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people meant about chemistry before that night.”
    â€œSo you kept seeing her.”
    He jerked the car over into the right lane and frowned. “Yes, I did. I was hooked. Just like they planned.”
    We took the Page Mill exit and followed winding roads into Los Altos Hills, on the edge between town and country. I didn’t know what to expect of Silicon Glamour headquarters, but I didn’t expect to turn into a small driveway guarded by a tall oleander hedge. Behind the hedge was a two-story cube of a building, the kind that could have been built as a medical office in the sixties.
    Rod parked in the small lot. We were in his car for a reason. I drove an ancient International Harvester Scout, its color faded burnt orange by the sun. It didn’t go very fast or offer much in the way of comfort, but it kept me connected to the road and to the days when a machine was a machine. It was the automotiveequivalent of shooting on film instead of video. Rod had said we wouldn’t make it to the front door if we turned into the SG parking lot in the Scout. They had someone whose only job was to watch by remote camera the cars entering their driveway.
    A screen of perforated concrete block channeled us into an enclosed space in front of the door. We could not escape the eye of the camera mounted on the wall. The door, like the building, was marked with only its address.
    Rod was fidgeting madly. He pressed an intercom button and announced his arrival in a thin voice. The door buzzed. We went into a small lobby with a polished terrazzo floor. An open-tread stair lead to the second floor, but the view into the rest of the office was blocked by an interior wall with only one discreetly placed door. A pair of tall weimaraners, carved from concrete, flanked the front entrance. A small fountain bubbled. Gauzy white curtains covered the windows. Oversized pseudo-Etruscan vases marked the corners.
    The receptionist was a burly man with a thick mustache and muscular sideburns to match. He gave me a quick appraisal, from my white shirt to my jeans to my boots. “Mr. Evans is waiting upstairs,” he said to Rod. Rod wore a business shirt, slacks, and brown shoes for the occasion.
    Rod hesitated, and I led the way. Rupert Evans stood at the double door to his office about halfway down the corridor. He frowned until he saw Rod. Once the introductions were made, he invited us in. The plate on the outer door denoted him Director. If the lobby was a curious mix of luxury and hygiene, walking into this office was like being taken into an old-style gentleman’s club. Oil paintings—dogs and hunting scenes—in gilded frames decorated the walls. The windows were hidden behind heavy brocade curtains with tasseled cords. The idea flashed through my mind that behind each door in this buildingwas a new and different world. I wondered what all went on in them.
    Evans was a small-shouldered man in his fifties, neatly dressed in a double-breasted suit, hair combed back so that a few sprigs peeked from behind his ears. He told Rod how glad he was to see him and conducted us through the sitting area, a maze of stuffed furniture that included a zebra-skin couch and a leopard-pelt throw. We sat in chairs in front of his desk. He circled behind it, and I half expected him to offer a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars. Instead, his eyes darted over me like a bird’s. The inspection was quicker but more thorough than the receptionist’s. “In what capacity are you here, Mr. Damen?”
    â€œHe’s helping me find Alissa,” Rod said. His voice was a croak.
    â€œVery good, we need all the help we can get.” His manner was at once ingratiating and paternal.
    â€œYou haven’t heard anything at all from her?” I said.
    â€œWe have neither seen nor spoken to her.” He folded his hands. They were smooth, the fingers tapered. “We’re protective of our associates. Overly protective,