Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

Inner Fire by Jolie McLarren Swann

Congratulations to Jolie McLarren Swann (take note of that name), winner of the fifth annual Black Orchid Novella Award, co-sponsored by AHMM and The Wolfe Pack. As usual, the BONA recognizes an original novella that exhibits the spirit of ratiocinative detection exemplified by the great Nero Wolfe. The pseudonymous author of this year’s winning story assures us that it is the first in a new series, and we look forward to its sequels. But there’s a special puzzle here for AHMM readers — it turns out that hidden in the Swann alias is the author’s true name. Welcome back, James Lincoln Warren, familiar to our readers for his many stories in these pages, including those in his popular Treviscoe series. Moreover, Swann/Warren promises us that the anagrammatical fun continues in the story itself.

It may be brain dead, but nothing boosts my confidence like a good hair day. Susan Sherman, my best friend in tenth grade, once gave me some excellent advice: “Never date a guy with hair more beautiful than yours.” For once, there was no danger of that. My flaxen coiffeur was fit for the red carpet on Oscar night.

So I wasn’t intimidated by the big, handsome Pacific Islander’s glossy, flowing raven locks in the elevator of the Global Trade Tower in Century City, where MTRG had its headquarters. He looked like a running back, broad shoulders, tiny waist, dressed in a well-tailored midnight blue suit with a lemon yellow tie and matching pocket square, secure enough in his virility to be wearing a pink button-down shirt. No tassels (those are always a danger sign) on his pebbled calfskin loafers. By all appearances, not your usual surfer dude, but to my experienced eye I knew he’d be a natural balanced on an Oahu North Shore gun, shooting a thirty-foot breaker. Plus, he was checking me out. I flashed my flirtiest smile.

“Floor?” he asked.

“You’ve already pressed it.”

“MTRG? Excuse me, but you don’t look much like a technogeek.”

“Neither do you.”

“I’m not,” he said, smiling, showing perfectly straight white teeth and dimples to die for. “I’ve got... other business there. You?”

“Just meeting a girlfriend for latte and a muffin.”

Short silence. Finally he smiled again and said, “I’m Adrian Tabi.”

“Erica Wooding.”

More floors whizzed by.

“What business?” I asked.

He assumed that roosterlike look that presaged the claim that he was a jet airline pilot or worked for the CIA. Disappointing, yes, but boys will be boys. “I’m an insurance investigator. Working on a big case... but it’s not really something I can talk about. Client confidentiality, you understand.”

“Wow,” I said. “That must be fascinating work.”

“Sometimes,” he said, assuming a strong-but-silent display of masculine modesty. “Who’s your girlfriend? Maybe I know her.”

“Probably not,” I replied. “She’s a temp. Bunny Fredericks?”

“No, sorry,” he said, and I was saved from further prevarication by the door sliding open.

“After you,” he said, holding out his hand like a maitre d’ in a snooty restaurant. He walked over to the big glass doors that opened into MTRG’s reception area and held one open for me.

I couldn’t very well let him figure out I didn’t really have a girlfriend on the premises, so I fidgeted and looked around, wide eyed.

“Thanks,” I said, “but first, the powder room?”

He smiled. “To your right. I hope to see you later.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Sorry, gotta go. I mean—”

He gave a casual wave and went inside as I traipsed off to the loo. I knew he’d let me go. I’ve noticed that men would rather stab themselves multiple times in the abdomen with a K-bar than wait outside a women’s toilet.

I took a few seconds to admire my new hairstyle in the mirror and refresh my lipstick before emerging to make sure Adrian was gone. Then I went in.

There was a tall, thin man standing at the high curved counter giving the bimbo receptionist a major-league tongue-lashing. The man wore what must have been a bespoke suit in dark gray with gold pinstripes — it had surgeon’s cuffs and British double vents, and looked like vicuña. Anyway, it went perfectly with the gold Audemars Piguet chronograph on his left wrist. He was not a happy unit and was giving the bimbo the benefit of pointing his well-manicured finger in her face.

“The next time that wog Tabi waltzes in and I don’t hear about it first, you’ll be looking for a new job,” he said in clipped Londoner tones. “And you won’t find one. Am I clear?”

The receptionist pursed her lips in suppressed anger and meekly replied, “Yes, Mr. Pippinger.”

He turned from her and I got a good look at his face. Vulpine, I think the word is, mid forties, good looking, if your taste runs to strong, cruel faces. He scanned me up and down, taking in everything all at once, obviously coming to the conclusion that I didn’t have any potential, because he didn’t pause a microsecond before striding off. He didn’t slam the door of his corner office shut: There was already a flunky there to do it for him.

I approached the receptionist. Her desk placard said she was Rachel Dunn. Her lips moved as she muttered something inaudible for her own benefit. From what I could guess, it was “pommy bastard.”

“Hi,” I said. I looked down the hall at the closed door of the rich man’s office. “Why do men all have to be such assholes?”

She didn’t react at all, other than looking at me as if I had toilet paper sticking out of my waistband.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a dreadful Australian whine.

“I don’t know. That gorgeous guy who just came in a couple minutes ago, I think his name is Adrian? I met him in the elevator.”

She assumed a knowing look. No pity, only disdain. “Get in line.”

Then she took a deep breath and her chin started to tremble.

I decided to ignore the scorn as if I hadn’t seen it and barreled forward. “I think he said something about Lloyd’s America?”

I took a chance with that. It might not have been Lloyd’s that he worked for, but since they’re the biggest marine insurance group in the world, it was a good guess.

“That’s right.”

Two points!

But that public dressing down she’d just been given must have stung worse than an eyeful of iodine. Her face threatened to crumple, but she overcame it in a flash of indignation, and seized on the distraction I’d provided.

“Big-time insurance investigator,” she said, sniveling. “Big-time jerk, you ask me — almost as bad as Mr. Colin Blobhead Pippinger.” She shifted her eyes toward the corner office. Then suddenly she opened up. “About Adrian. I’d forget it if I were you. Been there, got the T-shirt.”

“Really? He seems like such a nice guy.”

“Oh, he is. For as long as it takes to get what he’s after. You’re right. They’re all the same.”

I folded my arms and put my elbows on the counter, leaning toward her in just-between-us-girls confidentiality. “He isn’t really here about some missing boat then, is he?”

That was too quick, because now she was suspicious.

“Who the hell are you?”

Tap-dancing, my specialty. “Oh, I could tell you stories. I’ll bet you didn’t know that Adrian was married.”

She frowned, thought better of it, and then smirked, but realizing what she must look like, just as quickly assumed a mask of sympathetic distress. “His poor wife!”

“Look, I didn’t really lie about meeting him in the elevator, because I’ve never actually seen him before — but the truth is he’s seeing my sister, and she’s so naive — I don’t want her to get hurt. She’s crazy about him and I could just tell from the way she described him that he was bad news. So I’m sort of checking him out, and guess what? Married. Four kids. House in Encino, minivan — the works. And smooth? He gave her some line about looking for this stolen superyacht, but I thought it was all bullshit.”

“That whacker,” she breathed. “The best liars always throw in a bit of the truth, don’t they? The superyacht is missing.”

I nodded. “That fits. He’s a charmer, all right. Tall, dark, and mysterious — my God, it’s such a cliché. But who could steal a yacht? Sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”

Rachel leaned forward. “No, that much is true. We think it was an inside job. Adrian really shouldn’t have talked about it, though.”

“Well, it worked, because Barbara was all impressed. Listen, Rachel, if I call you later, can you talk to her, and help me prove to her that he’s just another sexual predator?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I’d better get out of here before Adrian sees me and gets suspicious,” I said. “Our little secret, right?”

“Right. I wish I’d had a sister like you when I met that ratbag.”

We shook hands briefly but intensely, and I slipped out just as she called out, “Wait! What’s your name?” Naturally I didn’t bother to stop — I needed to make my getaway. I was in such a rush that I almost forgot to take the stairs down a flight so Adrian Tabi wouldn’t see me if he left MTRG before the elevator came.

True master detectives know when to improvise.

The job started with a bang, an explosive fireball erupting on the ocean. I didn’t know anything about that at first. If anything, my life at the time was more of a whimper. Living in L.A. was turning out to be a lot more expensive than I had figured, and to complicate things I’d just been fired. Pete Grady, the P.I. who hired and then canned me, said our “relationship” wasn’t working out, and he was right, because there was no way I was going let that cheesy fat sleaze bucket get in my pants. Standards, I got ‘em.

Then I spilled coffee all over my laptop in a café, frying the motherboard. So much for Facebooking with my friends. Now I couldn’t even troll the Net for sympathy, because there was no way I could afford a new computer. So I was feeling angry and sorry for myself.

That’s why when I was asked to come downtown for an interview I was cheered up enough to break into spontaneous dance, much to the annoyance of my downstairs neighbor. The call said nothing at all about explosive fireballs. All I knew was that I finally had an appointment with a potential client. And man, did I need a client.

Dad desperately wanted me back home — you know what some fathers are like when it comes to their little princesses, not that at five foot ten I’m remotely little, or have ever been anything like a princess unless princesses routinely skin their knees falling out of trees.

Anyway, he knew all about my financial smackdown and figured he could use it as leverage.

“I’m raking it in, Erica,” his voice said, buzzing out of the cell phone sitting on the dresser. I needed my hands free because I was changing into something more professional than jeans and a tank top. The voice kept on talking. “The recession hasn’t hurt our business. It’s booming. I’ll pay you straight salary.”

“I’d rather work on a fee basis, Dad. Like I’m doing right now.” Actually, what I was doing right then was tugging on a stubborn zipper on my skirt, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I get it. I do. You want to strike out on your own. But I’d feel a lot better if you lived closer to home. Los Angeles is dangerous. People disappear there.”

Nice try. I was done with Fresno in general and with Sherwood Brothers Bail Bonds in particular. I wanted to do real detective work, for real people who needed real help, not just track down bail-jumping knuckleheads.

When I finished pulling on my left shoe, I picked up the phone, took the call off speaker, and put it up to my ear.

“Exactly,” I said. “People disappear in L.A. That’s why I’m here, to find them. In case you forgot, you trained me to be a skip tracer, and that’s how I qualified for my license. Besides, I like it here. I can go surfing whenever I want, and there are real beaches where you can play real beach volleyball.”

I heard something suspiciously like muffled speech. That meant Dad was holding his hand over the phone, either speaking to an employee about work or something much more sinister: calling in the cavalry. I decided I’d better get off the line.

“Listen, love to talk, but I’ve really got to go. I have an appointment with a rich client downtown in forty-five minutes and I’ll need every bit of it to get there in time.”

“Break it. Downtown L.A. is hell’s half acre.” This from a man whose office is a hundred yards from the Fresno County Jail.

“You haven’t seen this block of downtown, and I guess you missed the important part.”

“Rich?”

“No. Client.”

“Oh, Erica,” he said, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Mom wants a word—”

“Sorry. Gotta run. Love you.” I hung up before Mom joined the charge, waving her saber amidst blaring bugles and the thunderous thud of hooves. My family, gotta love ‘em.

I checked my purse to see if I had enough money for gas. Damn. Looked like I was taking the bus.

I only had to walk a short distance from the bus stop to get there. The McKinley Building was half a city block of art deco steel and cast cement that had once housed a bank at street level and large swanky office suites above. It had recently been restored to its Roaring Twenties glory, only now it featured high-end retail on the sidewalk, with the rest of the building divided into outrageously expensive condos for the urban ultracool.

In the lobby, a bored guard made me sign in after making a call upstairs to make sure I had a legitimate reason to be there. He reluctantly let me through to the bank of elevators. I went to the one at the end, at a right angle to all the others, because it was the only one that went up to the penthouse loft. The private one.

