d and flared wheel wells； handformed fender skirts。 Painted； pinstriped； polished passion rolling on rubber。
Watching the street rods； he felt a curious sensation in his chest； a loosening； a stretching； both painful and exhilarating。
A block later he passed a park where； in spite of the heat； a young family…with three laughing children…was playing Frisbee with an exuberant golden retriever。
Heart pounding； Joe slowed the Honda。 He almost pulled to the curb to watch。
At a corner； two lovely blond college girls； apparently twins； in white shorts and crisp white blouses； waited to cross the street； holding hands； as cool as spring water in the furnace heat。 Mirage girls。 Ethereal in the smog…stained concrete landscape。 As clean and smooth and radiant as angels。
Past the girls was a massive display of zauschneria alongside a Spanish…style apartment building； laden with gorgeous clusters of tubular scarlet flowers。 Michelle had loved zauschneria。 She had planted it in the backyard of their Studio City house。
The day had changed。 Indefinably but unquestionably changed。
No。 No； not the day； not the city。 Joe himself had changed； was changing； felt change rolling through him； as irresistible as an ocean tide。
His grief was as great as it had been in the awful loneliness of the night； his despair as deep as he had ever known it； but though he had begun the day sunk in melancholy； yearning for death； he now wanted desperately to live。 He needed to live。
The engine that drove this change wasn't his close brush with death。 Being shot at and nearly hit had not opened his eyes to the wonder and beauty of life。 Nothing as simple as that。
Anger was the engine of change for him。 He was bitterly angry not so much for what he had lost but angry for Michelle's sake； angry that Michelle had not been able to see the parade of street rods with him； or the masses of red flowers on the zauschneria； or now； here； this colourful riot of purple and red bougainvillea cascading across the roof of a Craftsman…style bungalow。 He was furiously； wrenchingly angry that Chrissie and Nina would never play Frisbee with a dog of their own； would never grow up to grace the world with their beauty； would never know the thrill of acplishment in whatever careers they might have chosen or the joy of a good marriage…or the love of their own children。 Rage changed Joe； gnashed at him； bit deep enough to wake him from his long trance of self…pity and despair。
How are you coping？ asked the woman photographing the graves。
I'm not ready to talk to you yet； she said。
Soon。 I'll be back soon。 When it's time； she promised； as though she had revelations to make； truths to reveal。
The men in Hawaiian shirts。 The puter…nerd thug in the Quake T…shirt。 The redhead and the brunette in the thong bikinis。 Teams of operatives keeping Joe under surveillance； evidently waiting for the woman to contact him。 A van packed solid with satellite…assisted tracking gear； directional microphones； puters； high…resolution cameras。 Gunmen willing to shoot him in cold blood because。
Why？
Because they thought the black woman at the graves had told him something he wasn't supposed to know？ Because even being aware of her existence made him dangerous to them？ Because they thought he might have e out of their van with enough information to learn their identities and intentions？
Of course he knew almost nothing about them； not who they were or what they wanted with the woman。 Nevertheless； he could reach one inescapable conclusion： What he thought he knew about the deaths of his wife and daughters was either wrong or inplete。 Something wasn't kosher about the story of Nationwide Flight 353。
He didn't even need journalistic instinct to arrive at this chilling insight。 On one level； he had known it from the moment that he saw the woman at the graves。 Watching her snap photographs of the plot markers； meeting her pelling eyes； hearing the passion in her soft voice； racked by the mystery of her words…I'm not ready to talk to you yet…he had known； by virtue of sheer mon sense； that something was rotten。
Now； driving through placid Burbank； he seethed with a sense of injustice； treachery。 There was a hateful wrongness with the world beyond the mere mechanical cruelty of it。 Deception。 Deceit。 Lies。 Conspiracy。
He had argued with himself that being angry with Creation was pointless； that only resignation and indifference offered him relief from his anguish。 And he had been right。 Raging at the imagined occupant of some celestial throne was wasted effort； as ineffective as throwing stones to extinguish the light of a star。
People； however； were a worthy target of his rage。 The people who had concealed or distorted the exact circumstances of the crash of Flight 353。
Michelle； Chrissie； and Nina could never be brought back。 Joe's life could never be made whole again。 The wounds in his heart could not be healed。 Whatever hidden truth waited to be uncovered； learning it would not give him a future。 His life was over； and nothing could ever change that； nothing； but he had a right to know precisely how and exactly why Michelle and Chrissie and Nina had died。 He had a sacred obligation to them to learn what had really happened to that doomed 747。
His bitterness was a fulcrum and his rage was a long lever with which he would move the world； the whole damn world； to learn the truth； no matter what damage he caused or whom he destroyed in the process。
On a tree…lined residential street； he pulled to the curb。 He switched off the engine and got out of the car。 He might not have much time before Blick and the others caught up with him。
The queen palms hung dead…limp and whisperless in the heat； which currently seemed to be as effective an embalming medium as a block of fly…trapping amber。
Joe looked under the hood first； but the transponder wasn't there。 He squatted in front of the car and felt along the underside of the bumper。 Nothing。
The clatter of a helicopter swelled in the distance； rapidly growing louder。
Groping blindly inside the front wheel well on the passenger side and then along the rocker panel； Joe found only road dirt and grease。 Nothing was concealed inside the rear wheel well； either。
The chopper shot out of the north； passing directly overhead at extremely low altitude； no more than fifty feet above the houses。 The long graceful fronds of the queen palms shook and whipped in the downdraft。
Joe looked up； alarmed； wondering if the crew of the chopper was looking for him； but his fear was pure paranoia and unjustified。 Southbound； the aircraft roared away across the neighbourhood without a pause。
He hadn't seen any police seal； no lettering or insignia。
The palms shuddered； shivered； then trembled into stillness once more。
Groping again； Joe found the transponder expansion…clamped to the energy absorber behind the Honda's rear bumper。 With batteries； the entire package was the size of a pack of cigarettes。 The signal that it sent was inaudible。
It looked harmless。
He placed the device on the pavement； intending to hammer it to pieces with his tyre iron。 When a gardener's truck approached along the street； hauling a fragrant load of shrub prunings and burlap…bundled grass； he decided to toss the still…functioning transponder among the clippings。
Maybe the bastards would waste some time and manpower following the truck to the dump。
In the car again； on the move； he spotted the helicopter a few miles to the south。 It was flying in tight circles。 Then hovering。 Then flying in circles again。
His fear of it had not been groundless。 The craft was either over the cemetery or； more likely； above the desert scrub north of the Griffith Observatory； searching for the fugitive woman。
Their resources were impressive。
TWO
SEARCHING BEHAVIOR
1
The Los Angeles Times booked more advertising than any newspaper in the United States； churning out fortunes for its owners even in an age when most print media were in decline。 It was quartered downtown； in an entire high…rise； which it owned and which covered