Chanterelle waited until Lassiter had stepped up next to O’Hara-his sense of chivalry had kept him from mounting the first stair until the hem of the receptionist’s dress had disappeared through the hole in the ceiling-and then pointed to a double door. “I’m going to put you in conference room B.”

“Are you going to put this Masterson in there with us?” Lassiter said. “Because we’d prefer not to bankrupt our city government.”

The receptionist smiled broadly, apparently choosing to ignore whatever she couldn’t understand, and walked to the double doors. She gave a gentle knock on one of them and then threw it open.

As Chanterelle headed back down to her station, O’Hara led Lassiter to the door. Inside, the room seemed to stretch the length of the building and it contained a polished granite table that ran from one end to the other. Enough leather chairs were clustered around it to seat a joint session of Congress. All the way at the far end of the table Juliet could make out the form of a man.

“Mr. Masterson?” Juliet said, hoping she could make her voice carry over such a distance without shouting.

“Please come in,” the man said. His voice was muffled by the distance, but Juliet thought there was something familiar about it.

O’Hara and Lassiter came into the conference room and started down the length of the table.

“Mr. Masterson, we talked briefly on the phone,” O’Hara said as they began to get close enough to make out the figure sitting at the end of the table.

“I’m afraid Sam Masterson isn’t with us anymore,” the man said.

“I just talked to him a few days ago,” O’Hara said. “He didn’t mention he was leaving the company.”

“I’m sure if he had left the company he would have contacted you first,” the man said. “Sam was really good about things like that.”

“Was?” O’Hara said.

“He took a personal day on Monday and zipped up to Tahoe with a girlfriend to get in a little skiing,” the man said. “Hit a tree at sixty miles an hour. At least he didn’t suffer.”