When I got out at the top, I was met by a smartly dressed woman, brunette, maybe ten years older than me, who could have been anything from a CEO’s executive secretary to an archduke’s housekeeper.

I was a little slow introducing myself because I was trying to take everything in. Sometimes a moment of silence can have a dramatic effect. At other times, it just makes you look dumb. This was one of those other times.

“Hi. I’m Erica H. Wooding.”

I thrust out my right hand. The woman pressed my fingers for a split second as if to say, I’m only doing this to be polite.

“I have an appointment with Ms. Fowler.”

“You are expected, Ms. Wooding,” she said, like I didn’t already know. Her accent said upper-crust East Coast. “I’m Fredericks, Miss Enola’s valette. May I take your coat?”

First of all, there’s no such word as valette, she just made that up. Now, a valet in L.A., and probably where you live too, is usually somebody who parks cars. But I could tell she was saying she was a sort of female Jeeves. Not a mere lady’s maid, but a valette. Secondly, there was the Miss Enola instead of Ms. Fowler, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

“Coat?” I had on a short leather jacket. Nobody ever wears a coat in Los Angeles unless it’s raining, and you know how often that happens. “I didn’t bring one, Ms. Fredericks.”

Somehow, even though she didn’t change expressions, I could tell I’d disappointed her, as if a lady always had a coat, and therefore Erica H. Wooding must not be a lady.

“Just Fredericks. This way, please,” she said, leading me into the loft.

The first thing I noticed was soft classical piano music being piped in, as if I were shopping at Nordstrom’s. Then the decor struck me. What would otherwise have been a huge single space was divided into rooms by Japanese paper screens extending from floor to ceiling between square pillars holding up the roof. From the look of them, the screens could be slid or moved to reconfigure the floor plan. The ceiling itself was high and made of pressed tin tiles painted copper, uber-retro but nice, punctuated with sprinkler heads every six feet or so. The floor was teak and maple parquet, polished to a brilliant sheen, with fine woolen rugs centered in each room. There was very little furniture, all of it in Mission-style oak, austerely elegant — minimalist, you could say.

She led me all the way back to some tall French doors that opened north onto the rooftop patio. The air had been blown clear by the Santa Ana winds the day before, so to the far left you could see all the way to Century City, Santa Monica, and the ocean. On the near left were the Hollywood Hills. North and east, skyscrapers glinted in the sun. The sky was a glacial blue.

There were Heritage rosebushes and garden herbs planted in big terra cotta planters along the balustrade, and not quite a soccer field away at the other end of the patio was a glass hothouse. Fredericks kept going that way so I followed her.

She opened the door to the hothouse and led me in. Humidity swept over me like I had wiped out on a rogue wave. My silk blouse was already starting to stick to my skin.

The second thing I noticed was a wheelchair, one of those fancy motorized scooter gizmos, basically a one-seat Cadillac convertible. The woman in it was older than Mom, but younger than either of my grandmas. She was doing some pruning and didn’t look up as I came in. The same piano music as in the living quarters accompanied the clip of her shears.

The hothouse was full of antheriums blossoming under potted Sago palms. Most people don’t know what this kind of flower is called, but everybody’s seen one: a big, single, heart-shaped, leaflike petal, usually scarlet or orange but sometimes white, with a thick yellow erect stamen jutting up from where the stem joins the petal. They’re really almost obscene. I knew what they were because before I was old enough to help Dad at the bail bonds boutique, I worked a couple of summers in my aunt’s flower shop.

Fredericks discreetly coughed. “Miss Enola, your appointment.”

Miss Enola, again. All right, I could cope. While I was waiting for her to look at me, I got a good look at her. She was a little thing, and reminded me of a tiny songbird, sharp-nosed and bright-eyed. Adding to the effect was a bright yellow dress trimmed with green and black. Her hair was dyed a lustrous mahogany brown and was slightly gray at the roots, cut short and parted on the left, sweeping back behind her ears.

Finally she stopped and looked up at me. She stared at me for several seconds, then turned her chair to face me.

“You’re too tall,” she said abruptly. She had a high little soprano, but well modulated. “Your hair is too long and your skirt is too short. But at least your shoes are sensible, and you don’t wear too much makeup or have talons instead of fingernails.”

I raised my eyebrows. “As far as I’m concerned, high heels and long nails are for women who don’t work.”

“Even so, your appearance gives me the impression that you may be a little too fond of men.”

“Some men, maybe,” I said. “Personally and professionally, I don’t always trust appearances.”

She nodded curtly. “Sit down.”

Where? But Fredericks was unfolding a low metal chair, really a backed stool. Then she vanished like a ghost. Well, that’s what it seemed like.

I sat down as ladylike as I could, which isn’t as easy as it sounds when your legs are as long as mine. I really should have worn a longer skirt, I guess, but it was a little late to worry about that.

“How can I help you... Miss Enola?” I asked in my best business voice. Sometimes being a P.I. is like being a therapist or a bartender. Look interested even if you aren’t, then shut up and listen. You’ll learn more that way.

“Erica H. Wooding,” she said, staring at me appraisingly. “What is the ‘H’ for?”

That took me off guard. “Oh. It stands for Holmes, my mother’s maiden name. I was named for my grandfather.”

Miss Enola was amused, and though she compressed her lips to keep from smiling, the rest of her face opened up like a daisy.

“A private detective named Holmes. How droll. You’re blushing, my dear.”

“No, I’m just very fair and it’s a little warm in here.”

“So you were named after a man,” she said, disapproving.

What was that all about? “And, Miss Enola, you were, what, named after the B-29 that nuked Hiroshima?”

Then she did smile, but just as soon it was gone. “Quite a bedside manner you have, Erica.”

“You want a good bedside manner, hire a nurse. I’m an investigator, and my name and my hair and my skirt have nothing to do with it. I’m good at what I do, and if you want to know if I’m the right woman for the job, I suggest you ask me about that.”

“I had a background investigation performed prior to making our appointment, Erica. I know all about your professional abilities. The firm that referred you to me, Cal Ops, is very good, for a competitor. Their report was quite positive.”

Which was big news to me. Cal Ops, short for California Operatives, Inc., was an elite Beverly Hills agency where I had once unsuccessfully applied for a position when I came to L.A. Actually, I had unsuccessfully applied for a position at every reputable agency in Los Angeles before the Grady calamity, so going independent had been a last resort. The recession may not have hurt Sherwood Brothers, but it was killing me. Getting Cal Ops to check me out was like driving a Bentley to a car lot to shop for a Honda. Mucho bizarro. If she had hired Cal Ops, what did she need me for?

And what did she mean by competitor?

“I think you might do,” Miss Enola said. “I am not a termagant, Erica, my unconventional interview technique notwithstanding. I needed to judge you for myself. Your predecessors lacked the necessary character, but they were all young men. None of them lasted longer than a month. I’ve interviewed a few other women, but they were either too demure or too pugnacious. I need someone who will not wilt at the first sign of confrontation on the one hand, nor go for the throat at the minutest challenge on the other. She must hold her own and maintain her dignity.”

Dignity isn’t a word I hear applied to me a lot. I said, “I’m not sure what we’re talking about.”

“We will start on a trial basis. If you prove suitable during our investigation, I will consider making the arrangement permanent.”

“Our investigation? Make what permanent?”

“I trust a twenty-five hundred dollar retainer will be sufficient?”

I quickly nodded, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d knock my teeth out with my foot again.

“Excellent. Now, as to the terms of your employment—”

“I’ll need to know something about your case first. There are some things I won’t do, like divor—”

“Nothing so sordid, I assure you. Details will be provided.”

“I brought a standard contr—”

She waved me off. “Unnecessary. Let us retire to the office.”

With that, she whizzed out the door. I closed it behind me as I left.

I followed her across the patio back to the French doors. Inside, Fredericks was waiting for us with a checkbook, a brandy-colored leather portfolio, and a fountain pen. She handed the portfolio to me and the checkbook and pen to Miss Enola.

Miss Enola opened it, signed a check, pulled it out, and handed it to me. Then she led us into a large windowless space dominated by a long wraparound desk with nothing on it but a light headset with a microphone, a wireless keyboard and mouse, and three wide-aspect computer monitors. There were three chairs facing the desk, but none behind it, so that Miss Enola could wheel in to work. The Japanese screens that acted as walls were hung with delicate Zen scroll paintings of tall bamboo and exquisite birds.

She motioned us to be seated. I took the closest chair, on the right, and Fredericks took the chair on the left. From somewhere, Fredericks had produced a touchscreen computer which she hefted like a steno pad, to which she applied a sterling silver stylus with a rubber nib, taking notes as Miss Enola talked.

“Your initial trial period will be for two weeks,” Miss Enola said. “After that, if you prove suitable, you will become a probationary employee for six months. You will move out of your current lodgings and move here into private quarters. I shall not charge you for room and board. We shall not terminate your residence at your current address until the end of your two-week trial. I will pay any rent owed on your apartment during the trial period. Fredericks will provide you with the appropriate tax forms—”

“Easier if I bill you,” I said. “I can handle my taxes on my own. And I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m moving in. It’s more convenient if I maintain my independence and regularly report to you on my progress.”

“Erica, you misunderstand. It may seem more convenient to you, but it is not remotely more convenient to me. I am hiring you not as an independent contractor, but as a salaried employee, like Fredericks here, to be available at any time of the day or night that I may require your services. This is not a nine-to-five job.”

“Well, investigations never are, but—”

“No overnight visitors. No loud noises. Otherwise, you are free to act as you please, within reason.” She turned to Fredericks and said, “Make arrangements to have whatever personal items Erica may need — clothes, toiletries, and so forth, delivered from her apartment, although I think perhaps a shopping trip might be in order to bring her wardrobe up to snuff — and show her to her room.”

I stiffened. Like I’m going to let some stranger go through my underwear drawer.

“Right now I think I’ll have a rest,” she said, completely unaware I was offended.

“Yes, Miss Enola,” Fredericks said, nodding.

“Erica, we’ll discuss the case after supper,” Miss Enola said. “Familiarize yourself with the contents of the portfolio in the meantime. We dine at seven. I should warn you that this is an organic vegetarian household.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Nobody’s going through my things. And my landlord will go ballistic if he thinks I’m moving out.”

“Don’t worry about your landlord,” she said. “He will be addressed.”

“And what about my car?”

“That will also not be needed, but you may store it in our garage during the trial. After that, if you continue with us, you should probably sell it. Or you can give it to charity.”

“I’m not selling Rhonda. How am I supposed to get around?”

“You took the bus to get here,” she replied, “but in the future, you can drive the Tesla.”

“Tesla?” I know squat about cars in general, but since I hadn’t heard of it, my guess was it must be a pretty exclusive ride. “I don’t know what that is, but I’m guessing it’s expensive.”

“Moderately,” she said. “It was just under two hundred thousand. The Tesla Roadster is an electric-powered sports car that does zero to sixty in less than four seconds.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“You’re an attractive young lady, Erica,” Miss Enola said, frowning, “so do try not to sound like a celebrity party girl.”

The idea of taking such an outrageously expensive car out for a spin on the insane L.A. freeways struck me as about as smart as juggling the White House china at a state banquet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty good driver in the right vehicle, say, one slightly less costly than a private Caribbean island — but I’m a lousy juggler.

Besides, I loved my car. Rhonda was a Chevy HHR woody that I had won at an auction for a song. It was love at first sight, and I named her after an old Beach Boys song Dad used to sing to me when I was a little girl. We had bonded. Plus, imagine me toting my beat-up old surfboard to the beach on the roof of an exotic sports car. Or toting grocery bags in the passenger’s seat. It would be like wearing pearls and a sleek black cocktail dress to In-N-Out Burger.

Then something she’d said hit me.

“Uh — how did you know I took the bus?”

But she was already rolling away. “We’ll discuss it later. Welcome to the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team.”

