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desk. He could’ve had a hundred lawyers if he wanted ex-senators, lobbyists, and regulatory analysts, the usual D.C. lineup. But Josh loved trials and courtrooms, and he hired only young associates who had tried at least ten jury cases.
    The average career of a litigator is twenty-five years. The first heart attack usually slows them down enough to delay a second. Josh had avoided burnout by tending to Mr. Phelan’s maze of legal needs—securities, antitrust, employment, mergers, and dozens of personal matters.
    Three sets of associates waited in the reception room of his large office. Two secretaries shoved memos and phone messages in his direction as he removed his overcoat and settled behind his desk. “Which is most urgent?” he asked.
    “This, I think,” answered a secretary.
    It was from Hark Gettys, a man Josh had talked to at leastthree times a week for the past month. He dialed the number and Hark was immediately on the line. They quickly went through the pleasantries, and Hark got right to the point.
    “Listen, Josh, you can imagine how the family is breathing down my neck.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “They want to see the damned will, Josh. Or at least they want to know what’s in it.”
    The next few sentences would be crucial, and Josh had plotted them carefully. “Not so fast, Hark.”
    A very slight pause, then, “Why? Is something the matter?”
    “The suicide bothers me.”
    “What! What do you mean?”
    “Look, Hark, how can a man be of sound mind seconds before he jumps to his death?”
    Hark’s edgy voice rose an octave, and the words carried even more anxiety. “But you heard our psychiatrists. Hell, they’re on tape.”
    “Are they sticking by their opinions, in light of the suicide?”
    “Damned right they are!”
    “Can you prove this? I’m looking for help here, Hark.”
    “Josh, last night we examined our three shrinks again. We drilled them, and they’re sticking like glue. Each signed an affidavit eight pages long swearing to the sound mental capacity of Mr. Phelan.”
    “Can I see the affidavits?”
    “I’ll courier them over right now.”
    “Please do.” Josh hung up and smiled to no one in particular. The associates were marched in, three sets of bright and fearless young lawyers. They sat around a mahogany table in one corner of the office.
    Josh began by summarizing the contents of Troy’s handwritten will, and the legal problems it was likely to create. To the first team he assigned the weighty issue of testamentary capacity. Joshwas concerned about time, the gap between lucidity and insanity. He wanted an analysis of every case even remotely involving the signing of a will by a person considered crazy.
    The second team was dispatched to research holographic wills; specifically, the best ways to attack and defend them.
    When he was alone with the third team, he relaxed and sat down. They were the lucky ones, because they would not spend the next three days in the library. “You have to find a person who, I suspect, does not want to be found.”
    He told them what he knew about Rachel Lane. There wasn’t much. The file from Troy’s desk provided little information.
    “First, research World Tribes Missions. Who are they? How do they operate? How do they pick their people? Where do they send them? Everything. Second, there are some excellent private locators in D.C. They’re usually ex-FBI and government types who specialize in finding missing people. Select the top two, and we’ll make a decision tomorrow. Third, Rachel’s mother’s name was Evelyn Cunningham, now deceased. Let’s put together a bio on her. We’re assuming she and Mr. Phelan had a fling that produced a child.”
    “Assuming?” asked one of the associates.
    “Yes. We take nothing for granted.”
    He dismissed them and walked to a room where a small press conference had been arranged by Tip Durban. No cameras, just print media. A dozen reporters sat eagerly around a table, tape recorders and