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  She offered wine, which I declined as a way of demonstrating how professional I was. To be honest, with the slightest encouragement (bracing outside temperatures aside) I’d have lingered there for hours, drinking in the view along with anything else she had to offer. We were flanked by two small propane heaters that radiated a fierce but diffused heat that made me want to hold my hands closer, as though to a campfire.

  Santa Teresa is almost always chilly after sunset, and once I sat down, I found myself wedging my fingers between my knees. I was wearing blue jeans and boots with a black turtleneck under my good wool tweed blazer, so I was warm enough, but I wondered how she could bear the night air in such flimsy attire, especially with the wind whistling around the edges of the glass. Locks of flyaway hair danced around her face. She removed two hairpins that she held between her teeth while she captured the loose strands and secured them again.

  “How long have you owned the house?” I asked.

  “I grew up here. This is the old Clipper estate. My father bought it in the early thirties, shortly after he graduated from architectural school. Halston Bettancourt. You may have heard of him.”

  I made a sound as though of recognition, though I didn’t have a clue.

  “After he razed the original three-story Georgian-style mansion, he built this, which is how he launched his career. He was always proud of the fact that he was featured in Architectural Digest more than any other single architect. He’s been gone now for years, and my mother has as well. The place in Malibu belongs to my husband, Geoff. He’s a G-E-O-F-F Geoff, not the J-E-F-F kind. We’ve been married two years.”

  “What sort of work does he do?”

  “He has a law degree, but he doesn’t have a job as such. He manages both of our portfolios and looks after our finances.”

  Fragmented as it was, I had no idea where her commentary was taking us, but I was making mental notes. I couldn’t help but wonder how the neighbors felt when her father demolished the old estate and erected this in its place. The house was dramatic, but distinctly short on eighteenth-century charm.

  From her remarks, I drew the two obvious inferences: she’d retained her maiden name and she’d held on to the family home. I could imagine her insisting that G-E-O-F-F Geoffrey sign an ironclad prenuptial agreement: separate properties, separate bank accounts, a cheater’s clause, and zero spousal support in the event of a split. On the other hand, his fortune might have been more substantial than hers, in which case any stingy financial arrangements might have been his idea.

  She crossed her legs and smoothed the yellow silk over one knee, idly pleating the fabric. “I should tell you again how much I appreciate your agreeing to meet like this. Under the circumstances, it’s a relief doing business with a woman. No disrespect to men intended, but some things a woman understands intuitively—‘from the heart,’ you might say.”

  Now I was thinking about big gambling debts or an affair with a married man. It was also possible her new husband had an unsavory past and she’d just gotten wind of it.

  She reached down and picked up a file folder that rested against the side of her chair. She opened the folder, removed a paper clip, and passed the loose pages to me along with a penlight to make reading easier. I was looking at a photocopy of a newspaper article. I checked the date and heading: the Santa Teresa Dispatch, June 21, 1979; approximately ten years earlier. The article covered the trial of a kid named Christian Satterfield, a safecracker who’d finally been defeated by a run of cutting-edge vaults and had thrown that career over in favor of robbing banks, which was a much simpler proposition. No maddening array of alarms and exasperating anti-theft devices. Robbing banks entailed pithy notes directed to bank tellers, no weapons, and no mechanical skills. The work was quicker, too.

  He’d enjoyed a string of successes, but eventually his luck had run out. He’d been convicted of robbing nineteen banks in the tri-counties area, an impressive number for someone a mere twenty-three years old. The photograph that accompanied the story revealed a clean-cut young man with good facial bones and an open countenance. The three-column coverage on the front page continued for an additional four columns on page four, laying out the reasoning for his choice of banks, his meticulous advance planning, and the carefully worded notes he’d composed. I could picture him licking his pencil point, trying to get the written threats just so, all of the spelling correct and no cross-outs.

  I scanned the lines of print, picking up a detail here and there. His successes had netted him close to $134,000 over a period of sixteen months. In his demands, he claimed to be armed, and while he never actually brandished a gun, the tellers were sufficiently intimidated to surrender the cash without an argument. Though this was standard bank policy, three of the young women were so traumatized, they never returned to work.

  Hallie waited until I’d finished reading and handed me a folded newspaper with an arrow calling my attention to a notice dated six months before. Satterfield had been released, having served a little over eight years, which I was guessing represented 85 percent of a ten-year bid.

  “As you can see, he was released from Lompoc to a halfway house in the San Fernando Valley. Since he was a Santa Teresa resident when he was arrested and tried, I’m told he’s most likely been returned to the community by now. I wondered if you could get me his current contact information. I called the county probation department twice and got nowhere.”

  Her manner of speaking had become more formal, suggesting she was ill at ease. The United States Penitentiary at Lompoc is a federal prison located an hour north of us. The facility opened in 1959 and houses male inmates serving long sentences for sophisticated offenses: white-collar crime, interstate drug deals, tax evasion, and major fraud. As a bank robber, Satterfield must have felt right at home. I wondered about the nature of her interest in him. To me, the two seemed an odd mix.

