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Reading over Lou’s shoulder, Ray whistled low. “What do you make of it? Do you think our maverick senator’s been playing footsie
with some rich dish? Maybe he threw her over, so she drove off the cliff, carrying her own personal scrapbook with her.”

“No, not McKenzie.” Lou put everything back in the bag. “He’s a straight arrow.”

“You think so even with all the stuff in the papers about him lately?”

“Yeah, I do. I knew the senator back when he was running for California’s attorney general.” Lou stepped back from the car.
“You ever hear of Kowalski?”

Ray nodded. Detective Sergeant Leon Kowalski was almost a legend in California law enforcement. “Hell, who hasn’t?”

“Kowalski worked closely with McKenzie on several cases. He admires the senator. There isn’t a man on the force who doesn’t
respect him. Nothing I’ve read since has changed my mind.” Lou’s tone brooked no argument. At forty-eight he was old enough
to be this young officer’s father and commanded as much respect. Nights like this, he felt every day of those years.

Carefully Ray placed the jacket and purse into an evidence bag. “What year did he run for attorney general?”

Lou rolled his shoulders and ran a hand through his neatly trimmed black hair. “Seventy-five. The summer of ’75. Hotter than
hell that summer, I remember.”

“Guess you’ll be paying the senator a visit tomorrow. I read that he just got in town.” Ray wished he could go along but knew
it was out of the question.

“First thing in the morning.” Lou walked over and gazed down at the churning sea surging up onto the dark rocks. The salty
air was humid and heavy, the clouds ready to disgorge their load. In the distance he saw a streak of lightning and knew it
wouldn’t be long.

His eyes shifted to the ground, and spotting something, he crouched down. In a patch of soft earth near the rocky edge alongside
the Porsche’s tire print was an unmistakable impression of a woman’s high-heeled shoe. About a size six, Lou decided. The
cops had carefully circled the area on the other side of the yellow tape so as not to disturb the ground. He doubted if anyone
else, especially a woman in high heels, would have had reason to walk there. Interesting.

Straightening, he called Ray over. “Keep this area roped
off. I want a cast made of this shoe print and any others you may find.”

“Right.”

“Also, I want a fresh team of divers back at the first light of day. There’s bound to be a body out there somewhere. Maybe
two. That car didn’t drive itself off the road.”

“I’ll get right on it, Lieutenant.”

Lou glanced over at the houses across the street, their residents seemingly still asleep. “About seven or eight, send a couple
of men up to those homes and ask some questions. Maybe some insomniac saw or heard something.”

“Will do.” Ray scribbled in his notebook.

With a nod, Lou walked back to his Acura, his mind racing with questions, with possibilities. What connection did Senator
McKenzie have to tonight’s events on this lonely cliff? Had the woman who owned the red jacket and handbag been alone? Had
she stepped out of the car, leaving that one footprint? Had she been trying to get away from someone? Had there been a man
with her, perhaps one of McKenzie’s friends or aides? Or had she been a political groupie who got a kick out of following
a politician’s career? No matter. He would find out. The facts usually came out, sooner or later.

As he got behind the wheel, he couldn’t help wondering if the driver of the red Porsche dated back to that hot summer seventeen
years ago before Adam McKenzie’s name had become a household word.

June. 1975

San Diego, California

“Damn, but it’s hot in here,” Diane Cramer complained as she lifted her heavy blond hair off her damp neck. Her red lips in
a pouty smile, she ambled over to the front desk just as Fitz McKenzie hung up his phone. “Sugar, I know the budget’s tight,
but couldn’t your brother have rented a building with air-conditioning? All of us little ol’ volunteers are perspiring up
a storm here. How classy is it mailing out campaign leaflets with sweat stains all over them?”

Fitz frowned in annoyance. His personal opinion was that Diane had a long way to go in the class department herself. Even
though she was wearing a green silk Adolfo suit that he suspected she’d bought at a resale shop and Ferragamo shoes, she had
an imitated style that was as phony as the color of her hair. The rest of the volunteers—most in their early twenties—showed
up dressed in California casual.
Diane arrived as if she expected to lunch at the Hotel Del Coronado instead of the deli down the street. Fitz had great admiration
for people who rose above their humble beginnings. He himself had. But there was something about Diane that hinted at a hidden
agenda. However, the worth of a person didn’t lie in how she looked or what she wore. Diane was smart, ambitious, and a hard
worker. For those reasons Fitz was glad she was aboard.

