"I came to ask about Lillian, ma'am," I said. "I assume the police have been by already?"

The Bloody Mary froze halfway to her lips.

"Lillian?" she said. "Police?"

"That's right."

She shook her head, trying to smile. "I'm afraid I don't ..."

"That would surprise me, ma'am," I said, "unless you've sworn off phones since you were PTA president at Alamo Heights."

The smile turned to stone. "I beg your pardon."

"My mother used to tell me that you could boil every piece of gossip in town down to just seven numbers-Cookie Sheff's phone number."

When she spoke again, after apparently swallowing her tongue several times, her voice had all the charm and affection of a drugged bobcat.

"Oh, yes," she said, "your mother. How is the old dear?"

"She looks great."

Her drink was quickly reduced to red ice cubes.

"Tres," Cookie said, taking on a patient, mildly chastising tone, "perhaps it should occur to you that a certain ... quality of people do not wish their family crises aired so openly."

"Meaning I should've called instead of dropping by?"

"Meaning," she said, "that the Cambridges are my very dear friends."

"Soon to be family?"

She looked satisfied. "So you see why perhaps your coming here was not in the best taste."

"I feel just awful, ma'am. Now where is your son, please?"

She sighed quietly, then stood up.

"Kellin?" she called.

Mr. Impassive, already immaculate in a fresh black uniform, appeared instantly from an interior doorway, a full Bloody Mary in hand. He walked like he enjoyed the sound his boots made against the flagstones.

"See Mr. Navarre out, please," Cookie said.

Kellin looked at me and nodded. Maybe a faint smile-permission to kill at last.

Then on one of the balconies above me, Dan Jr. appeared, fashionably dressed in a maroon velour housecoat-looking thing. His hair was sticking up on both sides.

I waved at him and smiled. "Dan," I called up. "Thought we might have a talk."

His face compacted. Before he said anything he looked at his mother, who shook her head.

"What the hell do you want, Navarre?" he said.

"To find Lillian," I answered. "You interested or not?"

"Danny," said Mrs. Sheff, "do you think it's a good idea to talk to this man?"

Her voice was soft, sweet and cold as Blue Bell ice cream. Her tone implied that the right answer was "no," and the wrong answer would probably mean no allowance for a week.

Dan thought about it. Then he looked at me. I smiled, letting him see a little of my amusement. That did it.

"Come on in the office, Tres," he said. Then he disappeared from the balcony.

The slight shake of Mrs. Sheff's head told me there would be a Conversation at the family dinner table tonight. Then she gave me a look that was meant to suggest no dessert for the rest of my life. She took her Bloody Mary and exited up the nearest staircase.

"Come on," said Kellin.

He led me into a smaller room, not much bigger than my apartment, really. Above the fireplace on the right was a recent oil painting of Cookie, minus the wrinkles. Opposite it, on the left wall, was a huge black and white enlargement of a young Dan Sr. dressed for war-Korea, probably. Directly between them, Dan Jr. pulled out the chair behind an oiled mahogany desk. Behind him, outside a heavily curtained picture window, a true South Texas storm was raging, brief and violent. I could see my VW on the street, its roof fluttering, threatening to peel off. Small newly planted trees along the sidewalk were bent to the ground.

"Have a seat," Dan said.

He'd combed his hair but was still drowning in maroon bedclothes. In his hand was a drink that looked like plain orange juice. I sat down across from him and waited.

After a minute of staring at me he said: "Okay. What the hell is it?"

"You know about Lillian."

Either he was a great actor or his anger was genuine. His knuckles curled up white. "I know that you show up, and a day later she's gone."

"When did you see her last?"

Dan looked at me with red eyes, then looked down at the desk. He ran his hand through his hair and a lick of blond sprang back up like a canary wing.

"You goddamn know when," he muttered. "And you were still there when I left. That's what I told the police, not that they have a fucking clue. If it was up to me you would've been put away by now, Navarre."

"Danny," I said, "we agree about something."

He made a sound like a bull that's been zapped with the same cattle prod once too often. "Don't call me that. And we don't have shit in common."

"The police don't have a clue. I agree with that. I didn't come all the way back to Texas to see Lillian disappear and then watch the police fuck up the investigation, Dan. Think about that."

He didn't look very convinced. Shadows from the rain crawled across his face along with guilt, frustration, and some other things I couldn't read. He looked down at a more recent picture of his father on the desk, Dan Sr. the way I remembered him when I was in high school: a big man in flashy clothes, the football team's biggest patron, or the cheerleaders', anyway. That was before he'd come down with his well-publicized cases of Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. Now, from what Lillian had told me, the old man was upstairs somewhere, silently withering down to a husk while the best and prettiest nurses money could buy looked on.

"There was a time he'd say something and the police would jump," Dan said, almost to himself. "You remember that, Kellin?"