  I said, “He wouldn’t have been released to the county. His crime was federal. You’d have to call the U.S. probation department and ask for the name of the agent supervising his parole.”

  She frowned. “I’m not happy with that idea. I don’t know the system and I’d only end up at another dead end. This whole process has been frustrating enough as it is. I leave town early tomorrow. We’ll be in Malibu for a few days, and after that we’ll be traveling. I’d prefer to have you deal with the situation. As you might well imagine, I have no experience with matters of this sort.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I make no guarantees,” I said. “Parole officers are notoriously tight-lipped.”

  “All the more reason for you to handle it. I assume your inquiry will be discreet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” she said. “Once you have his address and phone number, you can send me a note in care of my post office box. My assistant will know where we are and she’ll be forwarding mail twice a week.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  She paused, her gaze not quite meeting mine. “He’s my son.”

  Intuitively and from the heart, I hadn’t seen that one coming and I was taken aback. I said, “Ah.”

  “I became pregnant and bore a child when I was fifteen years old. If the choice had been mine, I’d have kept the baby and raised him myself, but my parents were adamant. They felt I was too young and too immature to take on such a burden; a point I could hardly refute. They were convinced he’d be better off in a two-parent home. Given his criminal history, they were obviously mistaken in that regard.”

  “Does he know who you are?”

  Her cheeks tinted slightly. “He does. Some years ago I wrote him a letter in care of the adoption agency. The social worker said she’d keep it in his file. I wanted to make sure he’d have a way to reach me if he were ever interested.”

  “And did you hear from him?”

  “I did. He called shortly after his eighteenth birthday. We met twice,
and then I lost track of him. When I saw the brief note about his release from Lompoc, his silence suddenly made sense. That’s when I went back and did a follow-up search in the archives at the Dispatch.”

  I glanced at the article. “You first learned he’d been in prison when you saw this?”

  “That’s correct. I don’t ordinarily read the Dispatch, but I spotted a copy as I was leaving my dentist’s office. When I caught sight of the name, I was so shocked, I had to sit down for a moment and catch my breath. I was also deeply ashamed, as though the fault were mine. I took my time deciding what I wanted to do.”

  “And that would be what?”

  “I’d like to help him if there’s anything he needs.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “It’s not about generosity. It’s about making amends.”

  “Does he know how well-off you are?”

  Her expression became set. “What difference does that make?”

  “You’re not worried he might try to take advantage?”

  “If he were going to do that, he’d have done so years ago. I’ve never made a secret of my financial position. I offered him money in the past and he declined.”

  “What if he’s embarrassed about his felony conviction and doesn’t want to hear from you?”

  “If he decides not to talk to me, then so be it, but I want him to have the opportunity. I feel a sense of responsibility.” She picked up the wine bottle to top off her glass and the label caught my eye. I’d seen the same Chardonnay at the liquor store for ninety bucks a pop. While I didn’t actually gasp aloud, she must have deciphered my look and held out the bottle. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to talk you into it.”

  “Maybe half a glass.”

  I watched her pour, taking advantage of the moment to assess her situation. “What about your husband? Where is he in this?”

  “Geoffrey knows I had a child and put him up for adoption. All of this happened years before the two of us met. What he doesn’t know is that we reconnected, and he certainly doesn’t know about Christian’s serving a prison term. I intend to tell him, but so far I haven’t felt the time was right.”

  “I can see where it might be an awkward revelation to spring on him after the fact.”

  “On the other hand, if my son doesn’t care to pursue a relationship, why mention it at all? Once you ’fess up, you’re stuck. Geoffrey hates deception and he’s slow to forgive. There’s no point in creating trouble unnecessarily.”

  “Indeed,” I said. Without even meaning to, I was echoing the tone and manner of her speech, and I was hoping the shift wasn’t permanent.

  “That’s why I’m asking you to act as a go-between, using your name and phone number instead of mine. I don’t want to risk my husband’s intercepting a message before I’ve told him the whole of it.”

  “You don’t want your name brought into it at all,” I said.

  “I do not.”

  “What reason would I give for tracking him down? I’ve never met Christian Satterfield.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse. The point is, I want my privacy protected. I’ll insist on that.”

  I sat there wondering if this was really the way a good marriage worked. I’d been married and divorced twice, so it was difficult to judge. Keeping secrets seemed like a bad idea, but I was hardly qualified to offer the woman marital advice. Aside from that, I’ve never had children, so the notion of a bank robber for a son was tough to assimilate. His stepdad might take an even dimmer view.

  Reluctantly, I said, “I’m not sure a parole officer will give me the information, but I’ll do what I can.” I studied the black-and-white newspaper photograph and then held up the photocopied pages. “May I keep these? Might be good if I need to identify him on sight.”

  She reached into the file folder a second time and handed me duplicates. I murmured a thank-you and slid the papers into the outside pocket of my shoulder bag.

  “So how do we proceed?” she asked.

  “Most new clients sign a boiler-plate contract,” I said. “Over the years, I’ve found it’s better to have an agreement in writing, as much for your protection as for mine. That way there’s no confusion about what I’ve been asked to do. In this case, I didn’t bring any paperwork. I wanted to make sure I could be of help before I did anything else.”

