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clients whom Mariene was supposed to be interviewing about the water project. They confirmed that, yes, she had been present for the initial briefing. She never came back for the follow-up session. She had left no contact information. They were mystified.
    Two days later, Callie contacted both the Batavia and Buffalo police departments, asked if they had any female bodies turn up in the morgue, and gave them Mariene’s description, including the spider tattoo. Did she want to file a missing person’s report? they asked. Not yet, she told them.
    Three days after Mariene Kunstler had gone missing, Callie called the bank that had issued her company credit cards, asking about recent activity. They reported nothing since she checked out of the hotel in Batavia. Callie told them to cancel all the cards and send the final statements to Praxis Engineering & Construction. She made the same call to the service that handled Mariene’s smartphone, which reported no activity either by cellular network or internet connection since Callie’s own calls. The device had disappeared from the network somewhere on the concourse at Kennedy International in New York City. Callie canceled the service and requested the final billing be sent to her company.
    Then she called in Antigone and discussed how they should present their findings to the Los Angeles Police Department and District Attorney’s office. Wells suggested that both she and John should make depositions in the case. They could discuss their suspicions there. Their company had already formally withdrawn from the Long Beach Freeway project, so they could act as disinterested parties.
    “Do you think we can get Dad’s house back?” she asked Antigone.
    The older woman whistled. “You mean, extract the payment from this Willbrot person and buy back into the performance bond, as if nothing has happened?”
    “Well … whatever …”
    “Callie, the money’s gone—or tied up in court for a couple of years of trial and appeal, which is the same thing as gone. The house has been legally sold and the new buyer wants to occupy. We’ll have to go long just to square things with the opera association. Not to mention keeping you and John out of jail as Kunstler’s knowing accomplices.” Wells shook her head. “Count your blessings at this point.”
    Still, the attorney looked troubled.
    “What is it?” Callie asked sharply.
    “Dealings this complicated don’t tend to happen just once. So I hired a confidential investigator we’ve used in the past for background checks and other business. I asked him to backtrack Mariene’s projects and her personal contacts, her old expense reports, her bank accounts—”
    “Bank accounts? How could he get into—”
    Wells looked at her levelly. “You don’t want to know. In any case, he’s come up with a number of peripheral contacts, unexplained trips and expenses, and large sums of money transmitted and received. He says he’s ready to put together the outline of a whole secondary business that Kunstler was apparently running—hints of blackmail, extortion, kickbacks—in and around the projects she was getting for us.”
    Callie wondered what a search of her own bank records and private contacts would reveal of her dealings with Uncle Matteo. She was thankful she did not have Antigone Wells as an enemy.
    “So,” Wells pressed, “do you want my investigator to document any of this?”
    “What? Create more evidence Dad and I would have to testify about?”
    “Something like that. If you want to have the big picture—”
    “Let’s wait until we get through the Willbrot thing.”
    “All right. Then I’ll tell him to hold off.”
    On the fourth day after Mariene Kunstler disappeared, late in the evening and from her home phone, Callie Praxis contacted Uncle Matteo. As soon as the pleasantries about health and family could be dispensed with, she asked him directly, “Where is she?”
    “Whom do you mean?” he asked