I sighed. "Now what do I do?"

He leaned against my wall. "What do you want to do?"

"Since when has that mattered?"

"It's always mattered. It doesn't mean you'll get what you want, but what you want always matters. That's what defines you."

"I want my life back."

"Your life or wife?"

"They're the same thing."

"No, they're not," he said, frowning. "What do you want for your life that's within the realm of possibility?"

"I want to figure out my feelings. I need to talk to Falene. But I don't even know where she is."

"Someone knows where she is."

"That's not helpful," I said.

My father thought a moment, then said, "I have a client who's a private investigator. A few years ago he fell on hard times, and I did his taxes for free. He keeps saying, 'Let me do something for you.' That's his expertise, hunting down people-child support dodgers, bail jumpers, corporate embezzlers. He's darn good, too. I bet he could find Falene."

"What's your friend's name?"

"Carroll Albo."

"Let's give him a call."That afternoon I spoke with my father's friend Carroll. He didn't sound like I expected him to, though, admittedly, my perception of private investigators was largely shaped by Columbo and Magnum, P.I. reruns. This man sounded squeaky and timid, more fit for accounting than man-hunting and intrigue.

I told him everything I knew about Falene, which wasn't especially helpful. Her past had little to help us in the present.

"You say she got a job with a modeling agency in New York?"

"Yes."

"There's probably a couple hundred of them. At least. We could start looking. What about friends or family? Old boyfriends?"

"Her old boyfriends were all bad news, so she wouldn't have told any of them where she was going. She didn't really have any girlfriends that she hung out with."

"Family?"

"She has an aunt. I've never met her, but she owns a furniture consignment store."

"Do you know her name?"

"No, but I know the store. It's called the Fifth Avenue Consigner. It's in Seattle."

He paused as he wrote it down. "Anyone else?"

"She has a brother. But he's MIA. She doesn't even know where he is."

"Why is that?"

"He was in a gang and messed up with drugs."

"That's not a bad thing," Carroll said. "I mean, it's horrible for him, but for our purposes, it's not bad. What's his name?"

"Deron Angelis."

"Spell it."

"D-e-r-o-n A-n-g-e-l-i-s."

"Got it. Do you know where he spends his time? What city?"

"He used to live with Falene."

"In Seattle?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back with you as soon as I have something."Carroll called just three days later. Truthfully, I hadn't expected to hear from him so soon. A part of me didn't expect to hear from him at all.

"Her aunt's name is Chloe Adamson," Carroll said. "But she doesn't know where Falene is. Or if she does, she's not telling. But I found her brother. Deron Angelis, twenty-three years old, born January 20, 1989, in San Joaquin County."

"How did you find him?"

"Hunting drug addicts and gang members isn't hard. Eventually they end up in one of three places: hospital, jail or the morgue."

"Which one was it?"

"He's in the King County jail."

"King County?"

"In Seattle. He was caught in possession of meth and was sentenced to prison for several years, but had the sentence suspended. He has to serve a county jail sentence for six months, then when he's released, he'll be on probation for a couple of years."

"I can see him there?"

"Visiting hours are determined by inmate location. I checked on it for you. He's a.s.signed Sundays from noon to one-thirty and Tuesdays from five-thirty to seven."

I wrote down the information.

"In the meantime I'll keep hunting your girl. My secretary has called at least fifty modeling agencies so far, but only found one Falene, and she's from Brazil. Your friend didn't go by a different professional name, did she? You know, like movie stars sometimes do if they don't have a fancy enough name?"

"Falene isn't fancy enough?"

"It is to me, but all my taste's in my mouth."