“Sorry,” he told her. “This is Adam’s first run for office, and we’ve got to watch every cent.” Swiveling on his chair, he
readjusted his Padres baseball cap as he gazed around the cluttered storefront office they’d rented on Broadway across from
the San Diego County Courthouse. Seven hundred fifty square feet was all they could afford, and every inch was humming with
activity. Fitz turned to another volunteer who’d just finished running a batch of mail through the postage meter. “You got
a count for me on those, Molly?”

“Nine hundred going out to zip code 92116,” Molly Washington answered as she snapped a rubber band around the last fifty envelopes.

“Great. Thanks.” Fitz took the stack from her. He liked Molly and admired her exotic looks. Not many women could get away
with wearing jet black hair pulled back tightly off the face. Molly had high cheekbones that made him wonder if she had Indian
ancestry. Her clothes were more like costumes, bright turquoise or vivid pink skirts and tops embroidered with wildflowers.
Of course, she was an artist, and people expected some flamboyance.

It was a good group that he’d rounded up to help launch Adam’s political career. Not zealots, but enthusiastic and hardworking.
Mostly poli-sci graduates, young and idealistic. Seated at a desk across the room, Jesse Conroy, one of the few more serious
aides, glanced over and gave him a thumbs-up signal, meaning he’d wangled another pledged donation from his endless phone
solicitation of registered California Democrats. Fitz gave Jesse the high sign. Next to
Jesse, huddled over a typewriter, was bearded Barry Rider, who usually did the first draft of Adam’s speeches. Then there
was Steve Quinlan, a shy introvert who’d graduated with honors from Yale. Together they’d make victory happen somehow.

Alongside Fitz, Molly rolled her shoulders wearily. It had been her idea to spend the summer working to elect Adam McKenzie
as California’s youngest attorney general, but she had to admit there was far more grit than glamour involved. She glanced
over at Liz Townsend, wondering if her friend wished she hadn’t let Molly talk her into trying out the political arena. They’d
been neighbors growing up, friends since grade school, and college roommates for four years. Now they were about to tackle
real life, and Molly had wanted them to work together this last summer in an effort to maintain their closeness a while longer.
“How’s it going, babe?”

Liz sealed the final envelope on her desk and added it to the finished pile. “Fine, but I’m glad we’re finished for the day.”
She checked her hands and shook her head. “Hey, Fitz, do the stuffers get battle pay? I’ve got half a dozen new paper cuts
since noon.”

Fitz sent her one of his shy smiles. “Fill out a casualty report and I’ll see what I can do.” Liz Townsend had impressed him
from the day Molly had introduced them. “Elegant” was the word for Liz. Monied elegance. Despite the fact that she was wearing
tailored brown slacks and an oversize beige silk blouse, she stood out from the others. Fitz was sure there was a terrific
body in there somewhere, but Liz never flaunted her looks. Her auburn hair came just to her shoulders in a simple classic
cut, and she wore little makeup. She reminded him of someone he’d known back in law school, the first woman who’d made his
hands sweat with the urge to touch her. But he hadn’t; someone else had.

Reluctantly Fitz dragged his eyes from Liz and checked his watch. Five to six. Where had the time gone? There simply weren’t
enough hours in the day. Taking the manila envelope
with him, he walked over to where Liz was cleaning off her desk. “I wonder if you could do something for me. These letters
have
to go out tonight. Adam’s apartment’s about twenty minutes from here. Would you mind stopping by and getting his signature
on them, then dropping them in the mailbox?”

In bending to retrieve her purse from the bottom drawer, Liz bought a little time. Her mother was giving a dinner party tonight,
cocktails starting in an hour, at the Townsend home in La Jolla, and Katherine did
not
like late arrivals. Liz would scarcely have time to drive home, shower, and change as it was. Still, she’d agreed to help
out here, and once committed she never gave anything less than her all. Besides, Fitz was such a nice guy that she hated refusing
any of his requests.

