Marsh and Bo were getting a little impatient with me.

  I looked out the port window of Acapella Blues and studied the Cadillac limousine my guest had arrived in. Silver, shiny, sleek, just like her, although its cheekbones were new and free of wear and tear. A tall, curly-haired, muscular man of about thirty, dressed in a dark suit, leaned against the driver’s side door, listening to his iPod, his eyes hidden beneath teardrop shades.

  The case was not exactly in my wheelhouse. I normally tried to stay out of the sticky wicket of family affairs—adultery, incestual relations, parental meddling in its various disguises. Although, upon reflection, I’m aware that just about any case ends up entangled somehow with family.

  “How did you find me?”

  “My lawyer referred me to you.” Her eyes bounced around the cabin of the boat, her eyebrows raised, her nose rising, as if she’d just sniffed a rotting rat carcass.

  My boat has that effect on people. Mia casa, be it ever so humble.

  I don’t normally like to meet clients here, but somehow she’d found me and showed up unexpectedly right before breakfast. Rude, but one of the perils of living on a boat. Since it didn’t have a solid foundation or front door, people often don’t respect it like a traditional home.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “My lawyer?”

  “He of whom we are speaking.”

  “Mr. Raditch. Of Reed, Raditch, Spengler, Feedle, and Fitzhugh.”

  Of course. RRRSF&F.

  I’d heard the name, but thankfully had never encountered any of the raconteurs represented by the bold letters in real life.

  “Offices in the financial district?” A firm with that many names could only be located close to money.

  She shook her head dismissively. “Atherton.”

  One of the most expensive zip codes in the country. The tiny peninsula hamlet was the most conservative town in the Bay Area.

  “And you?”

  “We have local residences on Nob Hill and in Atherton.”

  I was sure that non-local residences abounded. “And what nice things did Mr. Raditch have to say about me?”

  “To be honest, it wasn’t all that nice. He expressed reservations, along with grudging admiration.” She paused, nodded, obviously agreeing after meeting the subject in question.

  I was willing to take acclamation any way I could get it.

  Her eyes narrowed and quickly frisked me again, from head to toe. Despite the fact that I was my usual stylish self—a tattered seersucker shirt, with only a couple of stains, unbuttoned to mid-chest, dirty khakis, and bare feet—she seemed unimpressed, if not downright put off. If she hadn’t arrived so unexpectedly, I might have at least buttoned my shirt. I wondered if she’d tried to call me. I’d have to check my cell phone. At times, I have a tendency to forget that I possess one, but lately, Alexandra and Frankie have been forcing me to keep it close on a more frequent basis.

  “...but, he said that you had a reputation in certain quarters for...a kind of...gritty effectiveness.”

  “I see.” I try not to let such high praise go to my head.

  “He mentioned that you were willing to...perhaps take on cases of a less savory character with the proper sense of discretion.”

  That was me all over. You could always count on Max Plank to keep your nasty secrets.

  “Needless to say, decorum is essential in my situation.”

  “So, to summarize, you believe that your son is involved with a woman who is taking advantage of him? That she is hiding something and may be interested in his money, his name, and little else.”

  “Yes. But it’s more than that really. I believe he may be in some danger. I want you to investigate her fully. There must be something in her past...she’s a gold digger if I’ve ever met one. And, even more importantly, she has the stink of evil about her. It’s palpable. She’s dangerous to Christopher and to all of us in the family.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her face had taken on that frightening look of steel-eyed determination that can only be mustered by women of a certain age and social status.

  “I’d say it’s just woman’s intuition, but believe me, there’s more. Sarah is admittedly attractive in a way that some men find hard to resist, but there’s a wealth of experience etched on her face and in her eyes. She’s seven years Mikey’s senior, he’s only twenty-four, and knows how to play him. To fiddle with him.”

  She shook her head dismissively.

  “Some men don’t mind being fiddled with.” Not to name names.

  She gave me a look. “I am quite aware of what lurks in the minds of men.” She sniffed, tweaked her nose with her pinky, and continued, “And Mikey is under her spell. Still, he’s my son. I love him. I’m afraid for him.”

  I had the ungenerous feeling that perhaps she was more afraid of losing some of the family fortune and reputation than any great feeling for her child.

  “Do you have other children?”

  “A daughter.”

  “And?”

  “She has nothing to do with this.”

  So, two problem children then. After chatting with Mrs. Wambaugh for just a few minutes, this wasn’t a big surprise.

  “You still haven’t told me anything specific. In what way has she taken advantage of your son?”

  “In the same ways that women have been taking advantage since time immemorial.”

  Oh. Of course. So obvious. “I understand how you feel. But can you give me just a bit more detail to help—”

  An unmistakable shadow fell across the open door to the boat.

  Mrs. Wambaugh looked up, startled by the figure in the doorway.

  Marsh Chapin generally has that effect on people.

  He bowed, lowered his hand with an elegant twirl toward the rich lady, who stared at it as if it might bite, and said, “Madame, Marsh, at your service. I would recommend that you leave this sorry excuse for a dwelling and join me for a drink onshore where I will regale you with horror stories about our friend here that will freeze your heart mid-pulse. I don’t know how Maxwell coaxed you here, but I daresay there was little in the way of truth involved.”

