years. Most important, several sources, who refused to be named, suggested that Henry didn't want to leave the company to his son, Douglas Knight. "The old man is a visionary, but he's a hard man," offered one observer. "He should have stepped down and turned the company over to Doug years ago, but he won't let go." When asked why, the unnamed source answered, "Henry's the kind of man who brought himself up by his bootstraps. If it was good enough for him, then it's good enough for his son." Pearl Jenner noted several examples of other family-owned businesses where the founders preferred to sell or hand the running of a company over to outsiders rather than give it to their less talented offspring. Ironically, however, Henry hadn't founded Knight, his father had. Perhaps a more logical explanation was that by selling now-when profits were at an all-time high-the company would get the best price. This had the added benefit of giving Henry the chance to help his son with estate taxes while he was still alive.

In the last paragraph David saw something that made him sit upright. "Family considerations aside, Mr. Knight's concerns may have lessened lately," Pearl Jenner wrote. "Just two days ago, Keith Baxter, an attorney at Phillips, MacKenzie amp; Stout, the law firm which represents Tartan Incorporated, was killed in a traffic accident. Baxter had been the target of a recent federal inquiry into alleged violations of the U.S.

Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, which occurred during the Knight sale negotiations. Until now Henry Knight has refused to comment on the inquiry, but speaking by phone yesterday, he said, T always believed that these allegations were unfounded. Now the government will have no choice but to drop their charges. I want to add that Keith Baxter was a fine young man and his death comes as a shock to my family and me. Our sympathies go out to the Baxters. To honor his memory we will continue to move ahead with the sale. I know Keith would have wanted that.'" The article ended with a summary of Knight International's annual gross revenues and net profits.

David put the newspaper down and closed his eyes. Bribery was practically a way of life in China, with roots that could be traced back thousands of years. Keith must have slipped a bribe or two to some official, hoping to work out a conflict or smooth over some mistake in the paperwork. The practice might be customary in China, but it was beyond stupid here. No wonder Keith had reacted so strangely to David's questions about what he was doing at the firm, suggesting that David had come as part of some federal investigation. If Keith had confided in him, David would have insisted that he go straight to the U.S. Attorney's Office. Considering Keith's background-a lawyer with no priors-he might have gotten away with probation and a fine.

The service was held at Westwood Village Mortuary. David signed the guest book and looked for a seat. Hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible, he and the two FBI agents who accompanied him slipped into pews toward the rear of the chapel. But really, how inconspicuous could they be? Even if the shooting hadn't been in the news, even if David hadn't been the real target of the murderer with Keith's death as the consequence, David's companions would have marked him for at least a few stares. It wasn't their fault: FBI agents looked like FBI agents.

Keith's coffin lay on a raised platform at the front of the chapel. A few bouquets-some daisies, some roses, even one of those carnation things on an easel-surrounded it. A man walked to the podium and introduced himself as Reverend Roland Graft from Westwood Presbyterian. He opened with a few perfunctory remarks on the nature of death and the tragedy of a life taken so young and violently. However, the Reverend Graft had obviously never met Keith and quickly turned the microphone over to Miles Stout.

The last time David had seen Miles was at the annual dinner for current and former assistant U.S. attorneys. He hadn't changed, he never did. His Scandinavian background was prominent in his features. He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, tan, athletic-looking despite his almost sixty years. It was said that he still played tennis every day before going in to the office. He spent his vacations skiing in Vail or white-water rafting down some river no one had ever heard of in some remote area of the globe.

At the podium Miles appeared to take a moment to gather his thoughts. Probably half the people in the chapel knew this was mere theatrics. Miles was brilliant on his feet whether in court or as an after-dinner speaker.

"What can I say about Keith?" Miles asked in the buttery-smooth tones that so captivated juries. "How do I sum up a life?" He let the questions hang in the air unanswered, then dropped his voice. "Keith came to the firm still wet behind the ears, but he was a quick study. I learned to trust his judgment and admire his insights."

It was classic Miles Stout: sincerity combined with hackneyed images, false regret, and just a slight bending of the facts. Miles, knowing his audience and recognizing that they would be seeing right through him, continued.

"But again, how do we remember a man? With platitudes? No. With empty sentiments? Never. Today I want to remember the good times. Sure, they all involve the firm, but that's the kind of man Keith was. Perhaps through my stories, you will remember some of your own."

He paused, let a gentle smile come to the corners of his mouth, then said, "Just last week Keith and I were working on the acquisition of Knight International by Tartan Incorporated. Our team had been up for two nights straight. We'd been eating pizza and Chinese takeout till we were all longing for a home-cooked meal. I called down to the office…" David allowed his mind to drift. He hadn't been at the firm for the Tartan-Knight negotiations, but he didn't need to be to know that Miles hadn't been working twenty-four hours a day and eating food brought in from the nearest fast-food restaurant. Miles said it himself. "I called down to the office." He was the billing partner. It didn't matter if he went out to dinner with Mary Elizabeth, his high school sweetheart and wife of thirty-five years, to dine on linguini with black truffles so long as he brought in the work. And he did, big-time.