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you talked to Zimmy?” she asked.
    “Maybe a year and a half ago,” I said.
    “Did he say anything about his royalties?”
    A sour gorge of disappointment rose in my throat. She was angling for something after all. My heart snapped shut.
    “Zimmy and I never talked about that kind of thing,” I said, my voice cool. I glanced at the house. “Listen, I need to get back to work. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
    “I think something bad may be going on. I need to warn Zimmy. I want to make sure he stays safe. I still care about him.”
    I didn’t believe a word of it.
    “Tenzing, do you have a phone number for him?”
    “I’m sorry, but I haven’t talked to Zimmy for almost two years. The last number I had is from rehab days. All I know is he lives on a pear farm, like I said. With his new family.”
    She finally caught the change in tone. She looked at me curiously, but said nothing.
    “Sorry. I can’t help you,” I said. “Have you tried his old record label?”
    Her eyes flashed with anger. “That’s part of the problem,” she muttered, crossing her arms protectively. She didn’t elaborate.
    I said nothing.
    Then her whole body sagged, as if the past 24 hours had finally caught up to her. Forlorn, is how she looked. Forlorn, and far away. I tried to summon up some compassion for her, but I had nothing tangible to offer—I was feeling kind of forlorn myself. Empty, and not in the good Buddhist sense of open and spacious, but devoid of feeling. So I told myself she’d figure it out on her own.
    She straightened up and met my eyes. “Thanks for your time. Listen, the starter on the car is shot. Can you help me give it a shove down the hill?”
    I got Mike. With Barbara at the wheel, we leaned our shoulders into it and soon the Beetle was out the gravel driveway and rolling downhill. Barbara popped the clutch, and the engine clattered to life. Her hand fluttered one small wave out the window of the battered old car. Mike and I watched her chuff away, until she disappeared.
    “What was that about?” he said.
    “Nothing. She’s looking to get rich off her ex—my former landlord Zimmy Backus. I’d love to call Zimmy and warn him, but I have no idea where he is anymore.”
    We walked inside.
    “So here’s the deal,” Mike said. He pulled out his phone and his fingers started dancing. Postage-stamp-sized web pages swelled and shrank until he found the one he wanted. “Setting up a home office that actually functions will cost you at least three grand in new equipment. But you also have at least three cell-phone upgrades coming to you, so I’ll start working on that right away. Meanwhile, you’re going to have to do your gumshoe footwork the hard way. By foot.”
    “Or I can call you.”
    “Or you can call me.” Mike mounted his electronic pedal-bike, a flamingo perched on a two-wheeler. Got to love the guy.
    “Mike?”
    He turned.
    “Thanks.”
    “ No problema . Hey, you want me to find this Backus dude’s whereabouts? I do love me a challenge.”
    “Be my guest,” I said.
    I walked back in the house and fixed myself a pot of green tea. I sat on the deck and sipped. The day darkened into night. Barbara Maxey, she of the blond braid, callused hands, and wide sunflower smile, floated up. I dismissed her. Nothing auspicious about it. Just another ship, passing in the night.
    When I’m wrong, I am so wrong.

C HAPTER 5
    “No way,” I said into the phone.
    “Come on, Ten. Just a nice, relaxed dinner with the family.”
    “I know Martha almost as well as you do, Bill. There is no such thing as relaxed where I’m involved. Who’s she got lined up this time?”
    Bill said nothing. I returned the favor. When it comes to playing silent chicken, I have much more patience.
    I didn’t have long to wait.
    “Fine,” Bill snapped. “Her younger sister Julie’s in town. Half-sister, technically. She’s an amazing cook, Tenzing. The real deal. A professional chef. Good-looking,