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folder that he had closed as the hostess approached the table.
    When in Rome… Brandon thought. “Sure,” he said, taking the indicated chair. “Campari and soda will be fine.”
    Brandon wasted no time. He waited only as long as it took the hostess to go confer with a member of the wait-staff. If this was something he wanted no part of, it would be easier to leave after accepting a single drink than it would be after an entire lunch.
    “What’s this all about, Mr. Ames?” he demanded.
    The man handed over a business card that said “Ralph Ames, Attorney at Law.” The card listed two separate office addresses, one in Seattle and one in Scottsdale. So not a televangelist then but an attorney, which in Brandon Walker’s opinion, was probably worse.
    “Do you ever play Powerball?” Ralph Ames asked.
    “You mean as in the multistate lottery?”
    “Yes, that’s correct.”
    A waiter arrived with Brandon’s Campari. He dropped off the drink and backed away, while a courteous busboy delivered a basket of fresh bread.
    Brandon sipped his drink and considered his answer. “I spent too many years being a cop to be into legalized gambling. I know a few Indian tribes are making a killing at it. The income is helping change economic outlooks on some of the reservations, but no, lotteries aren’t for me.”
    Ralph Ames smiled. “Nor for me,” he agreed. “But one of my clients was—in a big way. Her name was Hedda Brinker. She was German. Her husband, Toby, was Dutch, both of them Jews. They managed to escape Europe just ahead of the Nazis. They met on the boat coming over and married within weeks of arriving in New York. They came to Arizona and bought a dairy farm in what’s now pretty much downtown Scottsdale. Toby’s been gone for years, but he was cagey. He hung on to the land long enough to make money hand over fist in real estate.”
    “The widow had all the money she needed, but she still played Lotto?” Brandon asked.
    “That’s right. You may have read about her in the papers. She hit it big—a $178 million jackpot—and hers was the only winning ticket.”
    Their waiter made a tentative approach. Ralph Ames waved him away.
    “So the lady was loaded twice over. What does this have to do with me?” Brandon asked.
    “I’m coming to that. Hedda and Toby Brinker had a single daughter—an only child named Ursula—who was born in 1938. Ursula was bright, outgoing, and popular. She was a cheerleader, student-body treasurer, and valedictorian of her class. She was murdered by person or persons unknown during spring break of her junior year at Arizona State University in Tempe.”
    Brandon shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Having money isn’t everything.” He paused and then asked, “The case was never solved?”
    Ralph Ames shook his head. “Never. It’s still open even now.”
    “That’s too bad.”
    “According to Hedda, Toby always believed that whoever did it was well connected—better connected than they were—and that the reason the killer was never caught was due to some kind of cover-up, but even the private investigators Toby hired—and he hired several—were never able to come up with an answer or even with a viable suspect. And they didn’t find any evidence of a cover-up, either.”
    “If the father’s own investigators couldn’t solve it, you sure as hell don’t expect me to do it more than forty years later,” Brandon put in. “If that’s what you’re after, it’s wishful thinking.”
    “Not you personally,” Ralph Ames agreed, “but it’s possible the case will be solved eventually. Stranger things have happened. But to get back on track—as you can well imagine, Ursula’s death haunted Toby. According to Hedda, he never got over it. The Brinkers were my father’s clients. When Dad retired, they came to me. After Toby’s death, and since they had no living heirs, Hedda talked to me several times about the Vidocq