“Warren has accepted an offer from a multinational company—a very, very substantial offer.”

“Congratulations, Warren,” Stone said.

“Not yet,” Keating replied. “I need my son’s consent.”

“Warren’s great-grandfather’s will was very specifi c,” Eggers said. “Each living heir must agree to a sale of the business.”

“My father has already signed off on the sale,” Keating said. “He’s old, and he was initially against it, but he’s finally seen the wisdom of the sale.”

“I see,” Stone replied. “And your son hasn’t consented?”

“He doesn’t know about it,” Keating replied. “At least not to my knowledge.”

“Warren and his son have not been in touch in recent days,” Eggers said. Stone figured he was being diplomatic. “I see,” he replied, though he didn’t.

Warren Keating reached into an inside pocket, produced a postcard and handed it to Stone. “This is Evan’s most recent communication,” he said. Stone perused the card. On one side was a photograph of a bar, labeled “Sloppy Joe’s, Key West.” Stone turned it over and read the message, which was written in block capitals.

“DEAR OLD DAD,” it read, “HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME, GLAD YOU’RE NOT HERE. GO FUCK YOURSELF.” It was signed with a fl ourish, “Evan.”

Stone returned the card, and Keating handed him a photograph.

It was black-and-white, like something from a college yearbook, and featured a slim, handsome young man in a blue blazer, with close cropped hair.

“How old was he then, and how old is he now?” Stone asked.

“He was nineteen or twenty then, and he’s twenty-six now,” Keating replied.

“And how long is it since you’ve seen him?”

“Not since his graduation, and we—his mother and I—sort of missed him then. We made our way over to where his class was sitting, and there was just his cap and gown on a chair with his name on it. He had only recently come into a nice little trust fund from his mother’s side of the family, which gave him a certain amount of freedom.”

“I see,” Stone said, seeing for the first time. “The postmark on the card was smudged; when did you receive it?”

“Five days ago,” Keating replied. “I had heard he was in Miami, and when we started negotiating the sale of the business I sent a private investigator looking for him. He was contacted but rebuffed the investigator and disappeared from his hotel there. I took the, ah, tenor of his message on the card to mean that he did not wish to be contacted by me.”

Stone nodded. “I should think this is a job for a skip tracer, Bill,” he said to Eggers.