Aaron ate faster than I did and when he finished the last bite of toast, he ran his napkin across his mouth and then tucked it under his plate. “I heard back from Sacramento late last night with a match on the prints, which confirm Dace’s identity. I thought I’d fill you in on his criminal history before we go over to the bank.”

“Ah. You must have talked to someone in Bakersfield.”

“I pulled up his file and then put in a call to one of the sheriff’s department homicide detectives.”

“Am I going to like this?”

“You might. The story’s actually more interesting than you’d think. Dace spent twelve years in prison on a felony murder conviction that was overturned a year ago.”

“Who’d he kill?”

“I’ll get to that. He’d had some earlier, minor skirmishes with the law. A couple of DUIs. A charge of drunk and disorderly that was later dismissed. Nothing of significance. For years, he ran his own tree-trimming company while he worked on a degree in landscape architecture . . . which he never got, by the way . . .”

“So I heard. Dandy tells me he was a bright guy, and very knowledgeable.”

“Apparently so. He had a reputation for being a hands-on kind of boss. He could push a crew, but he was more than willing to get up there himself when it came to proper pruning. In 1968, he took a bad fall; broke his shoulder and his left hip, which put him out of commission for a while. During his recovery he got caught up in prescription drugs and heavy drinking, which he had a penchant for in any event. Some of this you may know.”

“Not exactly, but close enough. I heard about the pain pills and alcohol,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you get from trimming trees to felony murder, but I’m all ears.”

“Well, he started on a downward spiral. You know how it goes. Once word got out about his boozing, his clients started dropping him, which meant his business went into the toilet. His wife threatened to kick him out, saying she didn’t want the kids exposed to his bad behavior. He managed to hold his marriage together, but things weren’t good by a long shot and the only work he could get was day labor. Bunch of them would stand out on a corner, like hookers, while prospective employers cruised by in their half-ton trucks, looking them over and quizzing them about their skills. He and another fellow named Herman Cates picked up a couple days’ work trimming trees . . .”

While I listened, I worked on my oatmeal. I pushed the raisins to the bottom of the bowl so the heat would plump them. Then I folded in the milk and sugar. My Aunt Gin favored a couple of pats of butter, but that’s too decadent for my taste.