Much on Alejandro's habits and methods of operation were in his file, though the greater part of it was speculation.

Some few bits were accurate. He usually had at least two bodyguards from home with him at all times, hiring others on when he traveled. He liked clubbing, fancied himself a ladies' man, and was a lavish tipper.

He would not have personally set the bombs; that was for hiring out. Alejandro had many such associates, mostly in Colombia, only a few in the States. Richard recognized some of the names, but they had to do with the actual business of transport and sale of product. What he wanted were the soldiers, the ones willing to do the dirty work. If he could find just one of them, he could find Alejandro.

After a search, two prospects presented themselves: Nick Anton and Jordan Keyes, both local. Anton was muscle, working as bodyguard, bouncer, or collection agent, whatever was needed for any given job. Alejandro was just one of his many employers. Anton had been questioned several times in regard to a number of killings and disappearances, but never arrested-lack of direct evidence. His juvenile records were sealed, but Richard hacked into them, turning up nothing too terribly surprising. It would have been odd if Anton had not come from a broken home and dropped out of school. He was bright, though; what time he'd spent in jail he'd put to good use in furthering his criminal education and making important contacts. After turning twenty some dozen years ago, he managed to keep himself, if not out of trouble, then at least out of jail for it. Anton was a thug, but a smart thug.

Jordan Keyes was quite a bit more interesting. He had no police record in the States or anywhere else in the world so far as could be determined. He'd resided in the same house in Fort Worth for the last twenty years, paid his taxes, his modest income clearly derived from solid and steady investments. He traveled, mostly to South America, ostensibly as a tourist. Whenever he visited a country, someone important connected with the drug trade died. The victim was nearly always an enemy or rival of Alejandro Trujillo. There had been about a hundred of them.

The method varied, sometimes a long gun, sometimes a bomb, sometimes close range with a small pistol jammed into the victim's spine. On several occasions, though, death was delivered by a crossbow bolt, the razor-sharp point coated with curare. Even a graze would kill. Dramatic, but effective.

Keyes was suspected of being the hit man, or at the very least arranging the hits, but so far no one could find anything even remotely resembling evidence that could be used against him. He lived alone, had no expensive vices. His past was wholly innocuous with its records of school transcripts, various mundane jobs, and promptly paid bills. But paper trails could be faked with the right know-how. The one photo of him, taken from a distance, showed a bald man in sunglasses, bearing a superficial resemblance to Vladimir Lenin, average height, average weight and build, the sort who would blend invisibly into nearly any crowd in the world. An excellent talent to have for such a profession. The report stressed the speculation that Keyes was probably not his real name, but investigations into discovering his true identity had been futile.

Richard snorted. Wonderful. Another exotic assassin with a predilection for symbolism. Jordan conjured up crossing over the famous river... and Keyes? Perhaps Keys of the Kingdom?

I'll ask him when I see him, Richard thought, writing down the man's address next to Anton's. It was his short list of people to interview and probably eliminate, should Keyes's slim connection to Alejandro prove solid. If so, then he would have been the one who made the bombs and murdered Stephanie and the girls. Such skills were thankfully rare, but if he was the instrument to carry out Alejandro's orders, he would suffer for it.

Exiting the DEA's database, Richard then tried the FBI. They had essentially the same information, just different details. He saved what information he deemed relevant, then closed down.

Now it was time for some on-site research. Richard took the elevator to the ground floor. For a quiet Saturday, there was plenty of activity in the vast lobby. Beyond a screening row of palm trees and other greenery, he heard the shrieks and splashings of children enjoying the indoor pool. The scent of food drifted on the cooled air from a small eatery situated halfway between the residential and business halves of the complex. He glimpsed adults at ease on a scatter of tables before the pool, watching their kids.

As it should be and too often is not.

