I didn’t bother to answer.

Another one bites the dust.

“Fuck him,” I whispered as I wiped away the tears.

I was exhausted doing paid patrol-officer work and detecting on my own time, but work was a good substitute for a life. I debated making an appointment with David Tyler’s conservator, but decided to show up in the flesh.

Century City is L.A.’s attempt at a business district. The entire area had once belonged to Fox Studios and there still was a mammoth-size location back lot. But most of the neighborhood was dominated by office high-rises with underground parking that charged outrageous rates.

Raymond Paxton’s office was on the twenty-second floor, an ear-popping elevator ride that I wouldn’t have taken, had I been afflicted with a cold. I got off, turned left, and walked through a door embellished with a brass nameplate that told me Paxton was a legal corporation. The secretary, a twenty-something Asian with her hair tied in a ponytail, greeted me with the typical “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Paxton,” I told her. “I don’t have an appointment.”

“That could be a problem” was her response. “He’s booked straight through until one. Then he has a lunch meeting.”

This meant he was in the office. Opportunity presented itself. I showed her my badge.

Now she looked worried. She had on a red silk blouse and she fingered the corner of the collar. “What’s this in regards to?”

“David Tyler. And it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

“I’m not sure I know the name,” she told me.

“But Mr. Paxton will know it.”

She picked up the phone and spoke into the receiver with muted tones. Paxton came out a moment later. He was around five-nine, dressed in a silver suit with a black shirt and tie. He was also black, and when I realized that I had made that immediate distinction, I sort of realized my father’s point. I had also identified his secretary as Asian—using race as a descriptive factor. Confession wasn’t easy for me.

“You’ve heard from David?” Paxton’s voice was anxious.

“No, I haven’t heard from him. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

His expression fell. The lawyer frowned and checked his watch. “Five minutes?”

“More than enough time.”

I followed him through the interior of his firm, down hushed and carpeted hallways. These places were labyrinths to me, and I always thought that such convoluted pathways were meant to confuse the enemy. Disorientation distracted from the purpose at hand and gave a home-court advantage when doing depositions. Eventually, we came to an open space. It wasn’t his office. It was a conference room, and a small one at that. He was kind enough to offer me coffee and I was smart enough to refuse politely. We sat down across from each other.

He said, “Is he all right? David?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I take it you haven’t heard from him since Mr. Klinghoffner called you.”