“Which ‘someone’ would be happy to confide as soon as the arrangements were made,” I said. “How much was the reward?”

“Fifteen grand. The caller was a ‘she’ in this case,” he said. “The woman insisted on the reward being bumped from fifteen to twenty-five grand; five thousand of it in hundred-dollar bills and the rest in smaller denominations.”

“More like ransom.”

“Exactly. My turn now, isn’t it?”

I conceded the point with a careless wave of my hand.

He checked his notes. “Aside from that Monday, how many times did you meet with your client?”

“First and only time. She lives up on Sky View in Montebello, off Winding Canyon Road. The old Clipper estate, in case you’re about to ask.” I gave him the house number and watched him make a note. “I can’t believe I missed this whole ransom thing.”

“It was only in the paper briefly. A reporter got wind of it and ran with the story before we could shut her down. We wanted to keep a lid on it, figuring if word got out we’d have a rash of copycats,” he said. He checked his notes again. “Can you give me Ms. Bettancourt’s phone number?”

“I didn’t get a local number. There wasn’t any need. When she called the office, I was here and I picked up the phone. After we met, I didn’t have occasion to call her. She was leaving town the next morning, so she gave me a couple of numbers in Malibu. She and her husband have a second home down there. He has an office in Malibu as well.”

As he was about to ask anyway, I reached into my bag and pulled out my index cards, sorting through until I found the relevant numbers, which I recited while he made notes.

“And she hired you to do what?”

“Nuh-uh. My turn. What happened to the reward? Did the woman collect?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We advised the victim not to pay, but he was adamant. The best we could do was talk him into letting us record the serial numbers on the bills. Long story short, he paid, the painting came back, and that was the end of it until that bill showed up,” he said. “What did she hire you to do?”

Another quick debate, but I couldn’t see how the job I’d been hired to do was in any way connected to the painting-for-ransom scheme. “She wanted contact information for a kid she put up for adoption thirty-two years ago. The story’s more complicated, but essentially that’s it.”

“Whose idea was the cash?”

I thought back to the conversation. “Hers, though I’d have suggested it if she hadn’t brought it up herself. She said she’d be out of town until June. Under the circumstances, I would have been leery about taking a check. Please note I just allowed you an extra question.”

“You’re sure the bill came from her and not someone else?”

“Positive. I stopped at the market on the way home. I don’t usually carry hundreds. The money was in an envelope I put in my shoulder bag, and I spent it within the hour. While we’re on the subject, I’ve already done the job and put my report in the mail, if it’s relevant. You think this same woman stole the painting?”