The exploitations he had found so profitable he now attacked with the money he had made from them. He was fiery and righteous, and with the V. added to his name, memorable too. However, his attacks often led companies to pull out of their Third World factories, which were then taken over by Chinese corporations that paid local workers even less than before. Thus, by any sensible account, V. Allen Willy was exploiting workers twice--once to make his fortune, and a second time to assuage his guilty conscience at their expense. He was a strikingly handsome man and not stupid, just an egotistical and impractical do-gooder. Currently, he was said to be writing a book on the precautionary principle.
He had also started the V. Allen Willy Foundation, which supported the cause of environmental justice through dozens of organizations, including NERF. And he was important enough to rate a personal visit from Henley himself.
"So he's a rich environmentalist?" the FBI kid said.
"That's right," Kenner said.
The kid nodded. "Okay," he said. "But I still don't get it. What makes you think a rich guy would leave his house empty?"
"I can't tell you that," Kenner said. "But he will. And I want to know the minute it happens." He handed the agent a card. "Call this number."
The kid looked at the card. "That's it?"
"That's it," Kenner said.
"And when is this going to happen?"
"Soon," Kenner said.
His phone buzzed. He flipped it open. It was a text message from Sanjong. THEY FOUND AV SCORPIO.
"I have to go," Kenner said.
405 FREEWAY
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13
12:22 P. M.
"Nonsense," Ted Bradley said, sitting back in the passenger seat as Evans drove to Van Nuys. "You can't have all the fun, Pietro. I know you've been going on these secret excursions for the last week. I'm coming, too."
"You can't come, Ted," Evans said. "They won't allow it."
"Let me worry about that, okay?" he said, grinning.
Evans thought: What's going on? Bradley was staying so close, he was practically holding his hand. He refused to leave him alone.
Evans's cell phone rang. It was Sarah.
"Where are you?" she said.
"Almost to the airport. I have Ted with me."
"Uh-huh," she said, in the vague tone that meant she couldn't talk. "Well, we just got to the airport, and there seems to be a problem."
"What kind of a problem?"
"Legal," she said.
"What does that mean?" Evans said. But even as he spoke, he was turning off the road toward the gate leading to the runway, and he could see for himself.
Herb Lowenstein was standing there with eight security guards. And it looked like they were sealing the doors to Morton's jet.
Evans went through the gate and got out of the car. "What's going on, Herb?"
"The aircraft is being sealed," Herb said, "as required by law."
"What law?"
"George Morton's estate is now in probate, in case you've forgotten, and the contents of said estate, including all bank accounts and real property, must be sealed pending federal evaluation and assessing of death taxes. This aircraft will remain sealed until the conclusion of that evaluation. Six to nine months from now."
At that moment, Kenner pulled up in a town car. He introduced himself, shook hands with Lowenstein. "So it's a matter of probate," he said.
"That's right," Lowenstein said.
Kenner said, "I'm surprised to hear you say that."
"Why? George Morton is deceased."
"Is he? I hadn't heard."
"They found his body yesterday. Evans and Bradley went up and made the identification."
"And the medical examiner concurred?"
Lowenstein hesitated fractionally. "I presume so."
"You presume? Surely you've received documentation from the medical examiner to that effect. The autopsy was performed last night."
"I presume--I believe that we have the documentation."
"May I see it?"
"I believe it is at the office."
Kenner said, "May I see it?"
"That would merely cause unnecessary delay of my work here." Lowenstein turned to Evans. "Did you or did you not make a positive identification of Morton's body?"
"I did," Evans said.
"And you, Ted?"
"Yeah," Bradley said. "I did. It was him, all right. It was George. Poor guy."
Kenner said to Lowenstein, "I'd still like to see the medical examiner's notification."
Lowenstein snorted. "You have no basis for such a request, and I formally deny it. I am the senior attorney in charge of the estate. I am his designated executor, and I have already told you that my office has the documentation in hand."
"I heard you," Kenner said. "But I seem to remember that to falsely declare probate is fraud. That could be quite serious for an officer of the court such as you."
"Look," Lowenstein said, "I don't know what your game is--"
"I merely want to see the document," Kenner said calmly. "There's a fax machine in the flight office, right there." He pointed to the building, near the airplane. "You can have the document sent over in a few seconds and resolve this matter without difficulty. Or, barring that, you can call the medical examiner's office in San Francisco and confirm that they have, in fact, made a positive identification."
"But we are in the presence of two eyewitnesses who--"
"These are the days of DNA testing," Kenner said, looking at his watch. "I recommend that you make the calls." He turned to the security officers. "You can open the aircraft."
The security officers looked nonplussed. "Mr. Lowenstein?"
"Just a minute, just a goddamned minute," Lowenstein said, and stalked off toward the office, putting his cell phone to his ear as he went.
"Open the plane," Kenner said. He flipped open his wallet and showed the guards his badge.