“Yes, you made that clear when you called for an appointment.” I saw Langdon give a tiny smile at this; Trimble didn’t know he’d confirmed our guess about Jimmy working for Wooldridge with that phone call. “I note her passing not to attempt to dissuade you from your investigation. Just to let you know that Mr. Wooldridge may be…distracted.”

“We understand, of course.”

“Good.” Trimble motioned with his hand toward the house. “Mr. Wooldridge is receiving visitors in the upper parlor. This way, please.”

The inside of the house featured acres of hardwood floors and stained glass windows older than several of the states in the union. We were led up a flight of stairs to an upper landing and ushered into a large room furnished in the height of fashion for 1915. In a leather wingchair large enough to get lost in, Orval Wooldridge sat, looking indeed like he was trying very hard to get lost.

Trimble glanced over to us apologetically and then walked over to the chair, leaned over, and whispered into his boss’ ear. Wooldridge waved him away irritably. Trimble stepped back.

Wooldridge looked up at us. “Detective Langdon. Mr. Valdez.”

“Mr. Wooldridge,” Langdon said. “Our deepest sympathies on the passing of your wife.”

Wooldridge nodded very slightly, accepting our condolences with the minimum possible grace. He did not invite us to sit. It was Trimble who did, slightly embarrassed, when he realized his boss had no intention of extending the offer. We sat on a sofa that shared a table with Wooldridge’s chair.

Wooldridge glanced up at his assistant. “You have business to attend to.”

“Yes, of course,” Trimble said, and exited, double time.

Wooldridge then turned his attention, such as it was, back to us. “Get on with it.”

Langdon set out a recorder and put it on the table between us. “Mr. Wooldridge, you employed a James Albert recently, correct?”

“I did.”

“He was assisting in the care of your wife.”

“He was. So what?”

“He’s been missing for two days, Mr. Wooldridge. We believe he was abducted by force.”

“What does this have to do with either me or Elaine?”

“We don’t think it does.”

“Then you’re wasting my time.”

“We do think it might have something to do with the Tunneys.”

Wooldridge was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then he waved a hand. “Go on.”

“How did Mr. Albert come into your employ?”

“I asked Garret to find a dispatcher for Elaine. I didn’t specify which one. I didn’t care. Garret found Mr. Albert.”

“And he worked for you for how long?”

“For three or four months. Once or twice a week. Whenever we had the oncologists over to do their fiddling.”

“During this time, how much freedom did Mr. Albert have in the house?”