  “Mrs. Wambaugh, this is Marsh Chapin, a recent escapee from the lockdown ward of a facility it’s best not to mention in polite company,” I quipped deadpan.

  She stared at Marsh, then turned her back to him with a distinct look of displeasure, obviously not used to such witty repartee.

  “I can certainly understand why Jeffrey had reservations about you, Mr. Plank,” she huffed.

  “Jeffrey?”

  “Mr. Raditch.”

  “Yes, well, my associate, Mr. Chapin, does sometimes have a tendency to violate rules of order. But he means well, mostly.”

  “May we continue?” she said, sounding like she might be getting ready to rap one’s fingers with a ruler.

  “What?” Marsh raised his eyebrows, opened his palms.

  I motioned with my chin. Marsh walked through the cabin and disappeared behind the door to the back of the boat. Sometimes Marsh can’t help himself and forgets that I have a professional reputation to protect.

  Sort of.

  I turned back to my prospective client. “What does Sarah Swan do for a living?”

  “She’s a singer, I gather. Mikey is entranced with her talent.”

  “Have you heard her sing?”

  She frowned, as if the notion was preposterous and I was an idiot for asking. She did not deign to answer.

  “Does she perform professionally?”

  “Mikey tells me she performs several shows every weekend at an establishment called the Black Canary in the city,” she said, then snapped, “now will you or won’t you take the case?”

  “One little matter I need clarified before I give you my decision.”

  She had me at “money is no consideration,” but cash, although I was running a little short due to my inherent tendency to drift along in life and the recent additional expenses revolving around Frankie, is almost never my primary motivation.

  “Once I start, I have a slight bulldog tendency. I normally follow my cases through to the end, no matter where they lead. Should you find yourself dissatisfied with the information I uncover, that is certainly your prerogative, but your prerogative may have little bearing on my efforts. Therefore, I insist upon a significant retainer, all of which will be accounted for meticulously by my accountant, Ms. Smith, with any unused funds refunded in full.”

  Mrs. Wambaugh held my gaze for a long time before answering. “Fine.” She opened a small black felt purse tucked at her side and extracted a small white envelope. She extended her hand to me, and I took it and flipped the flap open to find five stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with neat strips of white ribbon.

  “Will that do,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. She was used to getting what she wanted, and the envelope had left nothing to chance.

  I glanced at her ears, the diamonds glistening, and nodded. “That will,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the greenbacks.

  Four

  “Ms. Smith, the accountant? I’m surprised I’ve never met the lady,” Marsh said as soon as I joined him at the back of the boat.

  “You know how it is with number crunchers. They stay holed away in their cubicles in front of their adding machines.”

  “Adding machines?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Don’t you think a woman like her already knows a whole heck of a lot about you before she engages?”

  I shrugged. “Do you know her?”

  “Of her,” Marsh said. “The Wambaughs are very old money, at least in California years. Her great grandfather built his fortune peddling a series of miracle elixirs with a traveling medicine show he started, Wambaugh’s Wizard Oil Company, during the California Gold Rush in the mid-nineteenth century. I guess it was a pretty entertaining carnival type thing with magicians, a freak show, a flea circus, comics, and storytellers.”

  Marsh paused, rose from his sling-back canvas chair, walked to the edge of the boat, and took a long sip of black coffee while staring out toward the Bay and Treasure Island, before continuing. “But the main purpose was always to sell the magic elixir. It promised to cure every malady known to man, from heart disease to arthritis to cancer, extending your life, along with smoothing out your facial wrinkles and removing the stains from your clothes. It was all snake oil, of course, but you usually got at least a hit of cocaine, alcohol, or opium for your trouble and your money. He was smart enough to get out of the business before some intrepid newsman started exposing it all for the scam it was. He started buying real estate, and that’s what still pays the bills and then some. His son, Douglas, your client’s father, really expanded the business, building an empire, making it one of the top five developers in the country. Apartment buildings, shopping centers. In the eighties, they went into Vegas and own quite a number of apartment buildings there now and at least one casino that I’m aware of.”

  I noticed a tugging at the end of my fishing pole and leaped to grab it. I waited a few seconds, then yanked it and felt...nothing. I reeled in, put another piece of bait on the line, and cast it out about fifty yards from the boat.

  I sat back down across from Marsh.

  “So, what’s the problem?” he said.

  “A son. A gold digger. Fear of fleecing and—”

  “Blackmail, hearts broken, trusts sundered, estates ransacked...”

  “You’ve got the idea. By the way, what about the husband? Mrs. Wambaugh mentioned she was married but nothing more as to his involvement in all this.”

  “He’s a bit of a mystery from what I’ve read. I guess he’s estranged from the family. He had a reputation as a kind of hanger-on, a gigolo of a sort, before he married Mrs. Wambaugh. She didn’t take his name, kept daddy’s, the company’s—Fogerty is his name. He kind of disappeared years ago.”

  “Maybe see if you can find out a little more about him.”

