But now, those reasons seemed silly, especially when lined up with the reality that if I had an accident, I could be seriously injured. Or worse. How had I taken life so lightly before? With Forester dead and Sam gone, the fragility of the world as I knew it was readily apparent. Leaving the scooter running, I put the kickstand down and crossed the garage to the shelves. Standing on my tiptoes, I took down my helmet.

With a rag from one of the shelves, I wiped off the dust that had accumulated. The helmet fit snugly over my ears, the way it was supposed to. I fastened the strap under my chin, not caring that it made me look like a Teletubby or that my hair would be ruined for the day.

I got back on the Vespa and headed for the offices of Pickett Enterprises.

“Did you see the Channel 5 news last night?” Shane said, opening the frosted front doors of the office, which was in a building on Michigan Avenue that bordered the river. Forester hadn’t tried to save money when he decorated the place and, as a result, the hardwood floors gleamed, the expensive artwork was well lit and the eclectic furnishings, collected from around the world, were top of the line.

“I saw the segment,” I said. “C.J. called to give me the heads-up.”

“The press has been outside the offices every day. I thought they’d be worse today after the news about Sam, but I guess because it’s a Saturday they didn’t expect anyone to come in.”

Shane turned his back, while I trailed behind him. Even on a weekend, he was dressed impeccably in a houndstooth jacket and perfectly pressed pants. “Who’s C.J., by the way?” he asked.

“The producer at WNDY. She works mostly with Jane Augustine.”

He said nothing and I was reminded how little Shane knew about the details, the people that made up his father’s company.

“I heard Pickett is selling a bunch of its radio and TV stations,” I said. “Is that true?”

He stopped, turned sideways. “Who told you that?”

“C.J. She’s scared you’re going to sell WNDY.”

He looked at a loss. “Actually, they’re thinking about it. Chaz and Walt. They think the company needs more cash to operate, and selling off some stations is the easiest way to get it.”

“It’s not what your dad would have wanted.”

He gave me an agonized expression then shook his head. He turned and began walking down the hallway again.

After a few feet Shane stopped, and I almost crashed into him. His office, the place I’d thought was our destination, was much farther down the hallway.

“C’mon in,” he said.

That’s when I realized it-Shane had moved into his father’s office.

The lights were on, and a mess of paperwork was spread over the desk. Forester would never have been able to work with his desk like that.

I went to the window and looked down at the sidewalk bordering the river. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for-the guy with the tan jacket I’d seen in Old Town? Maybe someone with a sandwich board reading, I’m Following Izzy McNeil? I hadn’t noticed anyone following me on my scooter ride from my apartment.

I moved away from the window.

“Let’s sit here.” Shane pointed to a sitting area at the right of the room. Four bucket chairs in rich, brown leather were grouped around a glass coffee table. Three televisions were placed between books on every topic imaginable on the shelves.

When I hesitated, Shane looked at me, then his eyes swung around the room. “Sorry. I guess I should have told you I moved into my dad’s office.”

“When?” I took a seat.

“Last night. After the funeral.”

Cold, I thought.

He sat in a chair opposite me and seemed to be looking at me for approval. I said nothing.

“I just want to do what he would want me to do,” he continued. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And he always told me he wanted me to take over the company. I’m not ready, but I want to carry out his wishes.”

I nodded in a noncommittal way. Behind his head, the sun glinted off the river and the majestic Tribune tower.

“So I’m glad you called me,” Shane said. “I wanted to talk to you because, as Walt said, the estate is tied up because of the problems with Sam.”

I gave another slight nod. I heard Mayburn in my head telling me, When you’re interrogating someone, never let them know it. Stay on your schedule, not theirs. “Why did you ask for the autopsy to be rushed?” I asked.

“Walt and Chaz wanted me to. They were afraid that if something was wrong with my dad’s death it could tie up the estate even more, and I wouldn’t be able to move into the position of CEO. There was concern that everything at Pickett would grind to a halt and the company could go downhill.”

“You’re CEO already?”

We both looked around the office, Forester’s office.

“The bylaws of the company put me in this position,” he continued. “Yes, I’m the CEO now.” He said this simply, with no triumph or embarrassment, but I got the sense that saying it out loud was helping him believe it.

“Wow. Well, congratulations.”

I settled back in my chair and remembered all the times I’d been in exactly the same seat, talking with Forester about a contract negotiation or a new deal. That would never happen again, I realized. Forester had been replaced already.

“The story about Sam is going to be on the other stations tonight.” Shane’s mouth turned down at the edges. His pale skin had a bit of a flushed look today, as if he’d been running around all morning. He swiveled back and forth in his chair like a kid.

“Probably,” I said.

“You know how my dad hated publicity.”

“I know. He thought a company’s good reputation should be publicity enough.”

“How did Channel 5 get the story?”

“I have no idea,” I answered.

Shane gave me a strange look.

“What?”

“Did you leak it?”

“Are you crazy? Why in the hell would I want to leak a story about my fiancé disappearing with Forester’s property?”

Shane’s face softened. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think anymore. This whole thing is so surreal.”

We both looked around the office. Is it surreal, Shane, because you’ve wanted this all along? Is it surreal because you threatened your own father and somehow caused his death?

But then I reminded myself that the only indication I had that Forester’s death wasn’t natural, aside from my intuition, were those threatening letters, along with the information he’d given me that his cardiologist had given him a clean bill of health.

“Shane,” I said, “who was your dad’s cardiologist?”

“Dr. Donald Loman. Why do you ask?”

“Your dad told me that he’d recently had a stress test and EKG. He said he passed with flying colors.”

“Yeah. He seemed so healthy.”

“He did. Have you talked to Dr. Loman?”

“He came to the emergency room after my dad was brought there. He said it was a classic presentation of a heart attack.”

“And what about that Chinese doctor Forester saw?”

Shane scoffed. “If you can call her a doctor. Her name is Song Li, I think.”

“Have you had any discussions with her?”

“No. What’s with all the questions?”

I gave a nonchalant shrug. The investigator I’m working with wanted me to ask you.

I thought of the other things Mayburn told me to learn from Shane. “So,” I said, trying to make my voice pleasant, “I do have another question. When was the last time you saw your dad before he passed away?”

“That afternoon. He had meetings all over the city, but he came into my office to check in.” Shane blinked and looked down. It seemed he might be on the verge of tears. Guilty ones, I wondered, or just grief?

“Did he say anything about what he was going to do that night?”

“Yeah, he said he didn’t have anything going on. He was happy about that. Annette was going to leave him dinner, and he was going to go to bed early. He asked me a question about a project I was working on and told me I was doing a good job.” Shane gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s the last thing he said to me-that I was doing a good job.”