“The Fowler Investigative what?”

She stopped. “The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team. We are licensed to perform confidential inquiries for select clients.”

Miss Enola was a detective?

“You mean you’re a licensed P.I. too?”

“That is correct, but the FIAT—” She pronounced it to rhyme with “high hat,” and I subsequently noticed that whenever she said it, it was always the FIAT. “—is not your garden variety rent-a-cop shop.” She started rolling away again.

I could believe that. “How many agents are there on the team?”

“Formerly one. Now there are two. With occasional supernumeraries.”

“Wait—”

But she had turned a corner and I wasn’t sure if I should go after her.

“Ms. Wooding, if you will please follow me,” Fredericks said before I could make up my mind. Because I didn’t know what else to do at that point, I obeyed.

I was still a bit stunned as Fredericks led me to “my room,” which turned out to face west, with a view almost as good as from the patio. The bathroom was as big as my whole Studio City apartment, dominated by a recessed pink granite tub, with all sorts of colored bath oils in glass bottles around it, which I thought a little girlie given how Spartan everything else was. I was afraid there might be a futon instead of a real bed, what with the Japanese screens everywhere, but I was wrong — it was a queen, in that spare Arts & Crafts style like all the other furniture, covered with what had to be a hand-stitched quilt. Instead of closets there were two big wardrobes of pale oak with full-length mirrors on the doors. A huge HDTV sat on a wide stand next to a vanity dresser on the wall opposite the bed. It was a wonderful room. But not wonderful enough.

Reluctantly, I faced Fredericks and handed her the check.

“I can’t do this.”

Fredericks let me hang for a moment, and then sighed.

“I will talk to Miss Enola about your car,” she said at length. “I’m sure we can arrive at an equitable arrangement. And we shall go together to gather your things after dinner, so you don’t have to be worried about your privacy.” She paused. “Ms. Wooding, may I speak plainly?”

“Go ahead, and call me Erica,” I said. “Everybody else seems to.”

“My first name is Brunella,” she said drily. “Now you know why I go by Fredericks.”

“Ouch. I sympathize. What were you called growing up?”

“Freddy. I hated that too. But please listen.”

I sat down on the bed. “I’m all ears.”

“I am going to ask you to reconsider, or at least to postpone your decision until after we dine. Do you know why it was that Miss Enola decided to hire you?”

“She said it’s because I’m a woman.”

Fredericks smirked. “Well, of course there’s that. But only a certain kind of woman might be considered.”

“Big blondes?”

Her face went solemn. “Please do not make light of this, Erica. I am talking about who you are, not what you are, but even more about who Miss Enola is.”

This time I think I might have blushed.

“The reason she decided to consider you is because you had made it very clear that your motivation in working as a private investigator was to help people who can’t help themselves.”

I know I blushed then. “Oh.”

“Erica, that idea is the only thing that gets Miss Enola out of bed in the morning.”

“This is too weird. She’s a private detective herself, and successful as hell, judging from this place. So how come I’ve never heard of her?”

“She prefers to be called an investigative analyst rather than detective, since she demurs from collecting evidence herself — I believe that will be your contribution. You’ve never heard of her because she is, shall we say, exclusive. To call her clientele select is something of a euphemism. They come to her by reference only, and she is extremely discriminating regarding whom she will accept, even when the references are satisfactory. There are far more important criteria.”

“What do you mean?”

She paused. “Looking around here, you may be impressed by all that she has. She is surrounded by fine objets d’art, and every comfort consistent with a subtle and refined nature. You might think that she has gained the world. But this is nothing compared to what she has lost.”

It didn’t take a genius to light on Miss Enola’s most obvious disadvantage, so I asked. “How exactly did she wind up in a wheelchair?”

Fredericks frowned. “It isn’t my place to speak where she has been silent, Erica. But I will say that if you think that Miss Enola is a zealous Xanthippe who finds joy in inflicting her will on others, a heartless harridan motivated by her own petty sense of prerogative, then you suffer from a meaner incapacity than she. A crippled imagination is the worst affliction of all. Trust your imagination, Erica. I promise that it will be rewarded.”

Wordy, right? I guessed Fredericks had been one of those snob English majors who wrote incomprehensible free verse and read opaque fiction to prove how smart they were, but I was still impressed.

The question was whether Fredericks was pitching a dramatic speech to arouse my curiosity so I’d stay, or if she was being on the level and there was more here than met the eye. I reckoned the bloated pomposity of her plea was unintentional, since being pompous rarely recommends sympathy, so maybe there was something to what she said — but I was pretty weary of the high-handed way Miss Enola was treating me. I changed the subject.

“So, Fredericks. Harvard, right? English Lit?”

“Vassar, actually. You?”

I guffawed. “Three semesters at Fresno State in theater arts.”

She smiled, but it was a friendly smile. “An actress manqué, then.”

“I don’t know what manqué means, but don’t worry, Fredericks. I didn’t move to Hollywood to be discovered or anything.”

“And yet that’s precisely what has happened,” she said, and then she left.

Huh.

I dug into my purse, pulled out my cell, and speed-dialed Sherwood Brothers. I stared at the check in my hand.

“Hi, Dad,” I said. “You’re not going to believe this.”

The portfolio was full of goodies. There was a state-of-the-art smartphone, with a Bluetooth earpiece, hallelujah! Adios to my primitive prepaid cell, and welcome back wireless social networking. There were the keys to the Tesla and the penthouse. Also a stack of about fifty business cards reading

with both the smartphone’s number and one labeled “McKinley Building” printed below my name, no other address. And a small-business credit card with my name on it, oh my goodness. From the cards I deduced that Miss Enola had decided to hire me even before our interview.

Cal Ops’ background information about me was there in a thick manila folder. It contained a lot more than I would have imagined, all of it strictly accurate, even to my high school letters in track and volleyball and my mediocre transcripts from Fresno State. I didn’t need to ask how they’d got hold of all this — I’m a skip tracer, remember?

And then there was the case file.

A lot of it I didn’t understand. Expert network firms. Channel checkers. There was a lot about offshore bank accounts and the Securities and Exchange Commission investigating insider trading at hedge funds, like I even knew what a hedge fund was except that it had something to do with greed. One name popped up again and again: Oliver Long, B.A. Stanford, M.B.A. UCLA Anderson School, Vice President for Account Management for the Manufacturers Trend Research Group (MTRG), whatever that was. Frankly, reading it all was starting to make me go cross eyed. But then came some stuff I could sink my teeth into.

Long had disappeared into thin air. Now we were talking.

I wandered into the kitchen mainly out of curiosity to see who was cooking, but my cover story was to offer to help. I’m no foodie, but I do know my way around kitchen knives and pots and pans.

Given that this was an industrial-sized kitchen, I fully expected Miss Enola to have a bevy of private cooks, but she was preparing everything mostly by herself, with Fredericks assisting. Miss Enola looked rather silly in a tall paper chef’s hat and a cotton apron that looked more like a surgeon’s smock than anything else, but her face wore that frozen humorless mask that signals absolute concentration. At that moment she was precisely cubing slices of eggplant with a long, damascened Santoku, the knife slithering through them at full speed and clicking on the cutting board like a telegraph key in an old western. On the stove beside her, onions and garlic were sautéing in olive oil in a wide cast-iron frying pan. My mouth watered.

Fredericks tossed the salad.

Most of the counters were only three feet high in deference to Miss Enola’s wheelchair, but a couple were tall enough to stand at. The most interesting thing was the low six-burner stove, a custom job no higher than my knees.

“Wow, that smells great,” I said. “What are we having?”

“Nothing fancy,” Miss Enola replied. “Simple cuisine du pays. Crepes avec ratatouille nicoise.”

Okay. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You can help by not getting underfoot.”

Right.

Fredericks looked up from her labors. “Veronica Cross will be here in about half an hour, Erica. If you would be so kind, greet her when she arrives and offer her a glass of sherry in the drawing room.”

I didn’t know where the drawing room was, or even really what a drawing room was other than something from Jane Austen, but I figured it must be the room where I’d find the sherry. I felt I should know who Veronica Cross was, but I couldn’t put the name to a face.

“I read the file,” I said, more to be saying something than for any other reason.

“Of course you did, my dear,” Miss Enola said. “But we’ll discuss that after supper.”

I found the drawing room not far from the vestibule. The sherry was in a round, broad-based cut-glass decanter, on a sideboard next to another one filled with port. Pretty masculine tipple, I thought, given that we were in something of a henhouse, although there wasn’t any whiskey or brandy there, which I guess there would have been had there been any concessions to the Y-chromosome afflicted. I’m not much of a drinker myself, being more your basic diet-soda connoisseur.

When the doorbell rang, I answered it. That’s when I remembered.

“I know you. You’re Veronica Cross!” All right, the fact that she was Veronica Cross probably wasn’t that much of a surprise to her.

“Call me Nicki,” she said, extending her hand, beaming like I had just handed her a four-foot-long million-dollar check from the Lotto. “You must be the new girl.”

“Erica. Erica Wooding,” I said, taking her hand. I did find it a little, what’s the phrase? — cognitively dissonant to hear the word girl drop so casually from the mouth of a big-time feminist lawyer. But I was starstruck.

Really good lawyers, like good doctors and good ministers, have the gift of putting people immediately at ease. This gal had it like a biker broad has tattoos, except that Nicki was stylishly sporting a rough silk suit worth more than my car. Her black hair, pale makeup, and shoes were letter perfect, but that just amplified the effect. I guess it was charisma — I mean, she carried an alligator attaché case that with anyone else would have drawn your attention away from whoever held it. Not her, though.

“Miss Enola and Fredericks are in the kitchen,” I said. “If you’d like some, I was asked to offer you some sherry.”

“Don’t bother,” she said, marching in. “I can serve myself.”

She poured for both of us, parked herself unceremoniously on the sofa, and said, “So, Erica, tell me about yourself.”

If I could pump somebody like she did me, I’d call myself a detective. I don’t think there’s anything about myself I didn’t gratefully tell her all about. When I got to my education, she asked, “So what did you learn in theater arts?”

I said, “Don’t date actors.”

We both laughed, and only then did I realize how she’d played me. I guess I got that blank look on my face that betrays vulnerability because she put her hand on my knee and said, “Don’t worry, Erica. We’re friends.”

And you know what? I believed her.

I was saved from gushing my appreciation by the sudden appearance of Miss Enola. Everything stopped. She has that effect. In this instance, though, it wasn’t for more than a second.

“Enola!” Nicki got off the sofa and crossed the room, bending down to give Miss Enola a hug. Miss Enola clenched her eyes shut as if she were squeezing a long-lost sister and holding back a decade’s worth of tears. All right, so she was prickly, but at that moment I knew that Miss Enola really did have a heart.

I decided I might spend the night after all.

Dinner was fabulous. But what made the meal truly interesting was the conversation afterwards. Fredericks wasn’t there for that. She vanished as soon as she bused the table.

“The SEC was ready to fall on Oliver Long like a nonunion coal mine,” Nicki said. “His disappearance has seriously crimped their plans.”

“Nicki, I don’t really understand any of the ins and outs,” I said.

“Let me explain,” she said, and then she did.

So I was treated to Networking Firms 101. I won’t bore you with all the details. Suffice it to say I learned all about channel checkers and other minutiae, and what it boiled down to was that MTRG, the company Oliver Long worked for, specialized in setting up meetings between people with too much money and people with too much information, and charged a commission to do it. The idea was to educate the high rollers so they knew enough about the industries being traded and market conditions to make intelligent investments. It was all pretty complicated, but the bottom line was that Oliver Long and MTRG were suspected of using this as a front for insider trading by dealing in trade secrets under the counter. Sort of like a prostitution ring disguised as a dating service.

