The GPS navigator obligingly took him directly to the target’s address, and Cato drove up and down the block a couple of times, checking it out. He parked on the street within sight of the residence and waited. He figured to take the day to identify the man, then follow him around until he had an opportunity. He loaded the Walther with hollow-point ammunition from his own supply, screwed in the silencer, then stuck it between the front seats of the truck and waited.

Shortly before eight A.M. the garage door of the house opened, and Cato saw a man loading a set of golf clubs into the trunk of a BMW 760. He backed the car out of the garage, closing the door with a remote control, and drove up the street past where Cato’s truck was parked.

Cato’s heart started beating a little faster. He started the truck, made a U-turn and followed at some distance. The neighborhood was slow to awake on a weekend morning, and there were only a couple of joggers and dog walkers to concern him. Then the target came to a traffic light and stopped.

As Cato approached, he checked ahead of and behind him. Both sides of the street were clear. He pulled up next to the BMW, in the left-turn lane, put it in park and rolled down his passenger-side window. He slid across the seat and shouted, “Excuse me!”

The man turned and looked at him.

“Mr. Wilen?”

The man rolled down the window. “Yes?”

“Are you Mr. Joe Wilen?”

“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

Cato pointed the gun at him. “Just hold still,” he said. The bullet struck Wilen just above the left eye, and he went down immediately. Cato didn’t feel the need for a second shot, since he was using hollow-point ammunition and since there were blood and brains all over the inside of Wilen’s windshield and dashboard.

He put the truck in gear, and as the light changed, turned left. In his rearview mirror he saw the BMW coast across the intersection and come to rest against a curb. He checked his pulse: up maybe ten beats, no more. He took a few deep breaths and worked on settling down. Then a police car appeared behind him, its lights flashing, giving him a low growl of the siren.

Cato signaled a right turn, then pulled over to the curb, his hands on the steering wheel, and waited. The police car drove straight past him, not even looking at him, headed to some other destination.

Cato took some more deep breaths, drove a few more blocks, and, when he stopped at another traffic light, selected his home address in the GPS menu and pressed the direct button.

Once on the freeway he stopped for gas and made a call from a pay phone to the cell phone number he had been given.

“Yes?” the woman’s voice said.

“The job in Palo Alto was completed an hour ago,” he said.

“When I have confirmation on the news or in the paper, I’ll send the next package. You have eleven days.” She hung up.

THAT NIGHT, back in L.A., Cato drove to Centurion, let himself in through the back gate, cleaned and oiled the gun, then took a thin file and scored the barrel enough to change the ballistic markings it would produce. He returned it to its cabinet in the armory, wiped clean of prints, and went home for some rest.

Grif’s car was parked on one side of the driveway. Cato let himself into the garage with the remote control and closed the door after him. It was dark outside, and he had seen none of his neighbors on the street.

Grif was sitting in front of the living room TV, eating chips and drinking a beer. “Hey,” he said.

“Evening.”

“Everything come out all right?”

Cato ignored the question. He peeled five hundreds off the roll in his pocket and handed them to Edwards. “Thanks for your help. Any calls?”

“Tina called. The cop from Santa Fe is coming to see her. She’s got her story down pat, though.”

“Good. Was that all?”

“There was a message from GMAC, saying they received your truck payment.”

“Good. Anybody else?”

“That’s everything. I saw your next-door neighbor when I got here yesterday with a sack of groceries. She asked after you, and I told her you were down with the flu. She wanted to bring over chicken soup, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.”

“All good,” Cato said. “I’m going to go get some sleep; you can go home, if you want to.”

“After the game,” Edwards said.

Cato showered, dove into bed and slept well.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, Eagle called Joe Wilen’s new Santa Fe house and got his wife, Sandi, on the phone.

“Good morning, it’s Ed Eagle.”

“Good morning, Ed.”

“Is Joe awake yet? I thought I’d roust him out for some golf.”

“No, he went back to Palo Alto Friday night; he had a tournament to play there this weekend, and he starts his flight training tomorrow.”

“Well, he’ll be out of pocket for a couple of weeks, I guess. Tell him I’ll see him when I see him.”

“Okay, Ed. Tell Susannah I’ll call her for lunch.”

“Will do. Bye-bye.” Eagle hung up and went to make breakfast. Susannah was up and in the shower.

He was about to start scrambling eggs when the kitchen phone rang. “Hello?”

“Ed?” It was Sandi Wilen, and she sounded shaky.

“Hi, Sandi. Anything wrong?”

"I just got a call from the Palo Alto police. They told me Joe is dead.”

Eagle took a moment to digest this. “Are they sure it’s Joe?”

“Yes, he had ID on him. He was shot in his car, on the way to the golf course.”

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday morning. They’ve been trying to reach me, but they didn’t know about the Santa Fe house. A neighbor finally told them to try me here.”

“Sandi, I’m so very sorry. I didn’t know Joe very well, yet, but I was looking forward to getting to know him and having him as a neighbor.”

“Thank you, Ed.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, I have to go back to Palo Alto. It’s going to take me all day, what with the airline connections.”

“Sandi, I’ll be happy to fly you directly to Palo Alto. We can be there by lunchtime, and I’m sure you’re going to need some help dealing with this when we get there.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to that trouble, Ed, but…”

“I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes, okay?”

“Well, all right, Ed. I really appreciate this.”

“See you then.” Eagle hung up.

Susannah appeared in fresh jeans and a sweater, her hair wet. “I don’t like the look on your face,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Joe Wilen is dead, shot.”

Susannah was shocked. “Is it Barbara, do you think?”

“Yes, I do think. I’m going to fly Sandi home and see if I can help there.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure, if you want to. I could use some help with Sandi, I’m sure.”

“I’ll pack for a couple of days,” she said, disappearing into the bedroom.

EAGLE LANDED AT San Jose and soon they were at Palo Alto police headquarters. A detective came down and met them, and introductions were made.

“I want to see my husband,” Sandi said.

“Of course, Mrs. Wilen,” the detective said. “We’ll need your identification of the body. I’ll get someone to take you over to the morgue.” He picked up the phone and made a call. A moment later another detective appeared and escorted her away, with Susannah in tow.

“May I speak with you, Detective?” Eagle asked.

“Sure, let’s use this room over here.” The detective led Eagle into an interrogation room and closed the door. The two men sat down.

“Please tell me how Joe Wilen died.”

“Your name again?”

“Ed Eagle. I’m an attorney, friend of the family. I may be able to help.”

“Mr. Wilen was scheduled to play in a golf tournament yesterday morning. He left his house and a few blocks away, he stopped at a traffic signal. We think another vehicle drove alongside his car and someone shot him once in the head. The weapon was a.380, the bullet a hollow-point. One was all it took. A jogger found the car a few yards away; it had come to rest against a tree at low speed, and the engine was still running. The jogger didn’t see another vehicle, but from the angle of the wound we think it was a taller vehicle, an SUV or a truck.”