"I don't have a dog."

"He was very upset. I have his number, but he insisted upon seeing you in person before the" — she checked her notepad — "'lynch mob gets hold of you. "

"Call him back and tell him that I don't have a dog. Dogs aren't allowed in the complex."

"He mentioned that, sir. That seems to be the problem. He said that your dog was on your back patio howling and refused to let anyone get near it and if you didn't get up there he would have to call the police."

All Sam could think was Not today. He said, "All right, call them and tell them I'm on my way. And call the garage down the street and have them come up and fix the flat tire on that orange Datsun out front. Have them bill it to my card."

"You have a three o'clock appointment with Mrs. Wittingham."

"Cancel it." Sam started out of the office.

"Mr. Hunter, this is a death claim. Mr. Wittingham passed away last week and she wants you to help fill out the papers."

"Gabriella, let me clue you in on something: once the client is dead we can afford to be a little lax on the service. The chance of repeat business is, well, unlikely. So reschedule the appointment or handle it yourself."

"But sir, I've never done a death claim before."

"It's easy: feel for a pulse; if there isn't one, give them the money."

"I am not amused, Mr. Hunter. I try to maintain a businesslike manner around here and you continually undermine me."

"Handle it, Gabriella. Call the garage. I have to go."

It was only five minutes from Sam's office to his condo in the Cliffs, a three-hundred-unit complex on Santa Barbara's mesa. From Sam's back deck he could look across the city to the Santa Lucia Mountains and from his bedroom window he could see the ocean. Sam had once rented the apartment, but when the Cliffs went condo ten years before he optioned to buy it.