“It might not be the whole company,” I said. “Long may be doing it on his own and the rest are just patsies.”

“The management certainly claims they know nothing about it,” Nicki replied, “but they’re the ones setting up the deals. They are not mere naifs.” (Honest, that’s the word she used.) “They know the score. Investors want as much information as they can get, and it doesn’t get any better than trade secrets. If MTRG can deliver trade secrets disguised as networking services, they can make a lot of money, and I mean a lot of money. There’s a complex financial trail leading back to Long from his investors that doesn’t stand up well under scrutiny, and it’s hard to believe he’s acting alone. Unfortunately, we can’t ask him.”

“Because he’s done a runner to keep from going to jail.” I sighed. It looked like I wasn’t out of the bail bonds biz after all. “All right, so it’s a standard skip trace. I thought I was done chasing down felons, but I guess not. How big is the reward?”

“We are not bounty hunters, Erica,” Miss Enola said, radiating disapproval. “We aren’t looking for Oliver Long.”

“We aren’t?”

“Well, in a sense we are,” said Nicki. “We’re actually trying to find a member of Long’s crew.”

“Let me guess. We’re trying to find the guy who squealed on him to the SEC.”

“You misunderstand, Erica,” Miss Enola said. “In this case, the term crew does not refer to Mr. Long’s criminal associates. It is meant quite literally and refers to the crew of MTRG’s corporate oceangoing superyacht, which vanished at the same time as he.”

“The man whom the FIAT has been engaged to find is named Ray Zielinski, steward aboard the motor yacht Chengfeng,” Nicki said. “I’m told it’s a Johnson 103, whatever that is, worth seven and a half million, which makes its disappearance of interest to quite a few people. The boat is technically homeported in Curacao in the Dutch Antilles, but MTRG’s lease of the vessel includes a berth in Marina del Rey. We’re not interested in it for its own sake. We only want to make sure that Mr. Zielinski is alive and well.

“So you see, I am your client. My client is Ray Zielinski’s wife, Melita. She hasn’t seen him in five days and she’s worried.” She pulled an eight-by-ten photo out of the briefcase and handed it to me. It was a standard department store studio portrait of a couple dressed in their Sunday best, a pretty Filipina woman and a big-boned blond man with a flattop, gray eyes, and wide, high cheekbones. As I memorized the face, Nicki said, “According to his wife, Mr. Zielinski hated Mr. Long, but he needed the job to support their family. He’s the last person on earth to assist Long in escaping, yet both he and the yacht are gone.”

Nicki looked me straight in the eye, her manner solemn. “I think Ray Zielinski, along with the rest of the yacht’s crew, was kidnapped.”

“So the first order of business is to make inquiries at MTRG,” Miss Enola said.

I’ll say this for the Tesla. Although it will never replace Rhonda in my heart, it’s a lot of fun to drive. Cute too: an exotic low-slung red sports car that wouldn’t look out of place being driven by an Italian movie star. After supper, I got behind the wheel with Fredericks in the passenger seat and drove to my apartment. There wasn’t much there that I really needed, but enough that I loaded it up in my own car, which unlike the Tesla has enough space in it for stuff that takes more room to pack than French lingerie. I borrowed ten bucks from Fredericks to gas up Rhonda, and off we went. By the time we got back to the McKinley Building, it was late, so we both headed off to bed.

Sometime around three in the morning, I awoke to the sound of hysterical sobbing. Worried, I slipped into my faux fur-lined moccasins and padded through the maze of screens, looking for its source. It faded away just before I found Miss Enola’s room. Fredericks was there in flannel jammies sitting by Miss Enola’s bed, her hair bound in a single thick braid like something out of a storybook, holding Miss Enola’s left forearm folded at the elbow against her left shoulder. She held a thin empty syringe in her right hand. Miss Enola was breathing deeply, eyes closed.

Fredericks looked up at me. “It’s all right. I’m an RN — all part of the job. I’ve given her something to help her sleep.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to think. “What’s wrong?”

Fredericks made a tiny frown. “Not to be evasive, but even if the stipulations of my employment allowed me to disclose anything of a personal nature regarding Miss Enola, which they expressly prohibit — there’s still the matter of patient privilege.”

Should’ve seen that coming. No point in getting up in arms over it. “But she’s going to be okay?”

Fredericks gave the slightest nod of her head. “She’ll seem fine by morning. She probably won’t even remember. She’s had a stressful day.”

I watched Fredericks bend the needle against the nightstand and drop the hypodermic into a small plastic sharps container, which she deposited in a doctor’s bag on the floor.

“You should go back to bed, Erica. You’ve got a full day tomorrow. Miss Enola’s hairdresser will be here by eight.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Oh, he’ll definitely want to meet you before he sees Miss Enola.” Fredericks smiled thinly and looked down at her patient. “The gray is starting to show. A girl’s got to look her best, doesn’t she?”

I ran into him the next morning as he got off the elevator.

He was in his forties with a salt-and-pepper Caesar haircut, which I thought a little passé but what do I know, and had a face that belonged on the cover of a romance novel. He wore a muscle shirt under a black leather suit and cockroach-killer ostrich cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, his eyes darting all over my head. “I’m Wayne. May I?”

He reached out and touched my hair.

“Too much time at the beach, you naughty thing,” he said, “but by applying heroic measures, I think I can make you presentable. What’s your name again?”

“The New Girl,” I said. He looked a little confused, so I said, “Actually it’s Erica.”

Fredericks appeared by magic again and took him by the elbow. “Not too chic, Wayne. You know Miss Enola’s preferences.”

“Freds, my sweet, say no more — I am as patient as a Galapagos tortoise. And don’t worry that magnificent brain of yours about my being too flamboyant with your new helot’s pretty blonde head. Elegant restraint is my very métier. Too chic? Mais non! Just chic enough to make all those skinny weathergirls on TV sick with envy.”

“You can turn it off, Wayne. I think Erica gets the point,” Fredericks said. She looked at me and said, “He only acts this way around us. In front of Miss Enola he’s as dignified as the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Spoil my fun, Freds,” he said. “Now not a word, Erica. I have my orders. Come with me.”

He dragged me to Miss Enola’s bathroom, twice the size of mine and containing everything a hairdresser needed, including a barber chair and one of those weird sinks with a curved brim to prevent cricking your neck when you’re bent backwards over it.

“Sit!” All the fey posturing was gone.

He talked as he washed my hair, he talked as he snipped my flaxen locks, he talked as he applied highlights, and I don’t remember a word except that I learned his last name was Pelletier and he was from Baton Rouge, whereas Miss Enola was from St. Tammany Parish. I don’t think he expected me to remember any of it — he just wanted me relaxed, and that was how he made sure I was. It was like listening to your favorite voice on the radio with your eyes closed. I was in heaven as his strong fingers massaged my wet scalp, as he firmly but gently moved my head during the cut, and when he applied the stiff-bristled brush for the blow-dry with the artistry of a van Gogh daubing a canvas.

He said he’d make me presentable. Presentable? Ha. I looked dazzling. I’m not really used to being dazzling, so frankly it made me a little nervous at first, but not for long. Later, when I found out how much Wayne charged, I nearly gagged. Luckily, I wasn’t expected to pay.

I wasn’t ready to take on the Tesla by myself, so I drove Rhonda instead. Even so, I was in a funny mood when I showed up at MTRG. But that’s not why I wound up trashing the reputation of Adrian Tabi, a guy I hadn’t even met before getting into the elevator, to his really angry corporate receptionist ex-girlfriend. That was the sultry Adrian’s own fault, as far as I was concerned. Too gorgeous for his own good.

After making good my escape from Century City, I made it back just in time to wash up for lunch, yum, parmesan-crusted oat bread sandwiches with sliced avocado, red onion, alfalfa sprouts, and homemade mayonnaise.

Miss Enola looked sternly at my new ‘do but said nothing. I’d already noticed that she was pretty miserly when it came to praise, especially regarding appearance, but maybe she thought the new cut was too much. I mean, Wayne hadn’t really shown the restraint he said he would.

She avoided discussing business while we ate, just like she’d done over our dinner with Nicki, but after Fredericks cleared the table, we talked and I told her what I’d been up to. The food must have put her in a good mood because she was almost merry, if not being as brusque as a prison matron is merry.

“I hope that in the future, you won’t depend on serendipitous encounters in elevators to obtain investigative results,” she said.

“Yeah, I admit it was nothing more than dumb luck running into that guy from Lloyd’s, but as they say, audentis fortuna iuvat,” I said, exhausting my repertoire of Latin proverbs.

Miss Enola slowly blinked. I could tell I had shocked her to her innermost core.

“ ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ Virgil. Wherever did you hear that, my dear?”

“From my acting teacher at Fresno State,” I replied. “She used it to encourage us to put everything we had into our performances.”

“I believe it was Stanislavsky who observed that a whisper can be as effective as a shout. There is nothing more tedious than a ham actor.”

Whatever.

“Now tell me why you didn’t speak to anyone but the insurance man and the unfortunate nymphet.”

“Well, Adrian was there for the same reason I was. I didn’t want to tip my hand.”

She pursed her lips. “That shows an unexpected discretion, Erica. Misplaced, perhaps, but nevertheless I approve. What are your plans for the afternoon?”

I was expecting her to give me some more orders, but I guess not. “The only other place to ask about the boat is at the marina. Maybe I should head over there.”

She nodded. “Yes, I think you should. And, Erica — take the Tesla this time.”

What was she, psychic?

With a horde of butterflies trying to crawl up inside my chest from my tummy, I drove the Tesla to the Santa Monica Freeway, flew to the San Diego Freeway, headed south, and took the Marina Freeway all the way to where it terminated at Lincoln. Then I slowly cruised into Marina del Rey. I’d driven by there before, but I’d never gone in.

The marina isn’t just a place where people keep boats. It’s a self-contained neighborhood, like the Malibu Colony or Little Tokyo. Aside from all the boat slips, the place consists of exclusive multistory condos, expensive eateries, and even an upscale shopping mall. The sort of folks I wanted to talk to, though, wouldn’t be dressed in cashmere sweaters and Italian shoes. More likely they’d be in coveralls and old tennies.

What’s the last thing you do before you take off on a long road trip? You gas up the tank. If you’re really conscientious, you’ll take the old jalopy in for an oil change and check the tires too. I figured that if somebody was going to abscond in a hundred-foot yacht, they’d want to fill ‘er up first and make sure the boat was in Bristol fashion. If the good ship Chengfeng was off to some faraway destination, there was one place I could probably find out about it — Royal Landing, the only fuel dock in the marina, and which also incidentally operates the facility where the few superyachts are berthed.

Fueling was done at the very end of the pier, where a ramp led down to the floating fuel docks. A man was there pumping diesel into a big sailboat.

There are times when you want to seem something you aren’t when you interview someone, and times when you want to be straight upfront. It depends on the circumstances and who you’re talking to. One look at Marshall (last name unknown, as it was not stitched on his shirt) down on the dock below told me not to get cute. Late forties; square, muscular carriage; grizzled as only somebody who makes his living in the raw sunlight can be; economical of movement. A tough guy, but not a mean one. I sauntered down.

“Hi.”

He squinted at me. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope you can help me with some information. My name is Erica Wooding. I’m a private detective—” I flashed my license. “—working for a woman whose husband is missing, and I’m trying to find him. He was on the crew of a superyacht that was berthed around here, had a Chinese name—”

“Chengfeng. Means ‘to ride the fair wind,’ to make the most out of an opportunity. Better name for a windjammer than a motor yacht, you ask me. People usually don’t. What’s his name, this missing crewman?”

“Ray Zielinski.”

He scowled and regarded me with suspicion. “I ask because you’re not the first person come around here with questions about that boat.There were two guys in dark suits and sunglasses. I don’t know who they were and I didn’t like it.”

