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Ed Weeks couldn't believe his bad luck. After seventeen years of investigative reporting, he had finally gotten his big chance at an exclusive story. The contacts had all been there, his snooping had paid off, and what did it land him? Trouble, that was what. Heart-rending, life-changing trouble.

It had all begun almost eight years earlier when his best buddy and co-worker, Alan Sutton, hit the big one in the lottery. Al was one of those dreamers who believed that the only thing standing between him and total happiness and success was a winning lottery number. He always said that there was no problem, no ailment, no misery that money couldn't remedy. And, although most everyone else at The Times agreed, Ed had laughed at him. Ed had been raised to believe that it was how you lived and treated others, not how much cash you had, that gave value to your life. And he still believed that, even though Al Sutton tried to prove him wrong.

Al hit the jackpot just before Christmas, 1988. His ticket took the whole pot - 28 million dollars. There had been one great Christmas and New Year's Eve party at the Press Club that year! In fact, Ed couldn't remember any break in between. The Christmas party had just kind of "rolled over" into New Year's. Al believed in sharing the wealth, so all of his buddies benefitted. Of course, he left the paper. He lived the good life for 4 or 5 years, became a jetsetter. Ed got a kick out of dropping stories for the wire service with shots of Al and beautiful starlets, wealthy business and entertainment moguls, and politicians. And Al was not only good at sharing the wealth, he made more, too. Ed figured that by 1993 Al was worth about $50 million.

It occurred to Ed that Al might have been right after all. Given enough money, the world began to look like a better place. Even though it wasn't for Ed, wealth didn't seem to be doing Al any harm. Then one day, in March of 1993, Alan Sutton disappeared.

There hadn't been any warning. Ed had spoken with Al a few days before about a story he was doing on campaign corruption: politics had always been Al's forte. Al had sounded tired, said he had a bad cold, but there was no indication of trouble. Two days later he was gone. Ed jumped right into the search. In fact, he stayed at it longer than anyone, even the rest of the gang from The Times. And before he gave it up, he laid some pretty careful information networks. If Al Sutton surfaced anywhere, Ed Weeks was most likely the first reporter who would hear about it.

But a year passed, and then two, and there was no sign of the person or wealth of Alan Sutton. Ed couldn't believe that he had done "a Howard Hughes," but there was no other explanation. Al Sutton had disappeared because he wanted to, and he'd covered his trail well. Ed Weeks put the search aside, but he didn't forget.

Then, in late September, 1995, Ed got a phone call from a doctor. He said Ed had better get over to an old storefront building on East 72nd Street. He didn't have to say more.

The building was a homeless shelter. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but it was clean and in good repair. The director said the owner had financed everything - repairs, furnishings, paint, food, utilities and medical care - for the past two years. There were 200 beds in the entire building, and they were full almost every night. There was a hot meal in the evening and a simple breakfast every morning. The owner lived on the 15th floor and no one was allowed up there except the director and the doctor. That morning the director had found the owner near death and called the doctor, who had called Ed. Ed asked to go up.

The room was clean and warm, but barren, as were all of the rooms Ed had seen downstairs, although this one had a hospital bed and a lot of medical equipment. The man on the bed was not much more than a skeleton, with angry-looking sores on his face and hands. Ed had no trouble recognizing him as Alan Sutton, though. His hands rested on a Bible that lay open on his chest. When he could make himself move, Ed stepped up to the bedside and looked down at what was left of his friend.

"Thanks for coming, Ed," the skeleton man whispered. "I didn't want anyone to see me this way, but I had to tell you. Not much time left. Had to tell you that you were right."

"Take it easy, Al. There's no rush. I'll stay right here until you've told me what you want me to hear."

Sutton's breathing wheezed shrilly. "Had to tell you that you were right. Money can't solve every problem. I wanted you to know ... and need your help."

"Tell me what you want me to do, Al," Ed said. As a war correspondent he had seen and talked to soldiers near death. He recognized the signs.

"Last will and testament," Al said, motioning weakly toward a paper sticking out of his Bible. "It's all for you ... know you'll do the right thing ... all for you, Ed, 'cause you know the truth."

Alan Sutton's ragged breathing grew more and more irregular as he slipped into unconsciousness. Ed Weeks watched his friend's life ebb away as the impact of Al's final request hit him.

So, the world awaited a solution to a mystery disappearance almost as big as that of Jimmy Hoffa. And Ed Weeks had uncovered the answer. But Ed Weeks had also inherited $50 million. How could he write objectively now? Who would believe him? "All for you ... do the right thing ... 'cause you know the truth," the ragged whisper echoed as Alan Sutton died. Visions of Lear jets, yachts, penthouse apartments and Riviera casinos flashed through Ed's mind. What was the truth? It had all seemed so simple before. Ed Weeks couldn't believe his bad luck.