Fitz shoved his glasses back up his nose, wishing he hadn’t asked. Liz had put in a long day as it was; he didn’t want to
push her into quitting. Nor could they afford to lose the clout and support of her father’s law firm. Joseph Townsend & Associates
carried a lot of weight in California. “Listen, it’s all right if you’ve got plans.”

“I’ll be happy to go for you,” Diane offered as she picked up her leather shoulder bag and strolled over. Pointedly she glanced
up at the campaign poster of Adam McKenzie tacked onto the far wall. The man had the look of a born winner, with that strong
chin and those sincere blue eyes staring straight into the camera, challenging the world to trust him. She could do worse
than to hitch her wagon to that rising star, Diane told herself. Perhaps a few minutes alone with the candidate could persuade
him to ask her to dinner and… and whatever.

“That’s all right,” Liz said as she stood. “I have the time.” In the ten days she’d worked here she hadn’t yet met Adam McKenzie.
Perhaps it was time she did. She’d been greatly impressed with his record, and Molly had detailed his many virtues in trying
to persuade Liz to join his campaign: champion
of the underdog; charismatic charmer; winner of cases against nearly impossible odds. Opposing attorneys, law clerks, and
volunteers alike seemed in awe of him. Clearly the man all but walked on water. She needed to see for herself. “Where does
he live?”

“Are you sure you can squeeze it in, sugar?” Diane sauntered toward the door, hoping she might run the errand instead.

Fitz handed the envelope to Liz. “I’ve written Adam’s address here. You’re familiar with the Bankers Hill area just east of
the airport, right?”

She glanced at the street name, recognizing it immediately. “Sure. That building’s not far from my new apartment.” She had
rented her own place just two weeks ago, right after graduation from Stanford. Her mother had been less than pleased, and
her father had asked why she’d felt it necessary to waste her money when their La Jolla home had six bedrooms and as many
baths. Neither of her parents, it seemed, understood her need for independence.

Liz tucked the envelope under her arm. “Consider it done, boss.” She wished Fitz would quit wearing that silly baseball hat.
She sympathized with his concern over losing his hair at only twenty-six, but the cap didn’t really hide the fact. Instead
of making him look boyish, it gave him a frivolous air that was in sharp contrast with the very high IQ he had even more difficulty
hiding.

Fitz thanked her, then watched as she linked her arm through Molly’s, their long legs carrying them quickly out into the unseasonable
heat of a late June afternoon. Those long legs reminded him of Sandy Wilkins, who’d hurt him worse than he’d ever dreamed
possible.

The phone on his desk rang, and Fitz shook his head. What was the matter with him tonight? he wondered. It wasn’t his habit
to indulge in mulling over a past that couldn’t be changed. Impatiently he grabbed the receiver.

Outside, Liz pulled her friend along. “I want to show you my new car.”

Molly flung the strap of her huge canvas tote over her shoulder and hurried to keep up. “What’s the big rush?”

Liz turned into the parking lot at the corner and kept going. “Command performance at my folks’ place. Cocktails at seven,
dinner at eight. They’ve asked me over on ten of the fourteen days since I’ve been gone.” She sighed, wishing her parents
would let go.

“Well, you
are
only twenty-one,” Molly reminded her, knowing it would get a rise out of Liz.

“So are you, and you’ve been on your own for two years already.” Molly’s widowed mother was a bit on the bohemian side herself
and let her daughter run her own life, an arrangement that Liz envied. She stopped in front of a white Mercedes two-seater
with the top down. “What do you think?”

“Niiiice.” Molly grinned. “New apartment, new car.”

“New woman,” Liz answered with a smile.

“Now, you need a new man. Or is Richard still in the picture?”

Richard Fairchild—a nice man, but her mother’s choice. That was one strike against him. Liz loved her mother but hated having
her presume to continue making choices for her. Which was the main reason she’d moved out of the family manse. She wasn’t
really rebelling, she told herself. She was asserting herself, becoming her own person. Picking out and buying her car all
on her own had been evidence of her insistence on freedom.

“Richard will undoubtedly be there tonight,” she told Molly. “He’s been over to the apartment with flowers, wine, little gifts.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but…”

“But he doesn’t make your heart pound, your face sweat, your hands shake…” Molly’s blue eyes were devilish as she laughed.