“I don’t know about that, and I don’t care, and it probably has nothing to do with me anyway. I heard the company that owns the boat may be having trouble with the government, but that’s not my job. Zielinski, the guy I’m looking for, is the steward on the yacht, and before his wife Melita hired us, I didn’t even know there was such a job. Frankly, I don’t care about the boat or the owners or anybody else, only him. The thing is that I heard it got underway unexpectedly, and I think he’s on it.”

He nodded. “Yep. I know Ray. Good guy, ex-Navy snipe like me. Missing, you say?”

“His wife hasn’t heard from him for several days, and says it’s not like him.”

Marshall nodded again. “He’s the reliable kind, all right. I’ve met Melita. Seems like a nice lady. Wish I could help, but I have no idea where Chengfeng was headed, or exactly what time she got underway, except that it must have been in the wee hours when nobody was around to see it. She’s been gone about three days, and she topped off the day before leaving. Cruises at nineteen knots, but if she puts a bone in her teeth she can do twenty-four. She could be anywhere within a thousand miles.”

“Anything unusual in her preparations for the trip? I mean, she didn’t just get up and leave, did she?”

“Just the usual,” he said. Then he paused. “Except for one thing, probably doesn’t help much, though. Herb Holloway, he’s the engineer, had her LM-200 tanks replenished, which seemed a little odd.”

I had no idea what an LM-200 tank was, but anything a little odd might mean a whole lot. “Did you do that for him?”

He laughed. “Hell, no. The fire suppression company did it at the factory. Anybody else screws with the system and there goes the warranty.”

“Oh, right. I don’t suppose you remember which fire suppression company?”

“Sure. Sea-Spark.”

“Maybe they can help me. Thanks, Marshall.” I walked back up the ramp, turned and waved, and Marshall waved back. Then I left.

Only I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t sure I was being followed so I got off the Marina Freeway at Centinela to make sure. I cruised up to Washington Boulevard, turned right, and they were still with me. Two guys in a huge, honkin’ maroon Dodge Ram pickup truck with no front plate — that’s illegal in California, so it wasn’t a good sign.

When I got to Culver City, I got back on the 405 and headed up to the 10. They stayed with me, and now there was no doubt.

Now what?

Then, right before I got downtown, the truck blew past me, missing me by inches, its slipstream violently buffeting my car and nearly making me lose control, then peeled off into the exit lane to the northbound Pasadena Freeway so I couldn’t follow. At first I was really pissed off, but then the post-adrenaline jitters set in. What if I’d wrecked the Tesla?

What if I’d been killed?

Miss Enola sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled and her eyes closed. I was still a little jangly. I took several deep breaths to calm myself and sat down across from her.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “Well?”

So I filled her in, word for word and event for event. She didn’t move the entire time. After I shut up, I waited.

Finally the bird-bright eyes opened, and pinned me to the spot like an insect on a card.

“Do you know what Marshall meant by calling himself a ‘snipe’?”

“I don’t know, guttersnipe? Though why anybody’d call himself that is beyond me.”

“I’d say he meant another species of snipe entirely.”

“Okay,” I said, not getting it but afraid to say so.

“About the unknown persons asking questions, the ones Marshall didn’t like. Do you think they might have been the SEC? Or perhaps federal marshals?”

“No, I don’t. Feds always identify themselves and flash their credentials when they’re investigating, unless they’re deep undercover. Undercover cops don’t get noticed at all. So whoever it was probably wasn’t official. I’m thinking they were probably the same cretins who followed me.”

“Hmm. But let’s get back to the investigation of the yacht. Is there anything else?”

I shrugged. “I’d like to know exactly when she left her slip, but I don’t see how.”

“Have you considered making an inquiry of the Coast Guard?”

Oops. I should have thought of that. They might not know anything, but on the other hand, maybe they did. A boat the size of Chengfeng isn’t exactly inconspicuous. “I guess I’d better, huh.”

“Leave that to me,” she said. “I can probably learn more with a single phone call than you can trying to ingratiate yourself with callow sailors.”

“I’m not that kind of a girl, Miss Enola.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you were.” So much for sarcasm.

I stood up to go back to my room.

“Erica.”

I turned back to face her.

“Your hair is lovely.”

I really hate that, when someone I’m irritated with says something nice. All that perfectly good self-righteous indignation wasted.

After dinner, which was risotto with butternut squash, leeks, and basil, followed by poached pears in a Pinot Grigio-cinnamon sauce for dessert, Miss Enola got down to business.

“Have you had any luck with the Sea-Spark lead, Erica?”

Uh-oh. “I’m afraid I haven’t quite gotten around to it, Miss Enola.”

“Then don’t bother. According to my sources, Sea-Spark went out of business six months ago.”

“But that means they couldn’t have replenished the tanks.”

“Quite. Furthermore, my query to the U.S. Coast Guard was not without results. At 3:36 a.m. on the morning she got underway, Chengfeng was heard to advise a southbound merchant vessel in the San Pedro Channel off Santa Monica Bay that she would turn right and pass across its stern. This suggests very strongly that the yacht was heading out into the open ocean. Rather suggestive, I think.”

Suggestive of what? But I wasn’t going to admit I wasn’t following. “But still no sign of her?”

“None. There’s nothing more we can do in that regard for the time being. Our next move, however, is glaringly self evident.”

Luckily, she didn’t keep me long in suspense.

“We must confirm that Chengfeng’s assistant engineer is a smoker.”

That was so glaringly self-evident, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself, other than the fact that it seemed completely off the wall. “Miss Enola, correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t heard anything to suggest that there even is an assistant engineer. How can you know if he exists, let alone that he smokes?”

“You gave me the data yourself, Erica, although I could be wrong. I hope I am. If not, I may have good reason to ring CUS in Little Creek, Virginia, something I’d prefer to avoid — but that will have to wait. We’ll know more presently.”

I guess I’d gotten a little used to her being cryptic, because I let that last part slide, but not the first part.

“Cus? Who’s that?”

“The United States Navy, child. Don’t forget to look into the Chengfeng’s assistant engineer’s filthy habits tomorrow. It’s important. I eagerly await whatever unconventional stratagem you devise for finding out.”

My stratagem was about as unconventional as ordering a side of fries and a Coke with a Big Mac. Marshall might know if Holloway had an assistant, so after breakfast, off I toodled to Marina del Rey again in the Tesla. There wasn’t anybody at the fueling dock this time, so I went into the Royal Landing shop, which was pretty much the maritime equivalent of the convenience store at some small interstate truck stop, except that it also sold bait.

The clerk on duty was the kind of Hollywood Peter Pan — more pretty than handsome, with the requisite three days’ stubble on his chin. If he’d been a waiter in a Melrose restaurant, I would have pegged for a struggling young actor. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a white polo shirt with a Royal Landing logo on the left breast, above which was stitched “Brent.” Sometimes I think they’re all named Brent. Or Cody.

“Hi,” I said. “Have you seen Marshall around?”

“Lucky Marshall.” He grinned, cocking his head to one side. I guess he thought that must be adorable. “He’s got the day off. But maybe I can help.”

“I was told to ask for Marshall, but all right. Do you sell cigarettes here?”

The smile faltered a little. “Sure.”

“Oh my God, not for me! Remember that big motor yacht that left four or five days ago? The Chengfeng?”

“Oh, yeah. Hard to miss.”

“Maybe you remember a guy who worked on board who came in here to buy cigarettes. The assistant engineer?”

The smile was replaced by a puzzled frown. The poor dude was trying hard to think, but I don’t think he was getting very far. “What’s this about?”

Time to pull out the charm. I applied the old giggle-and-wiggle, which is something I really hate to do, but I had to get down to this guy’s level if I was going to get anywhere.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” I said. “You’re probably going to think it’s really stupid.”

The smile came back in full force. He seemed to like stupid, oversexed girls.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, suddenly all sophistication.

I shrugged. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. About a week ago this guy hits on me and my girlfriend in the bar at Vu?” This is about the chichiest restaurant in the marina, which I certainly couldn’t afford even if I hung out in bars, but Brent wouldn’t know that. He was more your imported-beer bistro type. “He’s like getting totally hammered and he’s all, “I work on this awesome boat, wanna check it out?’ Like we’re going to leave with a guy like him. Anyway, he says he’s stepping out for a cigarette, and Becca, she’s my friend, she bets he’s a Marlboro Lights man, but I think he’s like more, pretentious? So I go, “He’s probably lighting up a Sherman’s or something.’ She says no way, and now there’s a round of Cosmos on it.”

“What if you’re both wrong?”

I giggled again. “Then I guess the bet’s off.”

“Sorry. Camels.”

I looked skeptical. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

“Clint Roland, the assistant engineer on the Chengfeng. Buys ‘em by the carton.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I shrugged. “She probably won’t believe me.”

“Tell you what. Vu’s a little out of my league, but I know a great little place in Santa Monica, no cover and they make a killer Cosmopolitan. I could meet you and Becca there and she could hear it from me.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Why don’t you give me your number? I can call and give you directions.”

The moron hadn’t even asked my name yet and already he was trying to get my phone number.

“Sure.” He gave me a blue Bic and a scratch pad and I scribbled down an alias and the number to a gay escort service I had memorized for just such an occasion.

“Jeri,” he read. “Cute name! I’m Brent.” Like I couldn’t read, but then again, most of the girls this guy hit on probably couldn’t. He grinned. “Call you tonight?”

“Kewl!” I fluttered my fingers at him in farewell and bounced out. Pinhead.

I didn’t worry too much about my humiliation after leaving, though. On my way out of the marina, I was followed again, and this time it wasn’t the humongoid truck.

Note to file: It’s just about impossible to lose a tail in Los Angeles when you’re driving an exotic sports car. The Tesla has an advertised max speed of a hundred and twenty-five mph, but try finding a clean stretch anywhere in town where you can push it past forty-five for more than five seconds. The traffic is just too congested. And the Tesla isn’t exactly what you’d call inconspicuous.

Not that it would have helped even if I’d been able to open her up because, as it turned out, my shadow could have topped one fifty. (Later I learned it was a 650i model BMW coupe. I figured I’d better learn something about makes and models if this was to become a common occurrence.) It had illegally tinted front windows, which usually means some undercover cop or gangsta at the wheel — somebody who doesn’t want to be recognized. No such thing as a legit unmarked police Beamer, not given budget shortfalls and the heart attack-inducing size of the sticker. Gangbangers got the cash, but they prefer rides that can seat more than two homies — extra firepower for when they pepper the tract homes of their rivals’ moms. So I had absolutely zero idea who it was. But this time, I had a plan.

Instead of getting off the 405 onto the 10 and heading directly back to the McKinley Building, I kept going north and exited the freeway at Sunset. Lots of twisty residential streets in the neighborhoods around there, you see. But then I had second thoughts. If I didn’t lose the rolling surveillance right away in the suburban labyrinth, he’d definitely figure out I was onto him.

So Plan B: Find a public parking structure with more than one exit. A mall would be perfect. There I’d have a couple of options. I could probably shake him or I could park the car and pretend to go shopping. Maybe he’d follow me on foot as I walked into the mall, and then I might be able to identify him. If he didn’t get out of his car, I could ditch the Tesla, take to the sidewalk and catch a bus — didn’t think he’d expect that — or I could start the whole merry chase all over again, maybe heading up into the Hollywood Hills for a spin on Mulholland.

Since I had already gotten off the San Diego Freeway, the Galleria in Sherman Oaks was out. That left Beverly Center in West Hollywood.

He kept with me past the winding rollercoaster heights of Bel-Air and the flat civilized stretch of Beverly Hills, all the way to the gaudy club-strewn Strip, discreetly keeping his distance, and followed me when I turned south on La Cienega. I still hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to do when I arrived at the mall. I drove in, keeping half an eye open for a space.

