“Sit, sit, sir. Please.”

He was gesturing to a pair of two-seater couches facing each other by the hearth, a modest gas fire going, the cold snap out in the real world making it appropriate. The low-slung coffee table between us had a gleaming pot of its namesake waiting on a silver tray with china cups to be filled.

“Coffee?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“Thanks.”

He poured, then told me to help myself to cream and sugar, which I did.

As he settled back on the couch, a steaming cup in hand, my host said, “I’m of an age, Mr. Hammer, to know of you first-hand, from your newspaper exploits.”

That was second-hand, really, but I just said, “I’m of an age to have had them. Might I ask, sir…” His formality was catching. “…if you mean that as a compliment, or just an observation?”

“A compliment, definitely,” Vance Colby said, sitting forward, putting the coffee cup on a coaster on the glass top between us. He grinned and it seemed a little forced. “You know, somehow I always felt that we had a lot in common.”

Yeah, I was just thinking that.

But what I said was, “How’s that, Mr. Colby?”

He flipped a hand. “Well, politically, for instance.”

I grunted a laugh. “Not unless you haven’t voted for twenty years, either.”

That widened his eyes, which were faded blue and not the pretty eyes of his son—that must have been Vincent’s mother’s DNA.

“Really, Mr. Hammer? A man with your strong opinions doesn’t vote? Why ever not?”

“It only encourages them.” I sat forward. “Sir, I’m going to guess you already have a big-ticket private security company handling both your business and your home. And we only have two licensed investigators in my firm, including my secretary. We’re very good, but we’re a staff of two.”

He was nodding. “Understood.”

I sat back. “And even if you don’t already have a security outfit, I’m not an appropriate choice for your needs.”

He sat back as well. Folded his arms. Some shrewdness came into his voice, which was a relief, because I had not been impressed so far. “You already know why you’re here, don’t you, Mike? If I may address you that way.”

“Sure, if I can call you ‘Vance.’” I sipped my coffee, which was world-class, like Juan Valdez himself had delivered it on his burro. “I get uncomfortable when I’m on a first-name basis with somebody who expects a ‘mister’ out of me in return.”

He chuckled at that. “Of course. Obviously, this is about my son.”

“Yeah, we exchanged greetings when I got here.” Sort of. “You must be glad to have him back here at work.”

Vance nodded, but seemed distracted. “Vincent was only in the hospital overnight, but, uh…before we go any further, I’d like to get you on retainer. Make this official. What would you say to $1,000?”

“Yippee?”

A grin blossomed, unforced this time. “I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, and reached in a jacket pocket for a check fold. He tore the check out and handed it to me—he’d made it out in advance, and somehow I just knew he’d used a fountain pen. Probably a Mont Blanc.