"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll get him," Cavanaugh said.

"I certainly hope so."

7

Pebble Beach was just to the north. They took a roundabout route through Carmel's sleepy streets, always on the lookout for anyone who even remotely resembled Prescott.

No one did.

At a toll gate, Jamie paid to get onto the area's famous 17-Mile Drive, a picturesque route that bordered the extensive golf course, allowing a view of its greens, ponds, sand traps, and the ocean in the background. Deer roamed freely. Cypresses and Monterey pines flanked multimillion-dollar properties. Cavanaugh ignored it all, watching for Prescott.

At Pebble Beach's lodge, Jamie drove through the entrance and parked in an out-of-the-way spot, from where Cavanaugh could watch guests arriving and departing. Then she went inside, only to come back ten minutes later, looking puzzled.

"What's the matter?" Cavanaugh asked.

"If Prescott had visions of playing golf at Pebble Beach all the time, he was in for a big surprise. Unless you've got influence, you need to make an appointment to play here a year in advance."

"A year?"

"And if you're with a group, it's two years. If you're right and he'd been planning this for a long time, he might have made an appointment quite a while ago, somehow finding a way to keep his controllers from knowing what he'd done."

"A big risk," Cavanaugh said. "And he wouldn't have known his new name back then. He wouldn't have had a credit card to go with it to reserve the appointment."

"So unless he found a way to get influence here, which is hard to do in a couple of weeks," Jamie said, "you can come back in about a year and see if you recognize him."

"I had in mind a little quicker timetable," Cavanaugh said.

"There are at least a dozen golf courses in the area. Some of them might not have as long a waiting list. What did you plan to do? Go from one course to the next? Find a spot near the links and use binoculars to watch the players in case someone who reminds you of Prescott shows up?"

"If that's what it takes."

"A lot of time. Too many chances to miss him. The FBI has enough personnel to watch all the golf courses simultaneously."

"No FBI," Cavanaugh said.

"They also have the resources to run background checks on guests who haven't played here before," Jamie said.

"No FBI," Cavanaugh repeated.

8

Sheltered by a cypress, Cavanaugh sat at the northeast rim of Carmel's beach, close to where the shore rose to the grass of the Pebble Beach links. He was far enough inland that he blended with the trees and shrubs behind him. The air was balmy, the afternoon sun reflecting so brightly off the water that he had to wear sunglasses.

"All roads lead to Rome?" Jamie asked.

"And everybody in the area ends up going to Carmel's famous beach. As much as the golf courses and 17-Mile Drive, this is the big attraction." Cavanaugh studied the long crescent of white sand. Hundreds of people were on it, reading in beach chairs, splashing in the surf, strolling, jogging, or tossing Fris-bees to dogs. "I can't imagine that Prescott would live in the area and not come down here. At first, he'd be apprehensive about showing himself. He'd probably stay close to wherever he's living. But eventually he'd begin to loosen up. He might even come down here for exercise. Hell, for all I know, he got himself a dog."

"The FBI could check everybody who recently bought property around here," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh continued watching the people on the beach.

"It's just a thought," Jamie said.

"I keep seeing Roberto with his head beaten in… Duncan with his face full of bullet holes… Karen literally scared to death in her wheelchair."

"The government might not be as lenient with Prescott as you think."

Instead of responding, Cavanaugh glanced down at a map of the shops in town. "The big bookstore is in the Carmel Mall. We could keep a watch on the place. Since Prescott likes books, there's a good chance he'd eventually show up there."

"Unless he buys books off the Internet."

"There's nothing like a real bookstore, though."

"In that case, he might decide to make the short drive north to Monterey," Jamie said.

Cavanaugh gave her a look.

"Just trying to investigate alternatives," she said.

"Which brings us back to sitting here on the beach and watching for him."

"Fine with me. I'll get a beach chair and a book. I can use the rest," Jamie said.

"After dark, we'll stake out the best restaurants and see if he shows up."

"I was sort of hoping we could eat in those restaurants, not watch them."

"Given how little he's probably eating these days, he'll want the small portions he allows himself to be exquisite. Only the top two or three restaurants in town will be acceptable to him."

"Unless he eats at home."

Cavanaugh gave her another look.

A jogger sprinted to their end of the beach, turned, and ran back in the opposite direction.

"Weight loss," Jamie said.

"You thought of something?"

"I'm going to hate myself for being honest. It'll take more than dieting for Prescott to lose weight fast. He'll need exercise. Hours and hours of it."

9

Cavanaugh waited in an art gallery while Jamie found a break in traffic and crossed to the opposite side, where a walkway led to what their map indicated was a warren of shops in the center of a block. They'd learned that one of the exercise clubs they wanted to check was on the second floor of a building over there, affiliated with a nearby hotel. The time was now 4:30. Although there wasn't any guarantee that Prescott would use an exercise club, let alone that particular club at that particular moment, Cavanaugh couldn't risk entering, just in case Prescott might, in fact, be present. Because Prescott didn't know Jamie existed, the safer course was for her to go in alone and look around. If no one aroused her suspicion, she was to tell an instructor that she was writing a health-magazine article about overweight people who'd lost a remarkable amount of weight in a short time thanks to their determination. Then she'd ask if any of the club's members fit that description.

Pretending to appreciate the gallery's paintings, Cavanaugh often glanced through the front window toward the other side of the street. The late-afternoon sun put some of the doorways in shadow. As tourists went in and out of the mews over there, he checked his watch, then feigned interest in more of the paintings.

Thirty minutes later, he was still pretending to be interested in the paintings.

He stepped outside and crossed the street. Pots of brightly colored flowers flanked the mews's entrance. Beyond them, shifting among tourists, he passed a walkway on his right. According to what he and Jamie had learned, the exercise club would be along the next walkway on the right. He turned a corner, passed more flowers, and came to steps that led up to the second floor. A sign read the fitness clinic.

Upstairs, he scanned the lobby and the long, bright exercise room beyond it. Jamie was nowhere in view. Staying to the side of the lobby, he carefully assessed the people working the various machines. None of them reminded him of Prescott. Amid the hum of treadmills and the clank of weights, he approached a muscular man in tight shorts and a T-shirt who stood behind a counter.

"I'm supposed to meet my wife here, but I'm late," Cavanaugh said. "Do you know if she's still around? Tall, thin, auburn hair. Good-looking."

The instructor frowned. "Is your name Cavanaugh?"

"Why? Is something wrong?"