Luck was with me. By the time the BMW could follow me in, I had slipped the noose. He’d have to search all eight floors to find me. I wouldn’t be there.

I exited and headed west on Beverly Boulevard, doubling back toward Beverly Hills, then turned left on Doheny Drive and scooted down to Wilshire. From there I leisurely ambled downtown, as free and footloose as a Venice Beach sidewalk skater. I was pleased with myself: Erica H. Wooding, P.I., sexy and tough and smart, and completely at ease in a completely bitchin’ sports car. Take that, ye minions of darkness.

Wrong. By the time I got to the McKinley’s garage, he had already parked in a guest spot and was waiting for me. Different suit, same lustrous black hair and wide shoulders. He leaned his tight buns against the back of the Beamer, arms across his chest, and watched as I parked in my reserved space.

I stepped out of the car and stared at him staring at me. Finally he shifted off the car onto his feet and dropped his arms to his side.

“You could have just told me that you were a private investigator yourself instead of giving me that song and dance about coffee with a girlfriend,” he said.

“So you looked up my license with Consumer Affairs,” I said. “Maybe I should be flattered, but I don’t think so. I shouldn’t have given you my real name.”

This was met with a short, sarcastic laugh. “So you really are Erica Wooding — good to know. But it wasn’t your license I looked up, honey. It was the license plate on the Tesla — amazing what you can do with a smartphone and a good app, even in traffic. Registered to Fowler Investigations.”

“The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team,” I corrected him.

“Whatever you say. It might have occurred to you that we’re on the same side.”

“Really? I thought we were rivals.”

“What for? I’m on salary, get paid either way — and I’m ineligible for the reward, because I work for the company offering it. So I won’t stand in your way. Hell, I might even help you collect.”

“What reward?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.

“The two hundred fifty grand for finding the Chengfeng, as if you didn’t know. But even if you didn’t, you can bet your precious Miss Enola does. How else do you think she pays for that penthouse?”

Now this was a very good question, but when embarrassed I’m least likely to back down. Sexy and tough and smart? Yeah, got that covered, but only when I’m not being sticky and stubborn and stupid.

“If you think that, you don’t know Miss Enola,” I said, which of course was probably more true of me than of him. At least he’d heard of her.

He shrugged. “Forget about it. What I want to know is why you lied. And also what you said to that Aussie tart Rachel. Whatever it was, she told everybody else at MTRG and suddenly it was like I had the plague.”

“My heart bleeds. But I’ll bet you already know all about tarts,” I said, with astonishing originality and sparkling wit. “I don’t suppose you’d consider what you did to her as taking advantage.” Great. Now I was defending Rachel’s all-too-easy virtue.

“Listen, I asked Rachel out because I wanted to question her about the yacht, and the next thing I know she’s on me like a leopard on a wounded wildebeest. So yeah, maybe I should have done the noble thing and turned her down. So I didn’t call her the next day, sue me. She’s not the kind of girl you call the next day. I have more respect for myself than that.”

“Respect? Really.” I shook my head in disgusted wonderment. “That’s so, so like a guy.”

“Hey. You don’t know me at all. The biggest difference between men and women is that women think they understand men. Men know they don’t understand women.”

“Then why do you care what I told Rachel?”

“Never mind. You’re right. This is getting us nowhere. But I was serious when I said we’re on the same side, so listen up. I know who made the Chengfenggo missing.”

“What? Who?”

“Here’s a hint. There’s an eight-million-dollar insurance policy on the boat and a four-million-dollar life policy on Oliver Long. Guess who took them out?”

The life insurance policy might be for Long’s mother as far as I knew, but there was only one party I could think of that would insure the yacht. “MTRG?”

“Very good. And guess who owns MTRG.”

I knew the answer to that one, if I could remember the name. Rachel’s arrogant ratbag blobhead. No, wait, Adrian was supposed to be the ratbag, so just the blobhead. Mr. Blank Blobhead Blank... in a flash I had it. I’m not always slow and stupid. “Colin Pippinger.”

He gave me a coyote smile. “Colin. Pippinger. So do we go talk to Miss Enola?”

If we really knew who and the why (money, apparently, big surprise), the how couldn’t be far behind. I wasn’t too sure about the most important question as far as the FIAT was concerned, though, which was where. But Miss Enola had an idea about that, didn’t she? The one she was going to call the Navy about.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Be warned, though. She can get—”

“Crotchety. Yeah, I heard.”

Don’t you hate being interrupted? I pulled out my new smartphone and speed-dialed the office. Fredericks answered with a flat “FIAT” instead of saying “hello” or anything normal, but I could be terse too.

“I’m bringing in Adrian Tabi.”

“Please hold.”

A few seconds later Miss Enola picked up the line. “That will be satisfactory, Erica.”

“In short, your theory is that the boat was stolen and Oliver Long kidnapped and murdered at the behest of this man Pippinger for an insurance payoff,” Miss Enola said. “Very interesting. How do you suggest they dispose of the yacht?”

“I’ve got a theory about that too,” Adrian said. He sat in the middle chair between Fredericks and me, his left ankle on his right knee, as relaxed as a team owner lounging in a stadium luxury box. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that the SEC has evidence that MTRG may have been laundering money for a Mexican drug cartel, but that they quit that line when they started attracting attention. You don’t walk away from a deal like that without consequences. It occurs to me that Chengfeng, probably under a new name, wouldn’t get a second glance in Acapulco or Cabo San Lucas — handing it over to a drug lord would appease the cartel and make the boat fall off the radar. I’ve heard you’re well connected. I suggest you get your friends at the DEA to look into it. And have the Coast Guard look for Long’s body. It’s almost certain to wash up somewhere along the Mexican coast.”

Miss Enola treated him to a frosty smile. “I’m afraid you overestimate me.”

Fredericks’s phone chirped and she put it to her ear. “FIAT.” Pause. She lowered it to her lap and addressed Miss Enola. “The U.S. Navy on line one.”

Adrian grinned. “Really?”

“Please excuse me, Mr. Tabi,” Miss Enola said, reaching for her headset.

Adrian seemed reluctant to stand until Miss Enola raised an eyebrow at him. Then he got up, smoothed his trousers, submissively nodded, and walked out of the room.

I started to stand up myself so I could keep an eye on him, but Miss Enola motioned me back down. She shot a glance at Fredericks, who discreetly acknowledged the unspoken order and followed him. Miss Enola put the headset on and tapped the keyboard.

“Hello, Commander,” she said. “Thank you for returning my call... Yes, I have reason to believe it was caused by a massive explosion on board a large yacht... I shouldn’t think so. The yacht, or what was left of it, almost certainly would have sunk, but there’s bound to be flotsam and jetsam... Somewhere along a course between Los Angeles and Hilo... I have already confirmed that it had scheduled to be refueled there but missed the rendezvous and hasn’t been heard from since... Thank you. I look forward to it.”

She tapped the keyboard again and removed the headset.

“The Chengfeng blew up?” I asked.

“So it would appear.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is, but that isn’t all, I’m afraid.”

I’d say that usually Miss Enola has a poker face like an Easter Island monument, but this time I could actually see her expression switch tracks. She tapped the keyboard again, and Fredericks brought Adrian back in.

“You have provided me with several interesting leads, young man,” she said. “I’m grateful. Fredericks will see you out. You may rest assured that you will hear from me soon.”

“Like I said, we’re on the same side,” Adrian replied. He beamed at her and then he beamed at me and then he beamed at Fredericks and then he left.

Miss Enola gazed off into thin air for a second and then said, “I’m glad you decided to keep your own car, Erica. How did you enjoy being shadowed by Adrian Tabi?”

“About as much as a root canal.”

“How would you like to return the favor?”

Before I left, Miss Enola reminded me to get the Nikon D3X out of the Tesla’s trunk and take it with me, since she wanted pictures. That was good, because I had no idea it was even there. Now, this is a slightly better camera than the one in my smartphone, the same way that the Koh-i-Noor is a slightly better rock than a piece of gravel stuck in your shoe. It was in one of those fancy aluminum cases with a bunch of different lenses and other accessories stowed in black, shockproof foam plastic, but I was still deathly afraid of dropping it when I lifted it out.

Rhonda is not quite as conspicuous as a fire-engine-red Tesla, but even so, woodies aren’t exactly the rage these days, so I wanted to be well back when Adrian exited the parking garage in his Beamer. As it turned out, I don’t think he even bothered to check his rearview mirror. People with fast cars are often like that. It’s like anything behind them is unworthy of notice.

It would make the job a lot easier if every time you tailed somebody, he took you directly to something interesting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

Remember how I told Miss Enola that I didn’t do divorce work? This is not because of any ethical qualms on my part. There are people going through divorces who are victims and can really use the help of somebody like me. But it’s not on my menu because either it’s too exciting, or it’s too boring. First of all, by the time an unhappy couple gets to the hiring a private investigator stage, one or both of them have gone crazier than honey-bucket rats and will do deranged things with all the restraint of rabid wolverines, like destroy valuable cameras or attack private eyes’ cars with sledgehammers. But more commonly, one of them is trying to hide something from the other, usually an affair or a large sum of money squirreled away somewhere safe, and they can get very, very sly about it. The P.I. is hired to dig it up. That means hour upon hour of lethally dull surveillance, usually over several weeks, for a five-minute payoff. Pays the bills great, but majorly sedates the brain, not to mention the never-ending fun in the sleep deprivation department.

Such is direct surveillance in all its manifestations. And so it was being close on Adrian’s heels. The first day was a bust — the office, dinner and a beer at Karl Strauss in Universal City Walk, home again to a nice apartment in Los Feliz. The next day, more of the same, but dinner at the Pacific Dining Car downtown instead. So I learned he didn’t cook. Hurray.

On the third day as I waited for something to happen, by now feeling pretty confident it wouldn’t, I mentally went over what I’d learned about the case. In particular, I was trying to figure out what Miss Enola obviously knew that I didn’t.

The Chengfeng assistant engineer’s bad habits. Nothing.

The Navy. What was that about? Search and Rescue at sea is the Coast Guard’s job, so it wasn’t that. Maybe it had something to do with Ray Zielinski’s service record, but if that was the case, what did somewhere between L.A. and Hilo, Hawaii, have to do with it? Wait a minute. Adrian was a Pacific Islander, so he was probably Hawaiian himself. Was that important?

Then there he was, driving out of the lot. A little early for lunch. I put Rhonda in drive and slipped into traffic. He was headed for the Westside, maybe even the marina again. Okay, this could be interesting.

But he wasn’t going to the marina. It was a bowling alley on Venice Boulevard in Mar Vista.

A bowling alley?

I weighed the factors — Adrian Tabi, bowling alley, Adrian Tabi, bowling alley — nah. It didn’t seem right. You probably think it’s pathetic that I could get excited about a guy going into a bowling alley. But anything out of the ordinary can be significant. Adrian Tabi renting bowling shoes? This I had to see.

I parked, luckily finding a rare open meter halfway down the block from the bowling alley, and regarded myself in the vanity mirror on the visor. Wayne’s beautiful cut went into a ponytail, cascading out the back of a pink Dodgers ball cap above the adjustable sizing band. I had on a dark orange T-shirt and black jeans faded to charcoal, nothing very distinctive, so as long as I kept my distance, I hoped Adrian wouldn’t even notice me. Not much of a disguise, I admit. I needed something more.

A girl should never be without her compact, especially if she’s a private eye. I don’t wear much makeup as a rule, and then not very often, but you’d be amazed at how a deft stroke here and there can improve one’s appearance — that is, if you think being made up like a drag queen is an improvement. It’s all a matter of context: If it keeps me from being recognized, then you bet it’s an improvement. For it to work, though, it’s important to get the shades all wrong. Glittery blue eye shadow (ugh), a brown eyebrow pencil, and some red lip liner to alter the appearance of the shape of my mouth, and presto, I was set.

