WALTER KEELER GOT into his rented Mercedes and tossed the envelope containing the copy of his will onto the passenger seat. He pulled out of the building’s garage, switched on the radio to a local classical music station and started north on Highway 101, Mozart caressing his ears. He had just passed through Fair Oaks when a report came over the radio of an accident on the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge that was backing up traffic for miles, south of San Mateo. He saw Woodside Road coming up and knew that it would take him to I-280, so he made a left, congratulating himself on saving a lot of time.

Once on I-280, driving north in fairly heavy traffic, he took his cell phone from its holster, called the management company that took care of his airplane at San Jose Airport and asked for the manager.

“Hello, Ralph, it’s Walter Keeler. How are you?”

“Just fine, Mr. Keeler. What can I do for you?”

"I’ve just sold my airplane to my friend Joe Wilen. You know him, don’t you?”

“Of course. We take care of his King Air.”

“Well, he’s going to be selling it, because I’ve just sold him my CitationJet.”

“Congratulations to you both. I hope I’m not losing a customer.”

“No, I’m moving up to a larger airplane, so I’ll still be around. The CitationJet is over at Hayward right now. Can you send a pilot over there to fly it back to San Jose?”

“Sure. I’ll have somebody over there first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I think Joe is going to want my hangar, but you can talk with him about that.”

“Be glad to. Anything else I can do for you?”

“That’s it, Ralph. See you soon.” As Keeler closed the cell phone it vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the screen to see who was calling. It was Ellie. He flipped it open again. “Hi, there,” he said.

“And hi to you. Where are you?”

“I’m on the way back to San Francisco. I had to leave 101 because of an accident on the San Mateo Bridge, so I’m on I-280 now, and the traffic’s okay, so I should be home in an hour or so.”

“That’s good. I’ll have a drink waiting for you.”

“I’ll see you…” Keeler looked up and saw something he couldn’t believe: a tanker truck had jackknifed in the oncoming lane and had crossed the median, traveling sideways. “Oh, shit!” he yelled, a second before he and the car next to him struck the tanker.

Ellie listened in disbelief as the noise of the explosion came over the cell phone, a split second before it went dead. She stood on the terrace, the phone in her hand, wondering what to do. She went into Walter’s study, found his address book, called Joe Wilen’s office and asked to be put through to him.

“Hello, Ellie?”

"Joe, I’ve just been on the phone with Walt, and I think he’s been in an accident.”

“Where is he?”

“On I-280, somewhere south of San Francisco.”

“That makes sense, I guess. Why do you think he’s been in an accident?”

She told him about their interrupted conversation.

“Are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Let me make a call, and I’ll get right back to you.”

“All right.”

Wilen hung up, went to his computer address book and dialed the direct number of the commander of the California State Highway Patrol in Sacramento. The man answered immediately.

“Colonel, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“Hello, Joe.”

“I believe Walter Keeler may have been in an accident on I-280 North, south of San Francisco. Do you know anything about that?”

“Hang on a minute,” he replied, then put Wilen on hold.

Joe sat, tapping his foot, hoping that this was all some mistake.

The colonel came back on the line. “Joe, switch on your TV.”

Wilen switched on the flat-screen television in his office and tuned to a local channel. He found himself watching a helicopter shot of an enormous fire on the interstate. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

“That’s on I- 280,” the colonel said. “I’ll call our nearest station personally and find out if Walter’s mixed up in that.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” He gave the man his office and cell numbers, then he called Ellie. “I’ve spoken with the highway patrol commander in Sacramento, and there’s a huge fire on I-280. Turn on your TV set.” He waited for her to come back.

“I see it, Joe. Don’t tell me Walter is involved in that.”

“I don’t know, but Walter is a big contributor to the governor’s campaigns, and the colonel knows it. We’ll find out as soon as possible. I’ll call you back.”

ELLIE SAT AND watched the fire on the TV. "I hope to God Walter signed that will,” she said.

AN HOUR PASSED before the phone rang again in Joe Wilen’s office. “Hello?”

“It’s Colonel Thompson. Do you know what kind of car Mr. Keeler was driving?”

“It was a rental,” Wilen said. “He was moving from Palo Alto to San Francisco today, and he drove down from San Francisco. I expect it was a Mercedes, because when he rented, that’s what he always asked for. I don’t know the color.”

“The color isn’t important anymore,” the colonel replied. “There was a Mercedes smack in the middle of that conflagration. The fire’s out, now, and they’re removing bodies. We’re going to need Mr. Keeler’s dental records.”

“I’ll have them faxed to you,” Wilen said, jotting down the number. “Walter and I go to the same dentist.” He hung up, made the call to the dentist and waited.

It was nearly dark when the colonel called back. “Thanks for the dental records, but it looks like we won’t need them. We found a fragment of a driver’s license on one of the bodies, which was badly burned. It belongs to Walter Keeler.”

“You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

“I’m sure. The car was consumed, but Mr. Keeler apparently got out of the car before the fire got to him.” The colonel gave Wilen the number of the morgue where the bodies had been taken. Wilen thanked him and hung up.

He picked up the phone to call Ellie Keeler; then he put it down again and called another number instead.

“Ed Eagle,” the voice said.

“Ed, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“Hello, Joe. Are you back in Palo Alto?”

“Yes. Ed, I’m going to need you to fax me a copy of the letter you wrote to Walter Keeler.”

EAGLE WAS QUIET for a moment. "Joe, I’m afraid I can’t do that without Keeler’s permission.”

“Ed, Walter Keeler died in an automobile accident south of San Francisco a couple of hours ago.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know. Did Keeler sign a new will?”

“I can’t go into that right now, Ed, but I need a copy of your letter.”

“All right. It’s on my home computer. I’m leaving the office now; I’ll fax it to you in half an hour.”

Wilen gave him the fax number. “Thank you, Ed. I’ll wait here for it.”

Wilen hung up and walked to the window. Lights were coming on in Palo Alto.

His secretary came to the door. “Mr. Wilen, I think I’m done for the day. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Sally,” he said. “I’ll be here for a while; I’m waiting for a fax.”

“Eleanor Keeler called when you were on the phone a few minutes ago.”

“I’ll call her,” Wilen said. He said good night to his secretary, went back to his desk and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Eleanor, it’s Joe Wilen.”

“What have you learned?”

“I’ve had a call from the state highway patrol. Walter was killed in the crash. They identified his body from a fragment of his driver’s license.”

“Are they sure?”

“I believe so, but I’ve had his dental records sent there for a positive identification. I think it will be a day or so before that can be done.”

Eleanor sounded as if she were crying. “This can’t be,” she sobbed. “We’ve only been married a week. What am I going to do?”

“Eleanor, do you have any family or friends you can call?”

She seemed to get control of herself. “No, nobody in San Francisco. Nobody at all, really.”