He turned away from them, swiping his special magnetic key through a slot, then pushing open the glass door to the business side of New Karnak. He softly approached the large round reception kiosk there. One security man was seated on duty, a lean young fellow, his long hair neatly tied off at the base of his neck. In front of him was a stack of open college texts, but his attention was on the TV screens built into the desk below counter level. One camera's view took in the Egyptian-motif pool. In addition to children playing, the area was also populated by lots of young ladies attempting to push the envelope of brevity with their choice of bikini design.

"Yes, they do look very dangerous," Richard remarked, coming up behind him.

The guard gave a slight start, then grinned. "Just doing my job. May I help you?"

Richard took out his Arhyn-Hill identification. "I'm Mr. Dun, and I'm down from Toronto for a few days to check on things."

"Mr. Dun? The Mr. Dun?" The fellow gave the ID a twice-over, then goggled, apparently well aware of Richard's status as owner of the company. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I need to be let into one of the offices, Mr.-ah-Ballard." He read the name off the man's pocket tag.

"Sure, I mean, yes, sir, and you can just call me Charles. Right this way. Which office?" He left his post, coming around.

"First I want to see your sign-out roster." He indicated a flat book lying open on the desk top. Ballard did an about- face and grabbed it, setting it before him like a gift. Richard flipped the page back to Friday's date. All employees and visitors were required to sign themselves in and out. The template for each sheet had spaces for names, times, and their reason for being in the building. The regular employees usually left the latter blank.

Among the scribbles in various hands was the strong signature of Luis Marcelja, the name he'd lived under all these years. He'd entered the building at 7:55, stayed in through his lunch, and departed at 5:17. According to the previous log entries, this was his usual routine, give or take a few minutes.

So why hadn't he gone straight home? Had he been ambushed on the way by Alejandro's killers? And if so, then why should the hit man have waited to blow up the house? Why even bother to set charges if the main target was already dead?

Richard frowned, mulling over the possibilities, the most likely still being that the hit man had mistaken him for Luis in the dark and followed through with his orders. If Luis had come home earlier he'd have died. If he returned after the blast, he'd have missed finding Richard.

Hell, I was probably unconscious in the pump house. Richard shut the book. "Thank you. I need to see Mr. Marcelja's office now."

He knew the way, but let Ballard usher him along, summoning the elevator then opening doors with a wave of his master key. He flicked on the lights to a large, luxuriously furnished chamber on the fourth floor. They were hardly needed; plenty of sun blasted its way through the slanted glass of the outer wall despite its darkening glaze. Richard winced and sought out the control rod for the blinds, quickly shutting them.

"Sure heats a place," commented Ballard. "He must roast up here in the afternoons."

"You know Mr. Marcelja?"

"Just by sight. I'm usually signing in for my shift when he's on his way out. I do nights and weekends. Mostly he just says hello and bye, same as the rest."

"Do you recall him signing out yesterday?"

"Sort of... yes, because he left later than the rest. Usually on a Friday everyone can't wait to cut out early and try beating the traffic. I remember saying he'd have a tough time driving home. He just nodded and smiled like he always does, then went off to the employees' garage entrance."

"Anything odd about his manner?"

Ballard shook his head. He was clearly curious about being questioned, but held it in.

"How was he dressed?"

"Dark suit, I think. Dark tie. He had a laptop case, usually does."

"Did you notice any strangers hanging about the place? Did any of your coworkers?"

"We get lots of strangers every day, but we don't allow people to loiter. I'd have been told to look out for anyone if that happened."

"What about outside the building?"

"We make regular circuits-and we have the cameras. You want to look at the tapes?"

"Not just yet." That would take hours, and probably be futile. Richard was hoping for a straw to grasp, but wasn't to the point of desperation just yet.

He surveyed Luis's office. It was decorated in Southwest style with big comfortable chairs, landscape prints on the walls; a huge ceramic jar with a three-foot round of glass over the mouth served as a table. The credenza behind the huge desk displayed a scatter of business awards and trophies, an ambitiously creeping ivy, and a large portrait-style photo of Luis with his family. Stephanie beamed happily from it, her arms protectively around her children in a relaxed, informal pose.

