Donnie made his decision, then glanced back at the two guys in the swinging door, and shook his head once. The two guys vanished. 'You know better'n this.'

Brownell said, 'I'm sorry, Donnie. Jesus Christ.'

The tiny eyes flicked back to me, and then a smile even smaller than the eyes played at the edges of his mouth. 'C'mon, I'll show you the way out.'

I followed the bald guy out, got into my car, and drove to a Seattle 's Best Coffee, where I bought a double-tall mochachino and sat there feeling confused, a more or less natural state. I had flown to Seattle expecting some difficulty in dealing with Wilson Brownell, but nothing like this. Wilson Brownell seemed stark raving terrified to mention Clark 's name. In fact, Brownell seemed not only terrified of me but also of his fellow employees. Maybe there was something to it, or maybe Brownell was just a goofball suffering from some sort of paranoid psychosis. Goofballs are common. I could sit here and guess, but all I would have are guesses. I needed to ask Wilson Brownell, and there were only two options: I could shoot my way back into New World and pistol-whip the information out of him, or I could wait and ask him when Wilson left work. The C-Span Lady had said that Brownell got home between five-thirty and a quarter to six, which meant that he probably left work between five and five-fifteen. It was now forty-three minutes after two, giving me two hours and twenty minutes to fill, and I decided to visit Rachel Hewitt's grave. If Clark had visited her grave, he might've left flowers. If he left flowers, there might be a florist's tag, and if there was a florist's tag, I might be able to get a line on Clark. A lot of ifs and maybes, but ifs and maybes define my life.

The Seattle 's Best people let me use their Yellow Pages. Twelve cemeteries were listed in the greater Seattle, Mercer Island, and Bellevue area. I copied their numbers on a napkin, traded three dollar bills for quarters, and started dialing. The first four cemeteries I phoned did not have a Rachel Hewitt listed, but a woman who answered the phone at the fifth said, 'Why, yes, we do have a Rachel Hewitt as a client.' Client.

I said, 'Did you know Rachel Hewitt?'

'Oh, goodness, no.'

'You knew she was there without having to look it up.' She had said it that quickly.

'Oh, well, I had to look it up just last week for another gentleman. On a Monday, I believe. Yes, that's right, a Monday.'

'Over the phone, or in person?'

'Oh, he was here.'

I described Clark. 'Did he look like that?'

'Oh, no. Nothing like that. This gentleman was tall and blond, with short hair.'

I got directions, hung up, and eighteen minutes later I pulled through the gate onto the grounds of the Resthaven Views Cemetery and parked at the office. The woman I'd spoken with was older and sweet, and named Mrs. Lawrence. She showed me a large plot map of the grounds, and directed me to Rachel Hewitt's grave site. I said, 'The man last Monday, do you know who he was?'

'Oh, a friend or relative, I imagine. Like you.' Like me.

Rachel Hewitt had been laid to rest on the side of a grassy knoll near the western edge of the cemetery with a clear and pleasant view of Lake Washington. I left my car in the shade of a sycamore tree and walked north counting headstones. Rachel Hewitt's was the fifth headstone in, but the headstone was bare. Guess Clark hadn't been out, or if he had, he'd skipped the flowers.

I said, 'Well, damn.'

No flowers meant no lead.

Three cars were parked below me, and I could see people trudging among the graves, some sitting on the grass, some standing, one older gentleman in a lawn chair he'd brought, visiting old friends or loved ones. Above me, twin mausoleums stood on the crest of the hill with what would be sweeping views of the lake. Trees stood sentry around the mausoleums, lending shade, and a couple of cars were parked among the trees, one a faded tan pickup, the other a black Lexus. Someone was sitting in the Lexus, but they were so far away I couldn't see them clearly. Something flashed, and I thought they must be looking through field glasses. Admiring the view, no doubt. Enjoying another fine day with the dead.

I brushed at the headstone and took out the photograph that I'd taken from Brownell's apartment and again thought how very much Teri looked like her mother. I put the picture away and stared at Lake Washington and tried not to feel sour. No mean feat when you've spent your own money to fly a thousand miles to stand clueless beside a woman's grave. I was still confident that I could find Clark, but the odds that I could do it within a reasonable amount of time were diminishing, and I would need to do something about the kids. Of course, even if I found Clark, I was thinking that I still might have to call Children's Services. Clark wasn't shaping up as the World's Finest Dad. Rachel might not like it, but there you go. Maybe she should've done a better job of selecting their father.

I left the cemetery and drove south along the lake. It was a lovely afternoon, and the lake was flat. People rollerbladed along the water and sunbathed on short strips of beach, and none of them were bummed because they had just visited a woman's grave.

I turned west at Seward Park and stopped at a red light next to a woman in a green Toyota. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Friendly. Then I glanced in the mirror and saw a black Lexus two cars behind. It looked like the Lexus from the mausoleum, but I couldn't get a clear enough look at it to be sure. I said, 'Come on, Cole, you've got to be kidding. First LA and now Seattle?'

The woman in the green Toyota was staring at me. I looked away, embarrassed. 'Get a grip, Cole. Now you're talking to yourself.'

I snuck another glance, and now she locked her door.

The light changed and the Lexus stayed behind me, but two blocks later I slowed, and the Lexus sped by. A guy with a blond buzz cut was driving and a dark man who looked about as big as a Kodiak bear was in the passenger seat. Neither of them looked at me. I said, 'You see? It was nothing.'

The woman in the green Toyota passed me, too. Fast.

I parked a block and a half from the New World main gate at eighteen minutes before five. At five, employees started filtering out both on foot and in cars; at six minutes after, Wilson Brownell nosed out of the lot in a small yellow Plymouth hatchback. I let him get one block ahead, then I pulled out after him. He went west across the Duwamish directly to his apartment and parked at the curb in sight of the C-Span Lady's window. I pulled into the mouth of an alley a block away and waited for him to go into his building, but he didn't. He locked his car, then walked north to the next corner and disappeared. I left the car blocking the alley, trotted after him, and made it to the corner in time to see him go into a place called Lou's Bar. There was a case of beer and damn near a dozen bottles of booze in his apartment, but I guess he wanted to stop off for a couple before he went home for the serious drinking. Or maybe he just didn't want to be alone.

Wilson Brownell watched the bartender pour Popov vodka over ice as I entered. I waited for the bartender to finish and move away, then I took the stool next to Brownell. Two women were hunched together over a little table in the shadows, and three of us were at the bar, but the third guy was facedown on the wood. Brownell saw me and said, 'Jesus Christ.'

I looked serene. 'No, but we're often confused.'

'I got nothing to say to you.' Brownell tried to get up, but I hooked one of his feet behind the stool and pushed down hard on his shoulder, digging my thumb into the pressure point at the front of his neck. I didn't like being tough, but I was willing to if that's what it took to find Clark Hewitt and get his butt home to his kids. No one in the bar seemed to give a damn. He said, 'Ow. My goddamned neck.'