  “Sensible,” she said. “As I see it, we can do one of two things. You can write up the contract, fill in the particulars, and mail it for my signature, or we can consider this a gentleman’s agreement and I can pay you in cash.”

  There wasn’t really much to debate. I’m not equipped to take credit cards, and she must have sensed I wasn’t eager to accept a check from a woman who was out of Santa Teresa half the year. She was clearly well-to-do, but if a check was returned for insufficient funds, it would be a pain in the ass to track her down and make it good. The rich are full of surprises. Some hang on to their wealth by stiffing their creditors.

  “Does five hundred dollars seem reasonable?” she asked.

  “Too much,” I said. “We’re talking about a few phone calls and then a short written report. Two hundred would more than cover it.”

  “Unless you fail.”

  “You’re paying for my time, not results. The effort’s the same regardless of the outcome.”

  “Sorry. Of course. I don’t expect you to work without compensation. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  She got up, crossed to the sliding glass door, and went into the house. I took a sip of Chardonnay, feeling for the first time that I could relax. She’d been clear enough about what she wanted, and while acquiring the information wasn’t a slam dunk, I had avenues to pursue.

  Moments later, she returned with a plain white envelope. She made a point of showing me a portion of the two one-hundred-dollar bills before she slid them fully into the envelope and handed it to me. I put the money in my shoulder bag and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook. I wrote her a receipt for the cash and tore off the leaf of paper. “I can type up a proper receipt at the office tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about it. This is fine.” She folded the handwritten receipt and slipped it into the file folder.

  “A few things I should ask,” I said.

  “Feel free.”

  I went through a list of items I thought needed covering and she seemed happy to oblige, so that by the time we parted company, I had her home address and a mailing address in Malibu, the Malibu home phone, plus her husband’s office address and two additional numbers for him at work. Her assistant’s name was Amy. Later, I realized I should have asked for Geoffrey’s last name, but it hadn’t occurred to me.

  Once in my car again, I sat in the darkened parking area while the motion-activated path lights went out one by one. Using the Honda’s interior light, I jotted notes on a series of index cards that I carry with me as a matter of course. I don’t know if she was aware that I was still on the property, but it mattered not. It’s always best to capture facts when they’re fresh, before assumption and prejudice step in and alter memory.

  On the way home, I stopped at the market and stocked up on odds and ends, including paper towels, milk, bread, and peanut butter. Easter decorations and accessories were set up in numerous displays: Easter egg dyeing kits, hollow plastic eggs, foil-covered eggs, big foil-covered chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chickens of a virulent yellow hue, bags of paper shreds resembling grass, wicker and plastic baskets, as well as stuffed animals to be included in the haul.

  At that hour, there weren’t many shoppers, and since I was the only one in line, I had a nice chat with Suzanne, the middle-aged checkout girl. I paid for my groceries with one of Hallie’s hundred-dollar bills, amazed by how little change I was given in return.

  I was home by 10:00. I locked up, put away the groceries, grabbed my book, and went u
pstairs to the loft, where I changed into the oversize T-shirt I sleep in. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slid under the covers. Once I found my place, I read until midnight, thinking life was swell.

  3

  In the morning, I did my usual three-mile jog on autopilot. Given the monotony of the weather, there was no chance I’d be gifted with the pleasure of a rainy-day sleep-in. Local homeowners were in such a panic to install low-flow toilets and low-flow showerheads that the retailers couldn’t keep up with the demand. A vote on water rationing was in the works. In the meantime, we were voluntarily cutting back on usage.

  I’d always made a point of turning off the faucet while I was brushing my teeth. Now even flushing the commode was restricted to only the most serious of business. Everyone (well, almost everyone) in the community pitched in with the conservation effort, primarily because failure to cooperate warranted a stern reproach from the public works department. We were not yet being subjected to neighborhood incursions of the water police, but there were threats to that effect.

  I was home by 6:45, including my cooldown and a perfunctory stretch. After that I showered, shampooing my hair, and donned jeans, a navy blue turtleneck, and my boots. I trotted down the spiral stairs and helped myself to a bowl of Cheerios with 2 percent milk. I had the local television news on in the background, trying to ignore the chirpy weather pundit.

  Today it was “Partly sunny.”

  Yesterday, “Patchy A.M. clouds, then partly to mostly sunny.”

  Tomorrow, “Partly sunny.”

  For the weekend, we were promised a “sunny” Saturday and a Sunday marked by “partial sun with areas of A.M. clouds, clearing in the afternoon.” For the following week, “mostly clear and sunny with early-morning fog.”

  I wanted to yell, “Shut up, already!” but I couldn’t see the point.

  • • •

  My three-room office is on a side street that occupies one short block in the heart of downtown Santa Teresa in walking distance of the police station, the courthouse, and the public library. I rent the center bungalow of three that resemble the fairy-tale cottages of the Three Little Pigs. I’ve been in the location now for two years, and while the space isn’t slick, at $350 a month, it’s affordable.