Not a word. I checked Books in Print, academic journals, every sublist I could find.

Nothing. If he'd ever published his novel, there was no record of it.

I went on to Christopher Graydon-Jones.

Three citations, the first twenty years ago when the sculptor had received a commission from a company called Enterprise Insurance to create a bronze and iron piece for the lobby of its corporate headquarters in downtown L.A. Minor coverage in the L.A. Times arts supplement, no picture.

Two years after that, a business journal had him working for the same company as Assistant Deputy Director of Marketing, an interesting transition. Five years later, he'd advanced to Chief Operating Officer at Enterprise, and a publicity photo showed him looking older than his thirty-five years: balding, with a long face, wide pouchy eyes, and a weak chin. Clean-shaven.

Next: Joachim Sprentzel. The German had taught composition at Juilliard before committing suicide eight years ago, in Hartford, Connecticut. A Hartford Courant obituary cited a "protracted illness" and noted Sprentzel's "commitment to textural atonalism and chromatic adventure." His parents still lived in Munich. No wife or children.

A ten-year-old Juilliard faculty shot portrayed an intense-looking man with a very strong square jaw, bushy dark hair, and nervous eyes behind tiny wire-frame eyeglasses.

Above the jaw, a thick drooping mustache.

Remarkably similar in shape and color to Diggity Dog's.

Hairy Lip.

Suicide after a protracted illness. A single man.

My gut assumption was AIDS, but it could have been anything.

Dead. Another avenue closed off.

I photocopied all of it and checked in with my service. Messages from two lawyers, a judge, and Sherrell Best. I saved the Reverend for last. He wasn't home, and a woman at the Church of the Outstretched Hand said he was out making food deliveries.

I returned the phone to its cradle.

Three men at a gravesite.

Lowell, Trafficant, and Sprentzel?

All three out of reach.

I reviewed the photocopied articles.

It was a long shot, but maybe Christopher Graydon-Jones was still working downtown.

I looked up Enterprise Insurance in the Central L.A. book. No listing. But a scan of the yellow pages revealed an address on 26th Street in Santa Monica and the subheading "Specializing in worker's compensation plans and corporate liability."

I called the number and asked for Mr. Graydon-Jones. To my amazement I was put through to a happy-sounding secretary. When I asked to speak to her boss, she managed to stay happy while getting protective.

"What's this in regard to, sir?"

"Mr. Graydon-Jones's fellowship at Sanctum."

"What's Sanctum, sir?"

"An artistic retreat run by the novelist M. Bayard Lowell. Mr. Graydon-Jones was a sculpture fellow there, quite a while ago. I'm a freelance writer working on a biography of Mr. Lowell, and I'm attempting to reach-"

"An artistic what?"

"Retreat. A place where artists can go to pursue their art."

"You're saying Mr. Graydon-Jones was once an artist?"

"He was a sculptor. He did the sculpture in the lobby of Enterprise's corporate office downtown."

"We haven't been downtown for years."

"I realize that, but Mr. Graydon-Jones was commissioned back in-"

"Is this some sort of joke, sir?"

"No. Could you please give him the message? He may want to speak with me."

"He's out right now. Your name, sir?"

"Del Ware. Sandy Del Ware." I gave her my number.

"Very well, Mr. Del Ware," she said, too quickly. Then she hung up.

I looked at my watch. Twelve-fifteen. Graydon-Jones out to lunch? Or sitting behind a big desk shuffling papers, a busy, important man.

I had plenty of time.

Enterprise's headquarters was only a twenty-minute drive.

The building was just south of Olympic, in a high-end industrial park favoring electronics companies. Five stories, brick and glass, with a restaurant on the ground floor called Escape, specializing in expensive burgers and tropical drinks.

Enterprise was just a suite on the second floor. The door was locked and a sign dangling from the knob said OUT TO LUNCH UNTIL 2 P.M.

I went back down to the ground floor. No sculpture. The door to the restaurant was open, and the odors from within weren't bad. I decided to have lunch and then try again.

A hostess looked me over and said, "Just one?"

I gave her my best aw-shucks lonely-guy smile, and she put me in a tiny corner table near the rest rooms. The place was teeming with suits and smiles, the air ripe with alcohol and gravy. Paper palms on white walls. Gauguin prints hanging alongside travel photos of blue water and brown bodies.

I ordered a beer and a Tahiti Burger and was working my way down the foam when I saw him across the room in a booth with a woman.

Older, balder, the little hair he had left iron-gray. But definitely the same long face, mournful eyes, and a chin that had lost even more bone, receding into a stringy neck. He wore a dark blue suit and a tie so bright it seemed radioactive.

The woman was in her thirties, honey-blond and well put together. No food in front of them, just red drinks with celery sticks and piles of paper.

I ate and watched them; then the woman collected the papers, shook Graydon-Jones's hand, and left.

He ordered another drink and lit up a cigarillo.

I left money on my table and approached.

"Mr. Graydon-Jones?"

He looked up. The sad eyes were blue.

I repeated the pitch I'd given his secretary.

He smiled. "Yes, I got your message. Sanctum. How strange." English accent, tinged with working-class cadences that wouldn't mean much here but would pigeonhole him back in the U.K.

"What is?" I said.

"Hearing about that place after all this time. What was your name again?"

"Sandy Del Ware."

"And you're writing a biography of Lowell?"

"Trying to."

"Do you have a business card?"

"No, sorry. I'm a freelance."

He tapped ashes into an ashtray. "Trying? Does that mean you have no contract?"

"Several publishers are interested, but my agent wants me to submit a thorough outline before he negotiates a deal. I've been able to get all the basics on Lowell except for the time period when he opened Sanctum. In fact, you're the only Fellow I've been able to locate."

"That so?" He smiled. "Please sit down. Drink?"

"No, but I'd be happy to buy you one."

He laughed. "No, thank you. Two at lunch is my limit."

He called for the bill, ordered coffee for both of us, and scrawled something on the check.

"I appreciate your talking to me," I said.

"Only for a few minutes." Looking at a big Rolex. "Now, why on earth would you want to write a book about Buck?"

"He's an interesting character. Rise and fall of a major talent."

"Hmm. Yes. I suppose that would be nicely ironic. But to me he was rather a bore. No offense, but one of those eternal children Americans seem so fond of."

"Well, hopefully they'll stay fond and buy my book."

He smiled again and buttoned his jacket over his thin chest. The suit looked to be one of those highly structured English affairs that costs thousands. His shirt was white with horizontal blue stripes and a high white collar, probably Turnbull &Asser. The conspicuous tie was patterned with artist's brushes and palettes on black jacquard silk. Simulated dabs of paint supplied the color: scarlet and orange and turquoise and lime-green. "So what would you like to know about the Bug Farm?"

"Pardon?"

"The Bug Farm. That's what we called the place. It was infested with bugs: beetles, spiders, whatever. And we were all buggy back then. Bugged out- a bit crazy. The old man probably selected us for that. How's he doing?"