  “Okay. Anything else?

  “Not at the moment. I’m not sure there’s really anything here but a meddling mother’s paranoia and jealousy. I’ll do an initial quick surveillance to check on the girl. Have a chat with people at the nightclub where she works and check out the places she hangs, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Marsh nodded.

  I’m a big guy, and so is Marsh, but there’s something about him, an aura that comes off him, that quickens the pulse of any room he walks into. He’s a handsome devil with golden hair and quick steel-colored eyes. He doesn’t have bulging, weight-lifter muscles, but he’s cut and lithe as a panther and just as dangerous.

  “You didn’t come out here to discuss the Wambaughs with me.”

  He winced, scratched his head, looked away. “Dao.”

  I waited while my pulse quickened.

  “I was visiting him on the Sweet and Sour last night discussing the plans for the Kabuki theater and...I don’t know. It’s nothing I can put my finger on specifically, but he’s not his usual chipper self. He’s really preoccupied. Very unlike him. He wasn’t really involved when I started talking about the theater, and you know how passionate he is about that project. He’s trying his best not to let it show. That typical Zen calm exterior has a crack in it.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Yes. But he just brushed me off.”

  “So maybe it’s just a spat with Meiying or an investment that’s underperforming, even Dao has to have one of those every once in a great while.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

  “Still, maybe he was just having a bad day.”

  He frowned. Marsh isn’t one to jump to conclusions. He has a very logical mind and tries to eliminate emotions from any calculus unless whatever he’s measuring is affected by them. He prides himself on his lack of personal feeling in most matters. But he does seem to have a sixth sense about trouble. His gut instincts are rarely wrong. His atavistic, reptilian brain is developed far beyond that of most mere mortals.

  “I think it’s something serious. And he won’t tell me because he’s afraid of what I might do.”

  I nodded. Dao was aware of Marsh’s preferred way of handling problems and didn’t really approve. He abhorred violence, but on at least one occasion, Marsh’s method had been necessary and Dao thankful for it.

  “Okay. We’ve got a cribbage game scheduled in a couple of days. I’ll see how he’s doing and talk to him if I pick up on the same vibe.”

  “Lunch is calling,” Marsh said.

  I followed his eyes to my quivering pole and leapt to my feet.

  Five

  After Detective Marley let us go around four a.m., I drove Q to the hospital and waited with him and Phoebe until we could get a doctor to talk to us.

  He was a big, round guy settled deeply into his forties, with plump cheeks and sad eyes. He wore an ID badge with a grainy, unflattering photo. His white smock had a splatter of blood drops near one pocket.

  “I’m Dr. Newburgh,” he said, and brought his cupped hands up to his face, rubbed his nose with his forefingers, then tucked them beneath his armpits. “She’s still being operated on. It’ll be another hour or so.”

  “What’s her condition, doc?” Q asked, his face a mask of apprehension.

  “The main problem is internal bleeding. That’s always the hardest with a shot to the abdomen. Fortunately, it was a small-caliber bullet. Her spleen was hit. We’ve removed it. There’s still some bleeding, and the team is working hard to stop it. If we’re successful soon, she might make it.”

  “Jesus Christ, that sounds bad,” Q almost shouted.

  Phoebe let out a little cry. Her hand fluttered to her mouth, her lips trembled, her knees started to collapse. I grabbed her by the shoulders and took her to a row of seats in front of a wall of glass overlooking the staff parking lot.

  “There’s still hope, sir. A lot of good people are working hard to save her. She’s young and strong. I think we’ve got a chance. I have to get back now. I’ll have the nurse keep you advised.”

  He left us, and Phoebe started sobbing. Q sat next to her, leaned in, and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head against his chest.

  At seven a.m., still waiting at the hospital, I called Frankie on the cell phone that Alexandra had recently bought her.

  “Hey, girl, you waiting at the bus stop?”

  “Not yet. It’s still early. I got ten more minutes. I’m eating Cheerios and chocolate chips. Red likes Cheerios.” Red, Frankie’s cat, was not the picky eater that felines have a tendency to be.

  “Chocolate chips?” I said. Alexandra had been working on getting her to eat a little healthier with mixed results.

  She ignored my comment and said, “You don’t have to pick me up from school today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Celia’s mom is taking us to the movies to see Fantastic Beasts. I can’t wait.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Yeah. And then we’re getting pizza.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up there?”

  “Naw. I think Celia’s mom will drive me home.” The cellophane rustle of a bag was followed by a mouthful of something that garbled her speech. “Do you think Red would like some chocolate chips?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Might make her sick.”

  “Okay. But I don’t see how chocolate chips could make anybody sick.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.”

  “Cool. I’ve got a new kind of Ollie to show you, too.”

  Another skateboard move. The kid was amazing to watch on the thing.

  I hung up, called Marsh, and brought him up to date. I asked if he could take a look around the Black Canary that morning, although I knew it probably wouldn’t be open. Locked doors are usually not much of a problem for him. I also asked him if he could find out anything find-out-able about the Children’s Network. He said he had meetings all morning but would get out to the area in the afternoon and get somebody digging into the Network right away.

 

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