The final touch was posture. You have to be careful here because usually when people try to disguise the way they move, they overdo it and look false. Luckily, part of what I had learned back in my acting classes was how to pretend to be someone else. So instead of standing tall with my shoulders back and charging in like I owned the place, I slouched a little and sort of shuffled.

Adrian had only seen the confident, tasteful Erica. He might not recognize the insecure, painted Jezebel version. No way I could bring the Nikon in with me without people noticing, so I did the next best thing. I pulled out my smartphone and pretended to be texting like mad, oblivious to the world, when what I really was doing was using the camera.

I stood near the entrance and saw Adrian sitting at the snack bar with two men. They looked like they could have been bikers if they’d been dressed differently, only they were wearing blue workmen’s utilities instead of denim and leather. One was in his forties, slim and weasely with slicked-back dark hair and large teeth. The other was a huge, carroty redhead with a gut like a propane tank, his mouth covered by a bushy moustache over a long beard and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. They appeared to be not very happy with Adrian. I snapped a couple of shots and retreated.

When I got back to Rhonda, I called the office. Fredericks answered per usual and put Miss Enola on the line. I briefly told her where I was and e-mailed the photos to her.

“Erica, drop Mr. Tabi and pick up the red-haired man,” she said.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“We will know very soon. The dark-haired man is Herbert Holloway — don’t bother with him. He will be very easy to find again.”

“So who’s the redhead?”

“All I have at present is a supposition, but I suspect he is Ray Zielinski.”

“What?”

“Do not let him get away without finding out where he is going.”

“But he doesn’t look at all like Ray Zielinski.”

“Erica, did you sail into the bowling alley under your own colors?”

I figured out quickly enough what she meant: Was I in disguise. “Not exactly.”

“Well, neither did he.”

“Okay, maybe he didn’t. But if he is Ray Zielinski, then we’ve done our job. The investigation is over.”

I heard her sigh. “Erica, it is in the nature of our work that the initial objective is rarely the final objective.”

“You’re the boss. Follow the fat man. Check.”

Adrian left first. I slid down in my seat as he drove past. About five minutes later, the other two emerged and walked to a big maroon pickup truck and climbed in. Holloway was at the wheel.

They headed east toward the San Diego Freeway, turning south on Sawtelle to get to the entrance. They got off at Artesia Boulevard in Torrance and drove east again to where it transformed into the Gardena Freeway before exiting on Lakewood Boulevard. Eventually they pulled in front of a small house in Lakewood, got out of the truck, and went inside.

This time I did use the Nikon, with a telephoto lens big enough to swat baseballs with that I found in the case, and I got some great pics, including the license plate on the truck. I gave them ten minutes to get settled and then drove by to get the number on the house. When I called the office to report my progress, Miss Enola told me to come home. And then she said something else.

“Why don’t you call and invite Adrian to dinner tonight, dear? I’m preparing a lovely coconut mango yuba knot curry.”

“That was delicious, Miss Enola,” Adrian said. “I feel like a fatted calf.”

There were five of us at the table: Adrian Tabi, Veronica Cross, Fredericks, Miss Enola, and me. Miss Enola was at the head and Adrian sat to her right, next to me. Nicki was on her left and Fredericks directly across from me.

“I am so glad,” Miss Enola replied. “Thank you.Your compliment is particularly apropos. It is customary, after all, to provide a condemned man with an excellent repast before turning him over to the hangman.”

At first we thought she was making some kind of joke. Miss Enola had been gracious all through dinner, witty even, so everybody’s first reaction was puzzled smiles at the blatantly poor taste of the gag. After looking at Miss Enola’s eyes, though, our smiles slowly faded.

“Excuse me?” Adrian asked, trying to retain his composure.

“I have a confession to make,” Miss Enola said. “I asked Erica to invite you tonight so we could get to the bottom of things. Fredericks, will you kindly serve coffee?”

“Yes, Miss Enola.” Fredericks got up from her chair and went into the kitchen.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Adrian said.

“Of course you do,” Miss Enola said. “I’m talking about your murder of Oliver Long and the crew of the Chengfeng.”

Adrian started to stand. “If you have evidence of any murder, you should report it to the police.”

“Sit down, Mr. Tabi.” It had been “Adrian” all through dinner. “You are not playing this at all wisely. The smart thing to do, the thing to do if you wished to deflect suspicion from yourself, would be to stay and listen. Instead, you react with the flight response.”

He slowly sat down again. “You have made an outrageous accusation against me. I don’t put up with that kind of insult. If you were a man, I would punch your lights out.”

“Better. It’s only fair that you be given the chance to defend yourself.”

“Enola, what’s going on?” Nicki asked, her eyes wide.

“I’ve found Ray Zielinski, Veronica, or rather Erica has.” Adrian shot me a quick hostile look, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Oh, my God,” Nicki said. “He’s dead.”

“No, Veronica, he is quite alive. Unfortunately, he was one of Mr. Tabi’s confederates in the commission of the crime.”

“Never heard of him,” Adrian said.

“Don’t be absurd. Mr. Tabi, I give you leave to object to any of my conclusions, but please do not think that you can convince me of anything by bluster or equivocation. Let me tell you what I know, and how I know it, and then you can say whatever you like to refute it.”

“This is all crap. Oh, all right, go ahead.”

“This matter all began with Oliver Long’s illegal amassment of an immense personal fortune. He was under investigation by the SEC for insider trading. We may accept his guilt as fact because it was to escape arrest that he fled from the country in the superyacht. In this, all parties are in agreement. But we must ask ourselves why he chose such an unorthodox avenue of escape. Wouldn’t it have been simpler and faster to get a flight out of the country?”

“Not if he were on a watch list,” I said.

“Exactly, Erica. The Chengfeng is under Dutch registry. The Netherlands take the strictest view of any nation on earth concerning the territorial sovereignty of vessels under their flag. Unfettered by the security constraints at an airport, Chengfeng’s departure from the United States was simply a matter of weighing anchor and leaving. And she was capable of traveling several thousand miles before needing to refuel. What could be better?

“But where would Long go? His first priority would be a safe haven. His second would be the money. At first blush, one would suspect somewhere in the Caribbean or Atlantic — the Caymans or the Bahamas. That would mean going through the Panama Canal, though, where he could be stopped. Besides, Oliver Long was a man of the Pacific Rim, being Chinese.”

“Chinese? Not American?” I asked.

“He had an American education, Erica, but he himself was from Hong Kong. The surname Long is a common Chinese one, meaning “dragon,’ and he had even given the yacht a traditional Chinese name.”

I mentally kicked myself. I had been so busy looking for the boat that I forgot to take a good look at the man.

“Offshore banking is a burgeoning industry in the Pacific,” Miss Enola continued. “Hong Kong has a thriving international banking trade, as does nearby Macao. Several Pacific Island nations have established offshore banking facilities. So on balance, a better option was to head west. This conjecture is supported by the discovery that Chengfeng crossed the San Pedro Channel on her departure instead of entering its southbound lane, as she would have done had she been headed for the canal. The only way her actual course made sense is if she were transiting the open ocean.”

“But even the Chengfeng couldn’t hope to cross the whole Pacific Ocean on a single tank,” I said.

“Of course not. Long must refuel somewhere, but this was simple because the only place within reach is Hawaii.”

“But wouldn’t he be taking a big risk by refueling in the U.S.?” Nicki asked “He could be arrested.”

“A small risk, rather. If he remained on board and if the yacht refueled at anchor from a barge instead of pierside, most people would never know he’d been there. So I subcontracted an agency in Honolulu to check for any superyachts contracted to be refueled by barge in any Hawaiian ports within the time that Chengfeng might be expected to arrive. As it turned out, such an engagement was made for the port of Hilo on the Big Island. After learning that, the next thing I needed to know was if the yacht would make the rendezvous. I had a strong feeling that it would not.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You provided the necessary data yourself, Erica. You found out that the LM-200 fire suppression tanks had been replenished.” She pointed to the ceiling at one of the sprinkler heads. “Do you see those nozzles? You would be correct in assuming that they are there to combat a fire should one erupt, but you would be wholly incorrect to assume that they spray water. In fact, they are part of an LM-200 fire suppression system. LM-200 is a suppression agent stored as a liquid but discharged as a gas, designed to immediately extinguish flames without causing water damage. It is the preferred agent for many applications, such as vaults containing precious art, and for ships’ engine compartments.

“The Chengfeng’s LM-200 tanks were replenished, most likely replaced. Why?”

“The stuff must have been past its sell-by date,” Adrian said, smirking.

“Nonsense. It is entirely stable and does not require replacement at any interval unless it is used. The only reason for changing the tanks would be to prevent the system from putting out a fire. But that is a rather baroque method for disabling the suppression system, since it could have been done by any number of less detectable means, and makes little sense — unless whatever substance replacing the agent was itself designed to actually exacerbate the problem.”

She looked up at the sprinkler heads again. “I told you that LM-200 was discharged as a gas. There are other agents that are discharged as a fine spray, like gasoline through a fuel injector in an internal combustion engine. What if the LM-200 were replaced by something as volatile as gasoline?”

“Uh-oh. It would turn the whole engine room into one big bomb,” I said. “It would still need something to spark it, though.”

“Precisely. Something like a cigarette, my dear,” Miss Enola said. “The tanks were replaced by Herbert Holloway, the engineer, who could be safely numbered among the conspirators. He would have a plan, something simple. What if he knew his assistant would provide the spark himself?”

“So you asked me to find out if the assistant engineer was a smoker.”

“Correct.”

“That’s crazy,” Adrian said. “You decide the ship exploded because you guessed somebody liked to smoke? How could you know he’d light up? How would you get the system to discharge even if he did? It only goes off if there’s an actual fire.”

“There are any number of means of forcing it to discharge, Mr. Tabi. Such systems have manual releases — one of them could have been tampered with. I’m sure you came up with an elegant solution. An infrared sensor designed to trip the system at the flick of a lighter would be very simple to install.”

“Then why didn’t the Chengfeng blow up in Santa Monica Bay, the first time the guy lit up?”

“Because the sensor wasn’t activated. It would be configured to some other device, perhaps a timer, to make sure that the explosion occurred far away from likely observation. Personally, I like the idea of it being activated by GPS when Chengfeng would be safely in the middle of the ocean.”

“More unsupported guesswork.”

“Nevertheless, let us accept it as an hypothesis. If true, then Holloway would have needed help setting it up. Hence my reference to him as a conspirator, since he couldn’t have accomplished it on his own. I would guess, for example, that the nozzles required replacing to effectively distribute the aerated gasoline or whatever replaced the LM-200. A time-consuming task. Obviously, he couldn’t enlist Clint Roland, the assistant engineer, who was intended to be a victim. So to whom else might he turn? Again, Erica provided the answer.”

“I did?”

“Do you remember what Marshall said about Ray Zielinski? “Good guy, ex-Navy snipe like me.’ Snipe, Erica, is Navy slang for engineer. Who else better to assist Holloway in his crime?

“This also explained a discrepancy regarding Zielinski’s disappearance. Melita told Victoria that her husband had been missing for five days, but Marshall informed Erica that the yacht had been gone for only three. So either his disappearance wasn’t related to the yacht at all, or it was more complex than his simply having been on board when she got underway. If he was Holloway’s helper, the last thing he would want was to be aboard when it went to sea, and that meant he would have to be unreachable before the yacht got underway.

“I suspect what he wanted, aside from money, was to get out of his marriage. His wife is a Filipina, and traditional Filipinos have strong family ties. When a man marries into such a family, he is not taking his bride away from her parents. In effect, he is marrying not only her, but also her parents, and her brothers and sisters, and even her cousins — he is expected to provide what he can to the entire clan.”

