Andre Zool had been instrumental in getting his company to buy up fourteen percent of Arizona’s recent mortgage debt—and there was some question of kickbacks. He lost over a billion dollars. Zool got on a plane bound for Argentina, where his family had migrated after World War II.

The next morning I came home from work to find Katrina in our living room with our dour son Dimitri at her side.

“Forgive me,” were her only words.

If she had said anything else, anything, I would have been able to send her away: I would have been able to go off with Aura to start a new life.

MY PRIVATE CELL PHONE, the legal one, rang. Actually it made the sound of a growling bear, the special tone I had given to anyone whose phone number came through as private.

“Mr. McGill?” he said. “Ambrose Thurman here. I tried yo" we. I trur office phone but got no answer.”

“Mr. Thurman. I was just about to call you.”

“With good news, I hope,” the fop detective said.

“Yes, very good news. I have located three of the four men you’re looking for.”

“What are their real names and addresses?” he said, his voice brimming with formality.

“There’s a question of remuneration.”

“A question of what?”

“You know what I’m saying—I need my money first.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Yes—remuneration,” he said, repeating the word carefully. “I will have to have all four names before I can pay you.”

“Well, then I’ll call you later.”

I pressed the hang-up button on my phone and sat back in the phantom’s chair.

There was something odd about Ambrose.