Behind me Kellin said nothing.

"Now ... shit," said Dan. "They tell me not to get too worried. 'She might be out of town,' they tell me. Shit."

I thought about that. "Your mother said the Cambridges want to keep it quiet for a while, downplay things."

Dan snorted, like that was a good joke.

"Downplay things," he echoed.

I leaned forward and picked up the picture of his dad. The silver frame must've weighed ten pounds. It was just about the coldest thing I'd ever touched. "Only child, right?"

"If you don't count my fifteen cousins."

"And they're all dying to inherit a piece of the business," I suggested. "Must be tough on you."

"What the fuck do you know about it?"

His shoulders slumped; the anger in his face loosened up into melancholy.

It was time to change tack.

"What did Beau Karnau say to you yesterday, Dan?"

I'm not sure what kind of reaction I was expecting, but it wasn't what I got. I've never seen a man turn molten red so fast. Dan was on his feet and if the desk had been any narrower he would've had his hands on my throat. As it was he just leaned toward me and shouted.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he spat.

Kellin had come up next to me to monitor the situation. I decided it was time to stand up, slowly and calmly.

"Look, Dan, I want to find the lady, that's all. You want to help, great. You want to tell me Beau Karnau got a lift from the gallery in somebody else's silver BMW yesterday around one o'clock, I don't have time to argue with you. Lillian might not have that kind of time."

Dan stared at me. I couldn't tell whether his expression was incredulity or outrage. For a minute we were all totally still, listening to the thunder.

Then Dan shut down almost as quickly as he'd blown up.

"Lillian," he echoed. The red trickled out of his face. He slid back into his chair with one long exhale. "Jesus, I need a drink."

Maybe Jesus wasn't listening but Kellin was. He took away the orange juice and replaced it quickly with a tumbler of bourbon. Instead of drinking it, Dan pressed the glass against his cheek like a pillow and closed his eyes.

"Beau called me," he said finally. "He wanted-some money. He said Lillian had made his life difficult by leaving, that he needed a few thousand dollars as a loan."

"Why you?" I asked.

I waited. Dan moved the bourbon to his lips.

"Things weren't always smooth between us-Lillian and me," he said into the glass. "Sometimes Beau helped me get things back on track. Flowers, telling me her plans, that kind of thing."

"The crazy sentimental fool," I said.

Dan looked up and frowned. "Beau is all right. He's been Lillian's friend for years. He would never do ... anything to Lillian, nothing bad."

I'm not sure who he was trying to convince, himself or me. Judging from his tone of voice I don't think he succeeded either way.

"So you agreed to see Beau yesterday," I said.

Dan looked up at me and said nothing. The rain was dying down. Lightning flashed, and I counted almost to ten before the thunder. Dan scowled as he drained the bourbon from his glass.

Afterward he looked up at me in surprise, as if I'd just appeared there. He seemed to ask himself a silent question, then nodded. He brought out a square leather account book from the desk.

"How much?" he said.

I stared at him.

"I'll hire you, asshole," he said. "Lillian said you did this for a living, this ... stuff. I'll pay you to find her. How much?"

I felt a little slimy just for being tempted, but I shook my head. "No."

"Don't be a prick," he said. "How much?"

I looked at Kellin. Kellin stared back, his face about as expressive as Sheetrock.

"Look, Dan," I said, "I appreciate it. I promise you I'll find her. But I can't take your money."

Then I turned to leave before I could change my mind.

"Navarre," he called after me.

I turned around in the doorway. From across the room Dan looked about ten years old, dwarfed behind his father's huge mahogany desk, drowning in oversized maroon robes, his blond hair in disarray as if Dad had just come by and tousled it.

"You know what it's like," he said. "Living in the Old Man's shadow, I mean? You know about that, at least."

It was some kind of peace offering, I guess. Looking back, maybe I should've taken it.

"Like you told me," I said, "we don't have shit in common."

Kellin walked me to the door, where Mrs. Sheff was waiting to see me off. That brilliant hostess smile must've been sitting in a glass in some other room, because when she spoke she hardly opened her stern little mouth at all.

"Mr. Navarre," she said, "I would highly recommend that you avoid my household in the future unless you are invited."

"Thank you for the hospitality, ma'am."

I stepped out onto the front porch. The rain had stopped and the clouds kept rolling south toward the Gulf of Mexico. Ten minutes from now there would be nothing left of the storm but bent trees and wet cars drying in the sun.

"I care deeply about my family," Cookie told me. "I have a sick husband and a very dear son to look after, along with the reputation of the entire Sheff family."

"And a rather large construction firm."

She gave me the slightest sour nod. "I will not allow our family, or our friends, to be dragged through the mud."

"One question, ma'am," I said.

She just looked at me.