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asked.
    “Nepal.”
    “Pardon? You said—”
    “Yep. Last I heard, he was in Kathmandu. Sort of a backwater burg, but it can be tough if you ain’t got your wits about you.”
    Sam asked, “Who else knows about this?”
    “A handful of folk.”
    “Frank’s wife?”
    King shook his head, took a sip of whiskey. He screwed up his face. “Zee!”
    Zhilan was at his side five seconds later. “Yes, Mr. King?”
    He handed her the tumbler. “Ice is meltin’ too fast. Get rid of it.”
    “Yes, Mr. King.”
    And then she was gone again.
    Scowling, King watched her walk away, then turned back to the Fargos. “Sorry, you were sayin’?”
    “Have you told Frank’s wife?”
    “Didn’t know he had one. He didn’t give me emergency contact info. Besides, why worry her? For all I know, Alton’s taken up with some Oriental woman and is gallivantin’ around down there on my dime.”
    “Frank Alton wouldn’t do that,” Remi said.
    “Maybe, maybe not.”
    “Have you contacted the Nepalese government?” asked Sam. “Or the American embassy in Kathmandu?”
    King gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Backward, all of ’em. And corrupt—the locals, that is. As for the embassy idea, I considered it, but I ain’t got the months it would take for them to get their butts in gear. I’ve got my own people on the ground there workin’ on another project, but they ain’t got the time to spend on this. And, like I said, you two have got a reputation for findin’ what other folks can’t.”
    Sam said, “First of all, Charlie, people aren’t things. Second, hunting for missing persons isn’t our specialty.” King opened his mouth to speak, but Sam raised his hand and went on: “That said, Frank’s a good friend, so of course we’ll go.”
    “Fantastic!” King slapped his knee. “Let’s talk nuts and bolts: how much is this gonna cost me?”
    Sam grinned. “We’re going to assume you’re kidding.”
    “About money? Never.”
    “Because he’s a good friend, we’ll foot the bill,” Remi said with a little edge to her voice. “We’ll need all the information you can give us.”
    “Zee’s already put together a file. She’ll give it to you on the way out.”
    “Give us the condensed version,” Sam said.
    “It’s a bit of a wheels-within-wheels situation,” King said. “I hired Alton to hunt down someone who’d disappeared in the same region.”
    “Who?”
    “My dad. When he first disappeared, I sent a string of folks out to look for him, but nothin’ came of it. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth. When this latest sighting came up, I beat the bushes for the best private eye I could find. Alton came highly recommended.”
    “You said ‘latest sighting,’” Remi observed. “What does that mean?”
    “Since my dad disappeared, there’ve been rumors of him popping up from time to time: a dozen or so times in the seventies, four times in the eighties—”
    Sam interrupted. “Charlie, exactly how long has your father been missing?”
    “Thirty-eight years. He disappeared in 1973.”
     
     
    Lewis “Bully” King, Charles explained, was something of an Indiana Jones type, but long before the movies came out: an archaeologist who spent eleven months out of the year in the field; a globe-trotting academic who’d visited more countries than most people knew existed. What exactly his father was doing when he disappeared, Charles King didn’t know.
    “Who was he affiliated with?” Remi asked.
    “Not sure what you mean.”
    “Did he work for a university or museum? Perhaps a foundation?”
    “Nope. He was a square peg, my pop. Didn’t go for all that stuff.”
    “How did he fund his expeditions?”
    King offered them an aw-shucks smile. “He had a generous and gullible donor. To be fair, though, he never asked for much: five thousand here and there. Workin’ alone, he didn’t have much overhead, and he knew how to live cheap. Most of the places he traveled, you could live