Richard made his gaze skip over it, turning his focus on the desk, which Luis had left in a tidy state. The top was clear of mess, only some memos lined up by the phone, presumably ready for his attention on Monday. The computer was on, the monitor left running. A screen saver showed an underwater scene of drifting tropical fish in vivid colors.

"Is Mr. Marcelja in some kind of trouble?" Ballard finally asked.

"He might be, but not with me. I'm just looking for him."

"What, he's missing?"

"I think so. You may have been the last person to see him."

Ballard's expression indicated that he had no need of such a dubious honor. "Maybe he was in an accident. Have you called the hospitals or the cops?"

"Not yet." And for a very good reason. He didn't want the calls traced back to his own line. By now the authorities would have identified the owners of the destroyed house and be alert to anyone asking after them. "Will you do that for me? The hospitals only for now."

"What'll I say?"

"Just that his supervisor is trying to find him, you don't know why. You may keep my name out of it for the time being. If you have any luck, let me know. I'll be up here."

"Yes, sir." Ballard took himself and any further questions away.

Richard was unsure how many hospitals were in the area, but judged he had more than enough time to go through Luis's sanctum. He began with the computer. All the files were password protected, but there were ways around those, the most obvious involving a search of the desk. On a battered notepad shoved far in the back center drawer he found a list of random letters and numbers, the top dozen crossed through. He typed in the new string at the bottom. The computer opened up like a flower. He'd have been suspicious over his ease of entry but for knowing Luis. The man was careful, but only up to a point. He'd not taken Stephanie's fears seriously. Had that cost them their lives?

Scowling, Richard tore through all the files in the hard drive, then one by one went through every disk he could find. They all had to do with the business, and Luis was a good businessman. Even without the necessity of disappearing the family, Richard might well have hired him. All the work was up to date, nothing neglected or out of place.

Next he tried the e-mail, which was somewhat more tricky when it came to passwords. Richard referred to the string on the notepad and gained access by entering the last one backwards.

Interesting.

Except for some correspondence that arrived after five on Friday, the files were all empty. Most people held on to old mail for one reason or another, but not Luis. His on-line address book was also clean. Had he wiped that out or had someone done it for him? And if yes to either possibility, why?

Richard called up the undelete function and tried to salvage the files to no avail. They'd been erased beyond recovery. Damn.

The next search involved the office itself, inch by inch. The place was as clean as the computer, right down to the emptied wastebasket. Richard thought it might be so and was not overly frustrated when he found exactly nothing.

The only puzzle was the computer. A virus could account for the erasure, but more likely Luis had done it himself. Had he a clue that something was wrong? If so, then why hadn't he gone home?

Richard attacked the keyboard and tapped out a note to Luis: Am in Dallas. Michael is well and safe. Contact me.

If Luis was alive and still had his laptop, he might check his mail. A long shot, certainly, but it never hurt to be thorough.

Quitting the office, Richard went back to the lobby to see if young Ballard had made any progress. He was seated in the kiosk, poring over the yellow pages, where he'd checked off a number of the listings.

"I called all the hospitals in the Metroplex," he said. "None of the ER rooms had Luis Marcelja or a John Doe of his description brought in since last night. Should I try the coroner's?"

"Not yet." Best to stave off official notice for as long as possible.

"Sir, has he been kidnapped or something?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I used to see in the papers about oil company executives getting grabbed by South American terrorists. I thought maybe they'd migrated north."

"The truth is I don't know what's happened to him. Yours is as plausible an idea as any I've come up with."

"Or could he have embezzled from the company and be on the run?"

Richard smiled and shook his head. He came around the desk and took the second chair there to be eye level with Ballard. "I'm going to fill you in on a couple things, but you need to listen to me, listen very carefully..."

The young man proved to be an excellent subject for hypnotic suggestion.

