“That may be our best lead yet. Sailing supply. Again, a guess. Maybe even for some other special outdoor use-rock climbing? But I don’t think it’s something from a hardware store.”

“Unless I miss my guess,” Alex said, “it’s a common brand of static rope-a rope that’s designed not to stretch. That type of rope is used for rappelling. You can buy them at outdoor equipment and sporting goods stores.”

“You’re a climber?” the tech asked, looking at him with new interest.

“Yes,” Ciara said, “he’s crazy. But he knows rock climbing equipment.”

They were interrupted by Marquez, who came rushing out, nearly knocking the tech down. “Man, when it rains it pours. You’ve got a lieutenant, the FBI, and the L.A. Times on the front lawn.”

“God damn it all to hell,” Ciara said, hurrying past him. “I’m going to close the blinds on the bathroom window. The Times will make it a photo op.”

“Did you say the FBI?” the lab tech asked. “Why would they be here?”

“Bernardo Adrianos was on their Ten Most Wanted list,” Alex said.

He was distracted by the sound of an approaching helicopter and looked up. “Shit. Not one of ours, Enrique. Television. You suppose the neighbors called them, or that knucklehead with the Feds?”

Marquez had other things on his mind. “You’d better not let B.B. Queen get anywhere near a reporter, Alex, or all our asses will be in a sling.”

Malibu, California

Sunday, May 18, 10:53 P.M.

Everett Corey finished working out in his private gymnasium at the back of his property. He poured Fiji water into a Baccarat crystal glass and eased his thirst. He was alone in his large hillside home this evening, as he most often chose to be. Solitude allowed him to be free of the inadequacies of others. No need to make the effort to ignore their failings, large and small.

He was a handsome man, the product of good-looking parents. He had no memories of his mother. When he was not quite two, she had agreed-as a condition of an otherwise generous divorce settlement-never to make contact with her only child by the marriage. His father had no photos of her and never mentioned her. When he was fifteen, he learned that she had been dead for some years. He felt nothing in the way of grief and no desire to locate any of his maternal relations. Relations, he had learned from those on his father’s side, were a damned nuisance to any person of substance.

Everett Corey was unmistakably his father’s child. He had his father’s green eyes, and his build, height, and athletic grace. His hair was golden blond, rather than the paler shade of his father’s, but in other respects he closely resembled him.

Other men, Everett knew, were easily persuaded by his father. Women were charmed by him. And because of the power he held over them, his father generally held other people in contempt. Everett understood that perfectly.

Everett and his father had never been affectionate with each other, but until he reached the age of fourteen, Everett had faith that his father could and would use his charisma and wealth to shield his son from any unpleasant consequences. Everett often got into trouble as a child. He knew his father found this irritating, but to those outside their home, he never failed to present anything but the staunchest support for his boy.

Then the world changed. During the ninth grade, Everett had been expelled from school and arrested for viciously assaulting a younger boy-a boy who, in Everett’s opinion, totally deserved to be beaten nearly to death-and things had not gone as smoothly as they usually did. To Everett’s shock, his father had failed to get the better of Alex Brandon, the sheriff’s department detective who had taken Everett into custody. His father had immediately posted bail and Everett had not served time in a common juvenile detention facility, but in retrospect, he often thought that might have been preferable to the punishment he did receive.

The compromise his father’s lawyers had arranged instead was that Everett was sent away from home to live at Sedgewick, an exclusive private school in Malibu. The wealthiest families in the Los Angeles area-families in Brentwood, Malibu, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, the Pacific Palisades, and other exclusive enclaves-sent their sons there. But only-as Everett knew-if they were misfits. If you were kicked out of other schools, if you had behavior problems, if you abused drugs or were violent, you went to Sedgewick. If your parents believed you were out of control, they sent you to Sedgewick. If your family no longer wanted you under its roof, you went to Sedgewick.

He disliked the faculty and staff. He disliked the dormitory and food. He disliked the discipline.

He wrote letters home, pleading with his father to make some other arrangement. His letters went unanswered.

He was an intelligent boy who wasn’t challenged by the curriculum at Sedgewick. With little else to occupy him, he began to test his own power to influence others and learned that he could exercise a remarkable amount of control over certain of the other boys. He began to be less homesick.

By the time he came home on a summer break, the rift between Everett and his father was complete. If his father was pleased, at first, to find his son’s manners and behavior impeccable, he was also made aware of an unmistakable coolness beneath the civility. Invitations to play tennis or chess were courteously refused; gifts politely accepted and immediately ignored; conversational gambits deftly turned aside. If his father insisted that Everett join him, Everett complied, but his father found him a distant and distracted companion. Dinners at home became tense, silent affairs. After that first summer, Everett did not return to his father’s Malibu mansion until after graduation.

His father was dying of what the world was told was cancer, but which Everett knew to be AIDS. A few weeks after graduation, the same man who had arrested Everett when he was fourteen-Alex Brandon-questioned Everett and his friend Cameron Burgess, wanting to know their whereabouts on the night Cameron’s father met with violent death.

To Everett’s surprise, his own father shielded him, just as he had in earlier years. His father had sworn to Detective Brandon that the young men had been with him, constantly keeping him company at his bedside.

That autumn, while playing tennis on the estate’s private court, Everett was informed that his father had died. He continued to play out the set with Cameron.

The inheritance was held in trust for three years, during which its value increased steadily. On his twenty-first birthday, a little more than four years ago, Everett became a man of enormous personal wealth.

He was not as stupid as his father, he thought now, admiring the way his body looked after his evening workout. He took care of his body. He might have multiple sexual partners, but he chose them carefully and never had unprotected sex. He wondered if he might call someone for sex tonight.

He had no sooner thought this than the phone rang. He checked the caller ID display. Reluctantly, he answered.

“For your sake, Frederick, I hope this is important,” he said.

“Are you watching television?”

“No. I have better things to do with my time.”

“Not tonight! It’s on-finally! Turn on CNN or MSNBC. Or both of them! And it’s on the local news, too!”

“Do try to stay calm,” Everett said lazily, and had nearly hung up when he heard the other voice say-

“Are you still leaving tonight?”

He brought the receiver back to his ear. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“No, I guess not. I just thought you’d like to see how things develop, you know-how they’re covered by the media.”

“I already know that they will be covered inaccurately.”