Traffic on the freeway was still fairly light and I made it to the Cutter Road off-ramp by five minutes after eight. Voigt Motors was the authorized dealer for Mercedes-Benz, Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls-Royce, Bentley, BMW, and Aston Martin. I parked my VW in one of ten empty slots and moved toward the entrance. The building looked like a Southern plantation, a glass-and-concrete tribute to gentility and taste. A discreet sign, hand-lettered in gold, indicated that business hours were Monday-Friday 8:30am to 8pm, Saturday 9am to 6pm, and Sunday 10am to 6pm. I cupped a hand against the smoky glass, looking for signs of activity in the shadowy interior. I could see six or seven gleaming automobiles and a light at the rear. To the right, a staircase swept up and out of sight. I tapped a key against the glass, wondering if the tiny clicking sound carried far enough to be effective.

Moments later, Kenneth Voigt appeared at the top of the stairs and peered over the railing. He came down and crossed the gleaming marble floor in my direction. He wore a dark pin-striped business suit, a crisp pale blue dress shirt, and a dark blue tie. He looked like a man who'd built up one of the most prosperous high-end car dealerships in Santa Teresa County. He detoured briefly, taking time to flick on interior lights, illuminating a fleet of pristine automobiles. He unlocked the front door and held it open for me. "I take it you got my message."

"I was in early this morning. I thought we might as well talk in person."

"You'll have to hang on a minute. I was just putting a call through to New York." He crossed the showroom, moving toward a row of identical glass-fronted offices where business was conducted during working hours. I watched as he took a seat in somebody else's swivel chair. He punched in a number and leaned back, keeping an eye on me while he waited for his call to go through. Someone apparently picked up on the other end because I saw his interest quicken. He began to gesture as he talked. Even from a distance, he managed to look tense and unreasonable.

Don't blow this, I thought. Do not mouth off. The man was Lonnie's client, not mine, and I couldn't afford to antagonize him. I ambled around the showroom, hoping to stifle my natural inclination to bolt. Getting fired had taken some of the cockiness out of me. I focused on my surroundings, taking in the aura of elegance.

The air smelled wonderfully of leather and car wax. I wondered what it felt like to have enough in a checking account to make a down payment on a vehicle that cost more than two hundred thousand dollars. I pictured lots of chuckles and not a lot of haggling. If you could afford a Rolls-Royce, you had to know it would set you back plenty walking in the door. What was there to negotiate, the trade-in on your Bentley?

My gaze settled on a Corniche III, a two-door convertible with a red exterior. The top was down. The interior was upholstered in creamy white leather piped in red. I glanced back at Voigt. He was now fully engrossed in his telephone conversation so I opened the door on the driver's side of the Rolls and got in. Not bad. A copy of the car's specs was printed on parchment, bound in leather, and tucked in the glove box. It looked like the wine list in an expensive restaurant. There wasn't anything as vulgar as a price in evidence, but I did learn that the 'kerb weight' for the motorcar was 2430 kg and the 'luggage boot capacity' was 0,27 m 3 . I studied all the dials and switches on the instrument panel, admiring the inlaid walnut. I did some serious driving, turning the steering wheel this way and that while I made tire-squealing noises with my mouth. James Bond in drag. I was in the process of navigating a hairpin turn on a mountainous road above Monte Carlo when I looked up to find Voigt standing beside the car. I could feel the color rise in my face like heat. "This is beautiful," I murmured. I knew I only said it as a way of sucking up to him, but I couldn't help myself.

He opened the door and slid in on the passenger side. He surveyed the dashboard lovingly and then touched the supple leather on the bucket seat. "Fourteen hides for every Corniche interior. Sometimes after closing, I come down here and sit."

"You own this place and you don't drive one yourself?"

"I can't afford it quite yet," he said. "I made up my mind if we won this lawsuit I was going to buy one of these, just for the thrill of it." His expression was pained. "From what Rhe tells me, you've stirred up a hornets' nest. She's talking about suing the shit out of you and Lonnie both."

"On what grounds?"

"I have no idea. People who sue hardly need a reason these days. God only knows how it's going to impact my case. You were hired to serve subpoenas. You weren't instructed to go off on any tangents."