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a matter of fact, she is. But talent and vital statistics aside, the tailing raises my hackles a little with that much money involved.”
    “Well, you got a point there. I wish to hell I could come up and give you a hand—vital statistics aside—but I’m tied down with a subpoena.”
    “Can’t you make a deposition?”
    “No, I tried that. I may be stuck here for weeks.”
    “Damn. Who else is available? What about Carl Berg?”
    “Carl? He’s available. Just came back from his vacation. Another session with you should get him back in shape again. Hang on a minute; I’ll see who else is loose.”
    While Conan waited, his gaze wandered to the painting in the corner: the Knight. He found himself trying to imagine the creator of that brooding image playing the “faithful watchdog” for anyone. What had happened to Jennifer Hanson? But that was one of the question marks on his list.
    He picked up the pen as Duncan returned to the phone. “Conan, I have a new man available. Done some good work for me. Harry Munson.”
    He made a note of the name. “All right. Who else?”
    “Well, as a favor for an old buddy, I’m sending one of my top operatives. Came to me from the LAPD and CIA.”
    Conan noted the overtone of irony with some suspicion.
    “Tell me more.”
    “Let’s see. About five-six, red hair, blue eyes, approximately 36-24-36. Ms. Sean Kelly.”
    He laughed. “Interesting qualifications.”
    “I figure since you’re both Irish you’ll have a lot in common— if you can get her to swallow the Irish once she’s had a good look at you.”
    “Blood always tells, Charlie.”
    “Seriously, though, she’s damned good at digging up information. You’d better use her for your research.”
    “I’ll take your advice on that. Now, I need all three of them as soon as possible.”
    “I know. Like tomorrow, right? You want them in Holliday Beach?”
    He hesitated, absently embroidering a question mark with baroque curls.
    “Have them take the earliest flight available to Portland tomorrow morning. Give Carl the special line number and tell him to call me when they arrive.”
    “Okay. Anything special they should bring?”
    “No, just the usual gear. And beach clothes. Oregon beach clothes; I don’t want them looking California.”
    “That means raincoats, umbrellas, and hip boots.”
    “But they won’t need wet suits now; we’re going into the dry season. I’m sorry you’re stuck in court.”
    “Yeah, so am I. Nobody’s offered me a case with vital statistics like that.”
    Conan didn’t hang up when Charlie did, but immediately began dialing again; another office number in spite of the late hour. The call went to Salem: to Steve Travers, Chief of Detectives, Salem Division, Oregon State Police.
    It was answered on the first ring. “Travers.”
    “Hello, Steve. Are you busy?”
    “Conan?” There was a short laugh, and Conan had a clear image of Travers with his lank body folded into his chair, his feet undoubtedly propped on his desk.
    “No, of course I’m not busy. I always stay here at the office when there’s a hockey game on TV I want to see.”
    “Let me rephrase that. Are you too busy to give me a couple of minutes?”
    “Oh, I guess I can squeeze in a couple. I might even make it three, since you’re a taxpayer.”
    “Damn right I am; in spades. Are you alone?”
    “Sure. Why?”
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions, and I don’t especially want anyone to know they’re being asked.”
    Travers paused. “I gather you have a client. Okay. Somebody get knocked off down there?”
    “Not that I know of. What can you tell me, off the top of your head, about John Canfield and family?”
    “Canfield? How come you’re interested in him?”
    “I have a client.”
    “And I suppose that client’s name is confidential?”
    “Yes, but off the record, it’s Isadora Canfield.”
    “What’s her problem?”
    “So far, only that she’s under surveillance and has been since she