A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Leyapearl, Wendylouwho10, MoonlightGypsy, Xenitha, DuffyBarkley, & SunshineInTheGraySky, & "Guest" for the reviews! Before anyone asks: Weebles were an awesome US kids toy in the '70s, basically plastic egg-shaped people things. "Weebles wobble but they don't fall down" was the ear-worm jingle used in the ads. Yeah. We were weird kids back then. ;)

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Finally, one of her addresses wasn't burned to the ground.

Parking in this city was non-existent. It was worse than New York City. Or rather, parking did exist, but was crammed full, and Nancy ended up parking several blocks away — another miracle, another car pulling out just as she got within range, resulting in more horns blaring behind her, even though it was plain that she was parking.

With all the change she'd spent today on parking meters alone and in wasted gas while caught in traffic jams, she could've gotten a full month's pass on public transport. Scowling, Nancy counted out the dimes and nickels for the full two hours of the meter, then, on a thought, left the briefcase locked in the trunk, taking only a manila folder with a few sheets of scribbled notes; her keys, wallet, and a couple other items she tucked carefully into her inner business-jacket pockets. An idea was forming in the back of her head, one that would play a lot better than pretending to be a job applicant, and a briefcase didn't fit the bill at all.

She'd just eaten, but the smells as she walked had her stomach growling again. How could any city be filled with such good food smells? Baked goods — a distinct aroma of vanilla and yeast — smoked meat, wood-fired grills, fresh baked pretzels, fried onions, a whiff of teriyaki, and rotisserie chicken. No wonder people in this city walked everywhere. They had to, or they'd wind up looking like Weebles.

That image — a city full of Weebles wobbling in an earthquake and not falling down — amused her for most of the hike. Then the irresistible scent of baked peaches halted Nancy in her tracks; that was just too much. She tracked it to a small bakery tucked between a newsstand and a cigar shop, where the baker was just putting out peach-and-cheese pastries fresh from the oven.

"We got the first crop yesterday," the woman said, smiling, and added a free peanut-butter cookie to the order after a friendly chat and finding out Nancy was from New York "too". The pastry's cheese turned out to be brie, creamy, rich, and drizzled with honey mixed with fresh lime. That and a fresh cup of excellent coffee put Nancy in a much better mood — on finding out the bakery sold whole-bean bags of that coffee, she resolved to return and buy a few pounds to take home. Dad would love it.

Maybe walking in this city wasn't so bad, after all.

Nancy was still licking her fingers off when she finally reached 555 California — Rathbone Tower. She stopped in the ground-floor restroom to wash her hands and straighten her hair, then walked out to the directory in the center of the lobby. The Weldon Rathbone Foundation, "the Brotherhood of Companies", 51st floor.

She frowned at the directory. That was the overall parent company, directly in charge of at least three of the suspect projects. They should have files of some kind, if only copies for prospective investors…maybe even records of what and who. If she was really lucky, they'd have files on all the suspect projects from their subsidiaries.

First, find out how the place was laid out, then proceed from there. She did not want to confront Rathbone himself or his high-level flunkies, not even by accident — that was a job for the courts and the SEC, not a part-time investigator.

Nancy headed for the elevators. She pressed the 51st floor, then shuffled aside to make room for a harried-looking woman pushing a stroller, two women in business dress chattering about lunch, and several men in pinstripes and briefcases. Nancy opened the manila folder, pursed her lips as if reviewing the contents, and waited.

Finally, the 51st floor dinged; the doors slid open on a beige hallway with hideous lime-green carpet. Nancy turned left and strode down the hallway, but found nothing: only several empty office rooms waiting for renters, a real estate company, a doctor's clinic that looked to be frequented by employees of the building's various renters, and a smoking area at the opposite end. Nancy turned, went the other way, saw the Rathbone logo on the wall behind a receptionist's desk the moment she rounded the other corner.

Nancy fell into step behind a group of corporate suits headed in that direction, as if she was hurrying to keep up with them. They headed right past the snooty-looking bleached-blonde receptionist (who ignored them, though Nancy glanced at the woman's nameplate: "Mary") and around another corner.

Another elevator had been directly behind the receptionist's desk. Interesting.

But once around the corner and out of the receptionist's direct line-of-sight, Nancy slowed and let the suits get out of earshot. She was looking at a maze of gray-covered cubicle walls and filing cabinets, the monotony broken only by large peace lilies, ficus trees, and the windows on the north and east walls giving a spectacular view of the Bay.

Nancy turned to the left again and started to walk, business-like and confident, as she made note of the layout. She spotted an empty chair inside a manual-laden cubicle and sat down for a bit, just enough time to be natural, then stood up again and casually walked the circumference of the floor. She had the manila folder open in her hands and her concentration seemingly on the papers. A big corporate office as this, with so many people, they wouldn't stop her if she looked as if she belonged. She noted names and divisions — the place was grouped according to various companies under the Brotherhood. If anyone did question her, she'd claim to be from whatever area was farthest away.

She completed the circuit, then continued on until she was at the filing cabinets clustered near the north windows. There Nancy stopped, referred to her notes, and scanned the drawer-labels until she found the needed section, then opened a drawer and started to search.

Nancy couldn't help a smug smile. No private investigator worth her salt would sneak around in buildings after hours, when a bit of confidence and audacity got you inside legitimately in broad daylight. The lighting was better, and she didn't have to worry about after-hours security.

There. The Chelsea-Briggs River Expansion, one of the suspect projects. She pulled the file, leafed through it briefly, then set it on top the cabinet before looking for the next.