"The police or FBI or BATF will be turning up here sooner or later," said Richard. "When they do you will cooperate fully with them, but not bring my name into it. In fact, you've never even seen me. You can refer them to Mr.

Marcelja's immediate supervisor instead, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But if and when they turn up, you're to let me know. Leave a message at the penthouse extension; here's the number. If Mr. Marcelja comes in, you send him straight up there, no questions, then forget all about it."

Ballard, somewhat blank of eye, nodded.

That out of the way, Richard primed him to expect Bourland on Monday, leaving a note to that effect for the weekday guard shift to find. Arhyn-Hill's security did not normally have to deal with the residential side of the complex, but an exception could certainly be made in the case of the company's president.

As he left, Richard had to admit to himself, and not for the first or last time, that it was good to be at the top of the food chain.

At this hour of the afternoon the heat of the day was in full force, and the damned compact's air conditioning had yet to correct itself. Richard sought and found a branch of the rental agency and exchanged the small disaster for something larger that functioned efficiently. He had some driving to do and preferred to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling every time the road dipped. All the better as well to have cold air blasting on him; it made up a little for the pitiless sun.

Despite the blocking lotion and hat, his face was quite red and sore by the time he reached Nick Anton's apartment in north Euless. Situated near the center of the Metroplex, it was an excellent location for a man with work calls in both Fort Worth and Dallas.

The apartments were respectable-looking, the grounds neat, but not expensively landscaped. The cars in the lots indicated their owners to be average wage earners, with a few standouts at the high and low end of the market. A nearly new red Corvette nudged close to a rusted and decrepit Nova, the two vehicles conjuring the image of an automotive Lady and the Tramp. What would their little ones be? In-line skates?

Richard peered about for the block numbers, finally locating H-105. The corresponding parking slot was empty, meaning Anton was either without a car-almost unheard of in Texas-or gone on some errand.

He levered out and strode quickly along a walkway. Anton had a ground floor flat by the pool. Only a few determined, sunburned teens were using it. The heat was too oppressive for anyone else.

The balcony above Anton's flat made a shady overhang for his partially enclosed porch. Richard welcomed the relief, pushing open the iron gate, which shrieked protest. He paused. Anyone inside would have heard it, a built-in alarm system, perfect in its innocent simplicity. Well, he'd not planned to sneak up on the man, anyway.

He pressed the bell, but heard no noise of it within. He knocked, loudly. It was form only. He could get in easily enough. The door had glass insets; it would require little effort to put his fist through one and unlock the place.

"He's gone for now, cowboy."

A woman's throaty voice drifted down to him. Richard eased out enough from the shelter of the overhang to see the speaker. There was quite a lot of her standing on the balcony above, and it was all beautifully arranged under the cover of some very tight shorts and a halter top. From his low angle, her bare legs seemed to go higher than Everest.

"Excuse me?" he said, forcing himself to look at her face. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, and a huge mane of blond hair balanced precariously above. Several tendrils had come loose and clung to the damp skin of her neck. She looked quite delicious.

"Nick's gone to work," she informed him.

"Oh. I was hoping to catch him before then. I thought he said he'd be here."

"He says a lot of things. You a friend of his?"

"Not directly. Someone recommended him to me for a job."

"What kinda job? A club?"

"Yes."

"He might be too busy. He's working a security gig with some guy, but the rest of the time he's a regular over at Bubba Rob's. What kind of club?"

He smiled. "The kind he usually works at."

She smiled back. "You looking for dancers?" She punctuated the question with a remarkable shifting of her center of gravity, bending slowly at the hips to lean forward. The halter top proved to be a marvelous marketing ploy, the ample goods within on tantalizing display.

"Maybe." "I'd like to-um-put in an application."

He reflected that Mae West would have been proud of the girl's delivery of that line. "I'd be pleased to accept it, but I'm in a bit of a hurry to find Nick. You said Bubba Rob's?"

"Yeah. He might not be there until later. The place don't start jumping until ten. He said they were having some kinda party then."