Meanwhile, in the present, Mac Voorhies and Gordon Titus were a perfect contrast to one another. Mac’s brown suit was as wrinkled as an autumn leaf, while his teeth and the flip of puffy white hair in front were discolored by the staining properties of nicotine. Gordon Titus wore an ice blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His gray pants were crisply pleated, the shade an eerie match for his prematurely gray hair. His tie formed a fierce punctuation mark emphasizing his office manner, which was terse and businesslike. Even Mac knew enough not to light a cigarette in his presence.

Titus sat down at his desk and opened the file in front of him. Typically, he’d outlined the relevant data about Dana and Wendell Jaffe. Neatly indented paragraphs marched sideways across the page, the paper pockmarked with holes where the nib of his pen had plunged through. He spoke without looking at me, his face as empty of expression as a mannequin’s. “Mac’s brought me up to date, so we don’t need to cover any old ground,” he said. “What’s the status of the case?”

I hauled out my steno pad and flipped to an empty page, reciting what I knew about Dana’s current situation. I detailed as much as possible and then summarized the rest. “She’s probably used part of the insurance benefits to finance Michael’s house, with another hefty chunk going as a retainer for Brian’s attorney.”

Titus was making notes. “Have you talked to the company lawyers about our position in this?”

“What’s the point?” Mac broke in. “So what if Wendell faked his own death? What crime did he commit? Is that against the law…what’s it called, faking suicide?” He snapped his fingers, trying to jog his memory.

I said, “‘Pseudocide’ is the term I’ve heard.”

“Pseudocide, right. Is it against the law to falsify your own death?” he asked.

“It is if you do it with intent to defraud the insurance company,” Titus said with acid.

Mac’s expression was impatient. “Where’s the fraud? What fraud? At this point, we don’t know that he’s collected a cent.”

Titus’s gaze flicked up to Mac. “You’re absolutely right. To be precise about it, we’re not even sure it’s really Jaffe we’re dealing with.” And then to me, “I want concrete evidence, proof of identity, fingerprints or some damn thing.”

“I’m doing what I can,” I said, sounding both dubious and defensive. I made a note on a blank page, just to look industrious. The note said, “Find Wendell.” Like I was unclear on the concept until Titus spelled it out. “In the meantime, what? You want to go after Mrs. Jaffe?”

Again, Mac’s exasperation surfaced. I couldn’t figure out what he was so upset about. “Goddamn it, what’s she done? She hasn’t committed a crime, as far as we know. How can she be held liable for spending money she believes she’s legally entitled to?”

“What makes you think she wasn’t in on this from the beginning? For all we know, the two colluded,” Titus said.

“To what end?” I interjected mildly. “For the last five years the woman’s been dead broke, accumulating debts by the bushel basket. Meanwhile Wendell’s down in Mexico by the pool with some babe. What kind of deal is that? Even if she collects, all she ends up with is money to pay off the bill collectors.”

“You only have her word for that,” Titus said. “Besides which we don’t really know how Mr. and Mrs. Jaffe accommodated their relationship. Maybe the marriage was over and this was his way of negotiating spousal support.”

“Some support,” I said.

Titus plowed right over me. “And as you yourself pointed out, it looks like she’s managed to buy one kid a house and probably retained the services of a hotshot attorney for the one who’s in trouble. The bottom line is, we need to have a conversation with Wendell Jaffe. Now, how do you propose to find him?” The question was abrupt, but the tone was more curious than challenging.

“I figure Brian’s the perfect bait, and if Wendell’s too paranoid to approach him in jail, he can always contact Dana. Or Michael, his oldest, who has a child Wendell’s never seen. Even his ex-partner, Carl, is a possibility.” It all sounded weak, but what was I going to do? Fake it, that’s what.

Mac stirred. “You can’t run a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the whole lot of them. Even if we hire other ops on this, you’re talking thousands of dollars going out, and in return for what?”

“True enough,” I said. “Do you have a suggestion?”