“No, I’m not sure. Darby says he was there to buy one of Tim’s paintings, decided to give it some more thought, then left. He said that’s the last he saw of Tim.” I ran my fingers over the card. “Darby’s handing these out for Sterling Associates. He connects to Sterling’s owner, Nicholas Spada. Do you recognize the name?”

“Spada, yeah, he was a friend of Tim’s dad and handled some of the family’s business. That’s why Tim went to him.” Jung pointed at the card. “I got one of those, too. That’s why I remember the dude. I trashed mine, though. It’s like you’re tempting fate, or something. And Darby seemed to always hang too close. I never did find out what that was all about.”

“Did Tim ever find out why?”

Jung shook his head, held his arms out in a gesture of frustration. “Never did. I don’t think the guy would say. But that’s hinky, right?”

“It’s worth following up on.”

“What about Stephen? What’d Tim’s mother say?”

“What about Stephen? He won’t return my calls. And the family lawyer met me at their front gate to run interference between me and Tim’s mother, after he called the cops.”

Jung frowned. “I knew you needed me. They’re not used to seeing people like you up there.”

“Wrong color?” I asked bitingly.

Jung folded his hands in his lap, shot me a gloomy look. “Wrong color, wrong sex, wrong socioeconomic background, wrong politics. . . I could go on. Life’s a lot better outside the bubble than inside it. What’d the police do?”

I held out my hand for the bag with my sandwich in it. As long as I had three and a half minutes left, I might as well start it. “They escorted me out of the neighborhood.”

“Sounds about right.”

I leaned back in my chair, unwrapped the wax paper. “Do you know Felton?”

Jung nodded. “Back when we were kids, he got Tim out of a few scrapes like it was nothing. One call to him, and bam, problem solved. He’s a real bulldog.” Jung brushed his hands together, universal sign for “done deal.”

I grimaced, recalling my encounter with the bulldog. “Does your family have a bulldog?”

Jung smiled slyly. “Michael Greenleaf, Esquire.”

I tossed down the pickle. “Peter Langham. Ring any bells?”

Jung shook his head. “Who is he?”

“Who was he—he’s dead. How could Stephen disinherit Tim? His father would have had a will. Stephen couldn’t have held back anything their father left him, unless he was cut off from that completely.”