The Blue Nowhere

features—a dead ringer for 10,000 other young men in Silicon Valley. Huerto Ramirez and Tim Morgan had also drawn a blank when they’d canvassed Ollie’s Theatrical Supply in Mountain View; the only clerk on hand didn’t recognize Phate’s picture.
    The team at CCU had found a lead—Wyatt Gillette’s bot had turned up a reference to Phate, Linda Sanchez had told Bishop in a phone call—but that too was a dead end.
    Bulgaria, Bishop thought cynically. What kind of case is this?
    The detective now said to the security guard, “Let me ask you a question, sir. Why’d you notice the car?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “It’s a parking lot. It’d be normal for a car to be parked here. Why’d you pay any attention to the sedan?”
    “Well, the thing is, it’s not normal for cars to be parked back here. It was the only one I’ve seen here for a while.” He looked around and, making sure the three men were alone, added, “See, the company ain’t doing so well. We’re down to forty people on the payroll. Was nearly two hundred last year. The whole staff can park in the front lot if they want. In fact, the president encourages it—so the company don’t look like it’s on its last legs.” He lowered his voice. “You ask me, this dot-com Internet crap ain’t the golden egg everybody makes it out to be. I myself am looking for work at Costco. Retail . . . now, that’s a job with a future.”
    Okay, Frank Bishop told himself, gazing at Vesta’s Grill. Think about it: a car parked here by itself when it doesn’t have to be parked here. Do something with that.
    He had a wisp of a thought but it eluded him.
    They thanked the guard and returned to their car, walking along a gravel path that wound through a park surrounding the office building.
    “Waste of time,” Shelton said. But he was stating a simple truth—most investigating is a waste of time—and didn’t seem particularly discouraged.
    Think, Bishop repeated silently.
    Do something with that.
    It was quitting time and some employees were walking along the path to the front lot. Bishop saw a businessman in his thirties walking silently beside a young woman in a business suit. Suddenly the man turned aside and took the woman by the hand. They laughed and vanished into a stand of lilac bushes. In the shadows they threw their arms around each other and kissed passionately.
    This liaison brought his own family to mind and Bishop wonderedhow much he’d see of his wife and son over the next week. He knew it wouldn’t be much.
    Then, as happened sometimes, two thoughts merged in his mind and a third was born.
    Do something . . .
    He stopped suddenly.
     . . . with that.
    “Let’s go,” Bishop called and started running back the way they’d come. Far thinner than Shelton but not in much better shape, he puffed hard as they returned to the office building, his shirt enthusiastically untucking itself once again.
    “What the hell’s the hurry?” his partner gasped.
    But the detective didn’t answer. He ran through the lobby of Internet Marketing, back to the human resources department. He ignored the secretary, who rose in alarm at his blustery entry, and opened the door of the human resources director’s office, where the woman sat speaking with a young man.
    “Detective,” the surprised woman said. “What is it?”
    Bishop struggled to catch his breath. “I need to ask you some questions about your employees.” He glanced at the young man. “Better in private.”
    “Would you excuse us, please?” She nodded at the man across from her and he fled the office.
    Shelton swung the door closed.
    “What sort of questions? Personnel?”
    “No,” Bishop replied, “personal.”

CHAPTER 00001111 / FIFTEEN
    H ere is the land of fulfillment, here is the land of plenty.
    The land of King Midas, where the golden touch, though, isn’t the sly trickery of Wall Street or the muscle of Midwest industry but pure imagination.
    Here is the land where some secretaries and janitors are stock-option millionaires and others ride the number 22 bus all night long on its route between San Jose and Menlo Park just so they can catch some sleep—they, like one third of the homeless in this area, have full-time jobs but can’t afford to pay a million dollars for a tiny bungalow or $3,000 a month for an apartment.
    Here is Silicon Valley, the land that changed the world.
    Santa Clara County, a green valley measuring twenty-five by ten miles, was dubbed