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Whenever she interviewed men they tended to talk distractedly or with polite condescension, as though neither she nor the piece had any weight. A handful, like Sheriff Malcolm Gearhart, barely talked to her at all. What was
The Coastal Freeway
, after all, but a liberal-leaning daily giveaway, fighting for attention in a TV-and-Internet dominated world and earning over half its income from personals placed by lonely women in Ojai and horny men everywhere else. Sheriff Gearhart once said that more people picked up the paper to catch grease during lube jobs and scoop up dog poop in the street than to catch the news. He wasn't right about that, though Hannah knew that if she weren't the daughter of billionaire transportation giant Arthur Curry Hughes, many of the politicians, CEOs, and local movie bigs probably wouldn't talk to her at all. Many were closeted and not-so-closeted woman-haters.
    Powerful men, closet misogynists
, Hannah thought. That was another certainty.
    Other members of the Santa Barbara County Women's Business Association said the same thing. Samantha Patrick bought Kevin Gold's computer store, didn't change a thing, and watched business fall off thirty percent. Caroline Bennett, owner of Bennett's Surf, said she actually lost customers when she inherited the place from her father. Same fish, same trucks but until she lowered her prices, they went elsewhere.
    Interviews with women tended to go better for Hannah, not only because it was us-against-them in many cases but because it was often like talking to her mom or sister. They trusted Hannah and usually gave her terrific quotes wrapped around bare-soul confessions.
    Unfortunately, not enough women were part of the Ventura-to-Santa Barbara political and business networks that made decisions-and news. Power was still a boy's club.
    Hannah thought she heard her cell phone. She shut off the hair dryer. She couldn't understand why manufacturers didn't make these things quieter. Maybe they were afraid we'd think they weren't working. She'd mention it to her Friday at Home editor. Hair dryers, vacuums, and other things we didn't have to hear were too loud. Phones, car ignitions, and things we had to hear weren't loud enough. There had to be a reason why.
    The phone beeped again. Hannah put the dryer down and walked into the bedroom of her beachfront condo. The glass sliders, crawling with rain, looked out onto a choppy, overcast sea. What was that, twelve gray days in a row?
    Hannah looked away. Ever since she was a kid in Newport, Rhode Island, she suspected that she was the next stage in evolution. A human solar battery. That was why she'd moved to Southern California after graduating from school. Bake her with sunshine and she could run happily and productively forever. Even when she was tired. But darken the day, cool the air, force her to cover her arms and legs with fabric and she was ready to take hostages.
    Hannah plucked the cell phone from the antique secretary beside the door. It was either her mother or her managing editor. She glanced at the digital clock on top of the dresser. It was nearly 7:00 A.M.; ten o'clock in Rhode Island. It couldn't be her mother. Evangeline Benn Hughes would be out on the tennis court at this hour.
    "Good morning, Karen," Hannah said as she picked up a pen and pulled over a notepad from the state legislature.
    "Good morning, Chief," Karen Orlando said. "Got what might be a hot one for you."
    "Shoot."
    "I just picked up a call from a Caltrans emergency road crew," Karen said. "A couple of engineers disappeared about an hour ago while they were checking a sinkhole up near Painted Cave. One of the crew members said he found blood on the road."
    Hannah made notes. "But no trace of the engineers?"
    "Zippo," Karen told her.
    "What else?" Hannah asked.
    "The crew guy said the sinkhole was 'fatiguing,' whatever that means," Karen went on. "Falling in, I guess. So they're going to have to dig. A second emergency crew is on the way. So