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

Nancy jumped, caught herself before she fell against the cabinets.

"Oh — I'm so sorry!" The woman steadied her: a stout older woman with salt-and-pepper hair. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just got all these files back in order, and I don't want to have to go through that again, Miss…um…?"

"Nancy," Nancy said, relaxing and smiling. "Sorry, I was so focused on what Mr. Coleman wanted, I didn't hear you come up." Absolutely true: Coleman had been Paul Keller's lawyer and was one of the big watchdogs of the Rathbone Foundation. Whatever he wanted would mesh with whatever game Keller and anyone else involved had going on.

"Mr. Coleman?" The woman looked surprised. "Robert Coleman? Mr. Rathbone's lawyer?"

Nancy nodded. "I need some files copied. Something's come up…um. Sorry. I'm really not supposed to talk about it." There, just enough information…

"Believe me, I understand," the woman said dryly. She cocked her head. "I haven't seen you here before."

"I'm new," Nancy said. "Just over from the agency. Poor Sandy's so overworked —" Sandy was Coleman's secretary, "— she needed an extra hand to keep up with the paperwork." Nancy let her smile go to full grin. "This seems like a wonderful place to work." All of it true, start to finish. As long as the woman didn't ask what agency or who the copies were for…

Now the woman smiled. "It is. They treat you human here. Lorraine." She offered her hand; Nancy shook it warmly. "Our system's a bit confusing. I've got a few minutes. I can pull the files for you."

"Oh, please, thank you!" In a few minutes, Nancy had a stack of five thick manila folders, and Lorraine walked her over to the copy room and helped her set up the Xerox machine's sheet-feeder. "I don't mean to pry," Nancy said hesitantly, as Lorraine fussed over loading a pack of fresh paper in, "but…what's the elevator out front? The one behind Mary?"

"That's for Mr. Rathbone," Lorraine said. "His penthouse is right above us. He hasn't left it in over twenty years."

"Really?" Nancy shifted her stance to ready-for-a-good-juicy-gossip-session. "That's odd."

Yup, she'd pegged Lorraine right. "It was right after his wife left. The movie star, Greata Delquist — oh, she was before your time, I'm sure. If you've ever seen Winds of March…or maybe The Overflowing Cup?"

Nancy nodded, keeping a wide-eyed-fascinated look on her face.

Not that Lorraine needed such encouragement. "Ran away with another man and disappeared. Even left her child behind. It was in all the papers — they claimed all sorts of nasty things. And Mr. Rathbone got so angry with the press — he punched one reporter out — that he closed himself off up there."

"Wow. So he sees nobody?"

"I've seen Mr. Coleman go up there," Lorraine said. "He has Mary help him with grocery supplies once a week. But that's it. I've never seen anyone else use the elevator, anyway."

The copier running full steam, Nancy mulled that over as Lorraine left. It had nothing to do with the case, but it would be fascinating to look up and read about. Maybe visit the San Francisco Public Library; it'd be a good break, just to relax in a good big-city library and enjoy research for fun, for a change. Especially if Frank could join her…

She allowed her brain to drift on that for a bit, as she fed the sheets through the copier, but then the sound of nearby male voices jarred her back.

"You're joking, surely?"

"No. A ten year sentence on Terminal Island. I'm appealing to get it reduced, but I've warned Paul to be on his best behavior."

Coleman! Nancy scooped up the copies and stuffed them into her manila folder. Please, God, don't let Coleman see…

"Oh, Mr. Coleman!" Lorraine. So much for luck holding out.

Nancy didn't dare stay to hear the rest. As calmly as possible, she walked out of the copy room and glanced around. Just over by the big windows, Coleman and another man were partially turned away from her, as Lorraine came bustling up.

No time. Nancy strode away. She'd made it to the edge of the exit hallway when…

"You! Stop!"

Nancy rounded the corner, pushing past others coming in and the receptionist's desk. Thank God, the stairwell was right there — Nancy dropped all dignity, hit the door, and ran down the stairs, jumping two and three at a time in her rush. Down two floors, then she darted out an exit door and forced herself to slow down, walking around the perimeter until she found the ladies room for that floor. She slipped in, gulping air to catch her breath.

Two choices. Either try the elevator and pray that Coleman wasn't waiting for her with security…though…thinking about it, the most they could do was escort her out. It was a public place, she'd walked right in without being challenged, and she'd done no damage. For that matter, she'd been handed the files, and she hadn't stolen them. Just made copies. She hadn't even lied.

Alternative: slowly make her way downstairs, floor by floor. Anyone waiting would get bored and assume she'd beaten them to ground and left. Nancy doubted they'd bother with a floor-by-floor, room-to-room search — the other businesses wouldn't put up with it, and there likely wasn't the manpower, anyway.

Decision made.

It took a good two hours to finally reach the ground floor lobby. Nancy made a point of circling each and every floor, walking casually and taking her time, admiring the view from the windows. By the time she hit the fifth floor, though, she was impatient and hungry again; it should be safe by now. She grabbed the elevator, behind a group of business men and women who looked as if they were leaving for the day.

No one yelled, no one pointed, no one grabbed her to stop her. Nancy crossed the lobby and out into the sunlight, across the street, and only then breathed easier. She glanced back towards the building…and paused. Just for a moment, someone had been standing near the doors: Coleman.

No, it couldn't have been. He would've grabbed her or yelled for security. He wouldn't let her go…would he?

Later. She was hungry. She had to beat rush hour — she definitely did not want to see how traffic in this city could possibly get worse.