I glanced again at Fleming’s note—find the roommate. The roommate? Fuck you, Mrs. Fleming. Nick Trejo was Bill’s lover. He had awakened in the middle of that night to discover Bill lying dead beside him, nearly choked to death himself, and had then been locked out of the house they shared by the family that had thrown Bill away in the first place. I would find Nick Trejo, all right, if only to make sure he squeezed out every cent coming to him from Western States Insurance Company.

Before heading out to the address Mrs. Donohue had given me for Nick Trejo, I tried Bill Ryan’s office again. The closure sign was gone and the door was unlocked. Inside a woman was speaking Cantonese into a phone at a desk strewn with files. Almost buried in the papers was a plastic nameplate: Doris Chen. Behind her, an open door revealed a private office I assumed had been Ryan’s. She saw me and pointed at the two chairs on either side of a coffee table. Her voice climbed with exasperation and then she slammed down the phone.

“Contractors,” she grumbled, sweeping a manicured hand through thick black hair shot through with silver. With a tight smile, she said, “Hello, can I help you?”

Before I could respond, the phone rang again. She held up a hand and answered it, speaking this time in English. “No, that bill was paid… I have the receipt right here in front of me.” She dug through some papers. “Yes, three hundred and eighty-three dollars and fifty-five cents. Okay, well, check your records I’m sure you’ll… What? No, I haven’t seen that bill. How much? Can you send someone here to pick up a check? We need the power back on today. Okay, thank you.”

She hung up. “Sorry, this is my first day back in the office and I’m swamped. Who are you?”

“My name is Henry Rios. I’m a claims investigator for Western States Insurance. I’m looking into Bill Ryan’s life insurance policy.”

“I didn’t know Bill had life insurance,” she said. “You probably want to talk to his lawyer, Randy Gifford. I’ve got his number here somewhere.” The phone rang again. She looked at it distastefully. “Here’s Randy’s card. Is there anything else?”

“Do you know Nick Trejo?”

She frowned. “Why are you asking?”

“He’s the beneficiary.”

“You really need to talk to Randy,” she said, picking up the phone. “Excuse me.”

“Thanks,” I said, pocketing the attorney’s card.