Dan’s gaze moved next to the fireplace, to the glass cabinet where he kept his mementos. The large second-place trophy from the Baja three years ago taunted him. Then he looked at the bookcase, at the pile of papers and articles he’d collected, everything from the psychology of racing to the topography of Baja. Damn, he’d put in a lot of manhours on winning. So why wasn’t he more interested? Zeke wasn’t that bad. And if Dan supplied the booze, he could maybe rig it so his buddy couldn’t get so much of it.

He got up from his desk and walked over to the window. From the fifteenth floor he could see the bookstore on the corner, Villard’s Books, big, independent and as quirky as his own tastes. The staff there indulged him and his projects, the more obscure the better. In fact, between the New York Public Library, Villard’s and the Internet, he could research anything to his heart’s content.

Maybe he’d go down now, browse through the travel section, have a cup of coffee. Come up with something new to discover, or as his mother would say, bury himself in a new obsession.

He headed for the bedroom, but before he made it there, he got buzzed from the lobby. Crossing to the door, he answered the intercom. “Yeah, Jimmy?”

“Someone to see you, Mr. Crawford. Glen, uh, what’s that?”

Dan heard a mumble in the background. Then, “Glen Viders.”

“Great, send him up.” Dan let go of the buzzer, curious. He’d known Glen for about a year, mostly as someone who kicked his ass regularly at racquetball. He liked Glen, liked his sense of humor and his taste in art. He’d bought a Lichtenstein from his gallery and he’d paid a good price for it. But they’d never really socialized, except for the occasional showing invitation. What could bring him by?