The Lost Coast

Chapter 1

I’d been off the force and out on my own for a year when I got a call from Peter Franchette.

We met in downtown Oakland, at the same sushi restaurant where I’d last left him on a rainy afternoon, sitting across from a sister he’d never met. I’d tracked her down for him—­a bit of extracurricular activity that was part of why I was off the force and out on my own.

The summer sun was harsh as he stepped in from the street. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. You shaved your beard.”

“And you grew one.”

I’d grown my hair out, too. The extra length masked a scar running from temple to nape.

“My wife likes me better this way,” I said.

We took a booth, put in our order, made conversation. Peter told me he’d kept in touch with his sister, closely at first. Then less so.

“She has her life, I have mine.”

I nodded.

“And you?” he asked. “Charlotte must be—­what. Four and a half?”

“Good memory. We have a son now, too. Myles.” I showed him my phone.

“What a bruiser. Am I wrong, or does he look like you?”

“Yeah, he’s a clone.”

“Cute. So how’s life as a private citizen treating you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Thanks for meeting on short notice.”

“No problem,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“This kid I mentor, Chris Villareal—­super-­bright guy. His company does interesting stuff with AI and traffic grids . . . Anyhow. He showed up to a recent meeting looking pretty distraught. His grandmother passed and named him executor of her estate. Without warning him.”

“Always a fun surprise.”

“From what I gather, there’s not much in terms of dollars. It’s just disorganized, and he’s run across some things that don’t feel right.”

“How so?”

“You’d be better off hearing it from him.”

“Has he spoken to an estate attorney?”

“I set him up with my person. She thinks it’s not worth the trouble, Chris should drop it.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

“I think it’s a matter of principle. He and his grandma were very close. The lawyer was the one who suggested a private investigator. She had a name but I thought of you.”

“Appreciate it.”

The server approached with our food.

I split a pair of chopsticks and sanded them together. “Have him call me.”

“Great.”

Toward the end of the meal, he said, “You know, you never cashed my check.”

The check in question was made out to my daughter for $250,000—­a reward for my efforts. At the time I was still a county employee, sticking to the rules. Most of them.

Crazy money for the job. Peter’s venture capital success had earned him more than I could imagine, but mega-­rich isn’t necessarily mega-­generous.

“I tried to,” I said. “The bank wouldn’t accept it. They said it was too old.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“What’d you wait so long for?”

“I didn’t want to get fired.”

He shook his head. “What I get for using paper . . . Well, look,” he said, digging out his phone, “at some point I decided you weren’t going to deposit it. So I made an end run.”

He began tapping at the screen. For a moment I thought he might zap me the money electronically, a quarter of a million dollars in a quadrillionth of a second.

Instead he turned the screen around as if to show off pictures of his own kids.

I saw a banking app, with one account, labeled charlotte edison—­529 plan.

“Technically it’s in my name. I didn’t know her Social. Happy to transfer it whenever you’d like. You can see for yourself, it’s done pretty well.”

The balance was $321,238.77.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think I should remind you,” I said, “I have a son now, too.”