The investigator laughs. “If you saw this guy’s office, you wouldn’t be surprised. He’s got a fancy address, but it’s a closet, and I’m not even sure he passed the bar exam. He’s as big of a shyster as the lawyer who never filed the divorce papers for your dad. I’ll keep digging, though.”

The reminder that my father couldn’t even manage to hire a lawyer who would actually follow through on filing for divorce leaves a bad taste in my mouth. How the hell could he have been so stupid? My tone is harsher than it should be when I reply.

“Do not fuck this up. Chase every lead. If there’s a chance there is a child out there, we need to know.”

“Yes, sir. If the kid exists, I’ll find him or her.”

I end the call and immediately go looking for my grandfather.

After Bard delivered the news about the overdose, Commodore put Whitney and me on the defensive and then retired to the smoking room for a drink and a cigar. I turned down his offer in favor of not smelling like an ashtray when I finally get a chance to have dinner with Whitney later. A dinner the kitchen is preparing for us to be served in—I glance at my watch—exactly three hours.

I open the door to the smoking room and step inside. Commodore has an old leather photo album open on the table in front of him.

“May I come in?”

He looks up. “By all means.”

As I move closer, I get a better look at the picture my grandfather had been staring at. It’s one I don’t remember. In it, Commodore looked to be about my father’s age when he died, and my father was still young and gangly. He looked a lot like I did at that age, which is a sobering thought.

“Reminiscing?”

“Wondering how the hell it all went so wrong,” he replies with a puff of smoke. “I should’ve been a better father. Maybe none of this would have ever happened if I’d been different.”

Hearing Commodore sound anything other than completely confident throws me off-balance.

“I don’t know how you were when my father was growing up, but I know how you were with me. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without your guidance, because I sure as hell didn’t follow my father’s example.”

Commodore lifts his gaze to mine, and for the first time, he looks all of his ninety years. “I’d like to think I learned the second time around. I knew Roosevelt wouldn’t be the father he needed to be.”

“As much as I don’t want to bring this up right now, sir, we have another problem.”

Commodore takes a long draw on the cigar and exhales smoke rings. “Bring it on, boy. None of this has killed me yet, so it’s unlikely whatever you’ve got to say will.”

“Our investigator has determined that Renee Rango never told her lawyer if there was a child when she had him start pursuing the paternity test. He assumed, but there’s absolutely no proof that a child actually exists. And since Ricky Rango was cremated, we may never know for sure now if he was a Riscoff.”