“So he deserted her. That son of a bitch,” Nicki said.

“Where’s your evidence?” Adrian asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Tabi, we are coming to that. The test of an hypothesis is made by observing if its predicted results occur. If the boat were to blow up, the hypothesis would be validated.”

“But nobody would know about it if it happened in the middle of the ocean, because there wouldn’t be anybody around to see it. The fact that the yacht never made it to Hawaii doesn’t prove anything.”

“Nobody would see it. But that doesn’t mean that somebody wouldn’t hear it.”

“That makes even less sense.”

“Only because I presume you are unfamiliar with the Integrated Undersea Surveillance System, the U.S. Navy’s worldwide network for tracking hostile submarines. Its primary component is acoustic. If there is an explosion at sea, especially anywhere close enough to our coastline to be a possible strategic threat, the Navy is virtually certain to know about it.”

“Sounds like science fiction. Anyway, that sort of thing is so highly classified that they wouldn’t tell you squat, even if they did know about it.”

“You show a lack of understanding as to the nature of intelligence apparatuses, Mr. Tabi. They collect information, so the way to deal with them is to offer information. I accordingly contacted CUS, the office of Commander, Undersea Surveillance, and told them I could explain the mysterious explosion they detected in the middle of the Eastern Pacific. If I were wrong, they would ignore me and write me off as a crackpot. But if I were right, then I was in possession of data they needed, and I would certainly hear from them right away.

“As I did. You yourself were present when I received the call. By the way, via aerial surveillance, they have subsequently found exactly where Chengfeng sank. You destroyed the vessel, but you could do nothing about the fragments of the wreck floating on the surface. The weather has been particularly fine in the Eastern Pacific lately, and it was all still there.”

He clenched his jaws. “All right. Maybe you’re right about the Chengfeng. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Then why has almost everything you’ve told us about the case been a lie? For example, you let Erica believe that MTRG was the beneficiary of the insurance policy on the yacht. The yacht was leased, Mr. Tabi, as you must have known. The beneficiary of the policy would be the owner, not the lessee. And perhaps you might explain why you followed Erica home from Marina del Rey when she was performing a follow-up to our investigation.”

“Easy. I was there following up the matter myself, and I saw her go into the store. I knew as soon as I saw her that our meeting at MTRG hadn’t been a coincidence. I needed to find out who she was, so I followed her. It’s what any competent P.I. would do.”

Miss Enola shook her head. “You were not there conducting a follow-up. You never investigated the yacht’s disappearance in the first place because you already knew what had happened to her. In fact, you directed attention away from what had happened to the yacht, as you were in a perfect position to do as the investigator assigned by Lloyd’s America. Erica, do you remember what Marshall told you about someone asking about the yacht before you did?”

“Yeah. He said somebody else had been asking around, and he didn’t like it. I knew it wasn’t the SEC because federal officers always identify themselves.” I looked at Adrian. “I thought it was the guys in the pickup truck.”

“What pickup truck?” Adrian asked.

“The one that attempted to intimidate Erica after her first visit to the marina, Mr. Tabi, which we’ve since established belongs to Herbert Holloway. He and Zielinski were staking out the marina after you learned questions had been asked. Somehow, Zielinski and Holloway recognized Erica as a threat. How could that be, unless you were there, too? You saw her, and as you say, realized that your encounter at MTRG was no coincidence. It must have shaken you badly, so you sent them after her to scare her off. But they weren’t the men who interrogated Marshall. Marshall knew both Zielinski and Holloway, so whoever asked him about the Chengfeng had to have been someone else.”

“All right. Who?”

“Who else had an interest? Whose money was missing? MTRG’s. We know firsthand that Colin Pippinger, the head of MTRG, was inimical to your presence. He must have been conducting his own inquiry. At first, you thought their inquiries had yielded nothing, but to be certain, you and your accomplices kept watch at the marina in case they returned. Instead, Erica showed up. Now you had to worry about her too. So to see if your scare tactic had worked, you waited to see if she would come back. It must have been an unpleasant shock when she did. You accordingly forced a meeting with us to promulgate misinformation.”

This time, Adrian just stared at her.

“Now let’s examine the matter of the offshore bank where Long stashed the money. After Hawaii, his only logical destination could be Tahiti; first, because other than North America, it is the only place within Chengfeng’s reach after refueling, and secondly because it is in French Polynesia, and France has no extradition treaty with the United States. He would be completely safe there. This suggested to me that his bank might not be in China, but somewhere closer to Tahiti.

“Many Pacific Island nations now have offshore banking industries. Among them, Vanuatu is less than three thousand miles from Tahiti. Not close, but close enough, comparable to the distance between Los Angeles and New York — a five-hour flight. Unlike France, though, Vanuatu does have an extradition treaty with the U.S. If that’s where Long put his money, he would need someone else to retrieve it for him, a hidden partner who could travel there and back without arousing suspicion.

“Is it a coincidence, then, that “Tabi’ is a male Vanuatan surname?”

Adrian shook his head. “This is unbelievable.”

“Is it? The destruction of Chengfeng would only be possible if the murderers knew her exact itinerary. And who would have known about it except for Long’s partner? You decided to cut Long out of the picture and keep the money for yourself. Holloway and Zielinski would take much smaller slices of the pie than Long.”

“Except that I don’t know any Holloway or Zielinski.”

“Drivel. You met them at a bowling alley in Mar Vista this very morning. Erica took your picture.”

Adrian visibly started at this, giving me another venomous glance.

“So you see, I’m afraid we have you.”

He did stand then. He stared down at little Miss Enola and shook his head. “You have absolutely nothing, Miss Enola. No concrete evidence whatsoever tying me to anything. So I know Holloway, and maybe you have him, but that’s not nearly enough. I can say that I met him in the pursuit of my investigation. Take this paper-thin story to the cops, and you’ll be laughed out of the station.”

Miss Enola then laughed herself. She had such a little voice that you’d think her laugh would be a twitter, but it was full and rich. “Cops? How quaint. I have no intention of taking this to the police, young man. No, the person I informed is the man who so desperately wanted to know about it: Colin Pippinger. He believed every word of it.”

She looked at him with something akin to pity. “Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. I think he may react unpleasantly. Even violently.”

Adrian rapidly reached behind his back a pulled out a SIG Sauer P229 chambered in.40 caliber S&W. (I might not know a lot about cars, but I got guns covered.) He pointed it at her and then swiveled it toward Nicki and me. “Nobody move and nobody will get hurt. I’m leaving. Now.”

He slowly backed away, then turned and ran to the elevator. The car was already at the top, so all he had to do was open the doors and push the down button. As soon as we heard the doors close, Nicki and I rushed into the vestibule, followed closely by Miss Enola, whose wheels were not as fast as our feet.

Fredericks was already there, standing by the doors. She opened the panel above the call button and flipped a switch inside. The descending elevator’s noise abruptly ceased.

“He should be stuck about a third of the way down, Miss Enola,” she said. “As soon as the authorities get here, I’ll turn the power back on and they can meet him at the bottom.”

“I presume you got everything said and done in the dining room on video,” Miss Enola said.

“In living high definition. He looked right into the hidden camera without even realizing it.”

“What a fool he is,” Miss Enola said, shaking her head, “believing I would have dealings with a man the likes of Pippinger. Men are such children.”

“Wait a minute. Hidden camera?” I asked. “In the dining room? Where else have you got hidden cameras?”

“Everywhere, dear,” said Miss Enola, “including the garage. How did you think I knew you had ridden the bus to our first meeting?”

“When were you going to tell me?” By now I was turning red. “Everywhere? Even in my bedroom?”

“Only when you aren’t using it.” She turned to Nicki. “I should have anticipated the pistol, though heaven knows why he thought he’d need it. Veronica, I trust that you will see to it that the proceeds from the reward will go to Melita Zielinski, less our expenses and fees.”

Finally, she turned back to me.

“Your conduct of the investigation could have been much better, Erica, but as the results are more or less satisfactory, no more need be said.”

More or less satisfactory? I bit my tongue.

She sighed. “Now I think I’ll go lie down.”

Let the old biddy go to bed. That way I wouldn’t have to look at her.

That night, I heard the sobbing again. I pulled my pillow over my ears and tried to go back to sleep, and eventually I dropped off again.

The next morning, when I showed up for breakfast, Fredericks was already at the table with a big pot of black coffee. Without a word, I poured myself a cup and sat down. Fredericks looked like she hadn’t had a very good night. Tough.

Her face tensed up as she struggled with a decision. Then she started to talk.

“Let me tell you a story, Erica. Once upon a time, there was a notorious private security firm that was contracted by the federal government to perform their particular services in a foreign nation invaded and occupied by U.S. forces. Most of the employees were big tough men, essentially mercenaries, former Special Forces warriors reeking of testosterone, gunpowder, and sweat, who thought more of themselves than of the military that had trained them. I make no excuses for them, but given how stretched national resources were at the time, their employment was appropriate in the face of what was a fanatical and violent insurgency. One of the company’s employees, however, was a woman.”

“Let me guess.”

“Her duties were more specialized. Her job was to collect and analyze data in order to predict and counter terrorist activity; in other words, she was an intelligence analyst.”

“What a great job.”

“Her résumé was most impressive, but her previous employer and she had parted on somewhat acrimonious terms. Nevertheless, she felt it her duty to serve, even if in a purely civilian capacity, and so accepted a position with the firm.

“One day, she deduced from a variety of disparate sources that a moderately large attack was imminent on an American diplomatic convoy. When she provided her superiors with her conclusions, her warning was haughtily dismissed as unsubstantiated and improbable, given the extensive security measures already in place. To aggravate matters, she was ordered to provide a canned intelligence summary on behalf of the security company to a senior diplomatic official during the convoy’s transit. When she refused on the grounds that such an order would directly place her in harm’s way and was therefore contrary to her contractually noncombatant status, she was ordered, I might mention at her own insistence in writing, to present the briefing, or else be summarily dismissed for insubordination.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Then try. To get to the point, it was quite typical of her extraordinary foresight: Her prediction turned out to be entirely accurate. The vehicle she was in was bombed. Sixteen civilian bystanders and four Americans died, including the senior diplomat. In the ensuing melee, eight insurgents and twenty-three more civilians, including three children, were killed by the return fire of the private security forces. The consequences were disastrous on every level. She survived, but not without sustaining a debilitating spinal injury. She considered herself fortunate to be alive, and was very angry at all the death and damage.”

Suddenly I didn’t feel like I’d been treated so badly.

“Notwithstanding her extreme disillusion, her resolve remained undaunted, her inner fire unquenched. She sued her employer and received a substantial, some might say exorbitant, settlement, enough to set herself up in luxury for life. But she vowed that she would never again be the victim of an arrogant and incompetent authority, nor would she suffer others to be such victims, if it was in her power to counter it. She accordingly set herself up as an independent intelligence analyst, and chose to dedicate her singular gifts to those in need, to protect them against the violent, the callous, and the officious. Because such a service is not valueless, she modeled it after a commercial detective agency, charging her clients according to their ability to pay.”

“And that’s how the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team began?”

“It’s just a story, Erica. I have mentioned no names. You won’t find it recorded anywhere, at least not as I have told it.”

She waited a beat and then continued. “She was once young and impetuous too. She’s wiser now.”

I slowly took a sip of coffee. “Where is she now?”

“In the hothouse, attending to the antheriums. She is not to be disturbed when she’s gardening, except by her express orders.”

“Okay. I guess I can wait.”

I gazed out the window at the bright summer sky behind the gleaming skyscrapers. I had a job, I had a great place to stay, maybe I even had a future. All in all, things could be worse.

It looked like it was going to be a good day.

Copyright © 2012 Jolie McLarren Swann