The Ace of Spades

Chapter 1: The Woman with Cash

The ceiling fan in my office turned slow circles, pushing August heat from one corner to another without improving anything. I sat behind my desk with my tie loosened and my jacket draped over the back of the chair, reading the sports section of the Times and pretending the Dodgers still played in Brooklyn. The window was open two inches, and the noise of Broadway drifted up — car horns, a newsboy shouting about Korea, the clatter of a streetcar turning onto Fifth.

The door opened without a knock.

She stood in the frame like she'd been composed there by a portrait painter. Mid-thirties, dark hair pinned under a dove-gray hat with a narrow brim. Her suit was the color of good cream, cut close at the waist, and her gloves matched her handbag — both black, both expensive. She had the kind of face that looked calm until you studied it. Then you noticed the way her jaw was set, the faint tension around her eyes, the slight tremor in the hand that held the doorknob.

"Mr. Kelley?" she said.

"That's what it says on the glass." I folded the paper and stood. "Come in."

She crossed the room in three precise steps and sat in the client chair without waiting to be asked. She placed her handbag in her lap, opened the clasp, and took out an envelope. She set it on the edge of my desk.

"My name is Miriam Osgood," she said. "I need you to find my husband."

I looked at the envelope. It was thick.

"When did he go missing?"

"Three days ago. Tuesday morning. He left for work at seven-thirty, same as always. He never arrived at his office. I've called every hospital in the county and filed a report with the police. They told me to wait. I'm done waiting."

Her voice was steady, practiced. But her eyes kept drifting to the window, as if she expected someone to be standing on the fire escape.

"What does your husband do, Mrs. Osgood?"

"He's an accountant. He works for a real estate development firm called Coronado Partners. Their offices are on Wilshire, near La Brea."

"And the police said wait?"

"A detective named Poole took my statement. He said adults have the right to leave if they want to. He suggested Hugh might have — " She stopped. Her composure flickered, and for a moment I saw what was underneath: not grief, not yet. Fear. Pure and uncomplicated. "He suggested Hugh might have left voluntarily. That's not what happened."

"How do you know?"

"Because Hugh would never leave without telling me. We've been married nine years. He's methodical. He plans everything. If he were leaving, there would be a note, a letter, something. There's nothing."

I picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside were twenty-dollar bills, used, nonconsecutive. I fanned them with my thumb. There were a lot of them.

"That's five hundred dollars," she said. "Is that sufficient as a retainer?"

My standard retainer was fifty, plus expenses. I looked at her face, then back at the money.

"It's generous," I said carefully. "Most people write a check."

"I prefer cash."

There was a small silence. The ceiling fan turned. A car horn blared from the street below.

"All right," I said. I took a notepad from the top drawer and uncapped my pen. "Tell me about Hugh. Everything. Start with what he looks like and work your way out."

She described him in the clipped, efficient manner of someone who'd been rehearsing. Hugh Osgood: five-ten, a hundred and sixty pounds, brown hair going thin on top, brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Forty-one years old. Quiet. Didn't drink much. Didn't gamble. Drove a 1948 Ford Deluxe, dark green, which was also missing.

"Friends?" I asked.

"A few from work. He played chess on Thursday evenings with a man named Leonard Pryce, who lives in our building. Leonard hasn't seen him either."

"Enemies?"

She hesitated. It was brief — the space of a heartbeat — but I caught it.

"No," she said.

"You're sure."

"Hugh is an accountant, Mr. Kelley. He adds numbers for a living. He doesn't make enemies."

I wrote that down, underlined it, and drew a question mark beside it. People who don't make enemies don't vanish on their way to work.

"I'll need a photograph," I said.

She reached into her handbag and produced one. It was a studio portrait, recent. Hugh Osgood looked exactly as described — an ordinary man with an ordinary face, the kind you'd pass on the street without a second glance. He was smiling in the photograph, but it was the thin, careful smile of a man who wasn't entirely comfortable being looked at.

"I'll start today," I said. "I'll check with his office first, then work outward. I'll need your home address and a telephone number where I can reach you."

She gave me both. She lived in a decent building in Hancock Park — not rich, but comfortable. The kind of neighborhood where accountants lived if they were good at their jobs.

She stood, smoothing her skirt with gloved hands. "Mr. Kelley. One more thing."

"Yes?"

"I was told you used to be a police officer. That you left the department because you wouldn't cover for a partner who was taking bribes. Is that true?"

I leaned back in my chair. That particular story had made its rounds. Some people heard it and thought I was principled. Others heard it and thought I was a fool. I'd stopped trying to figure out which camp was right.

"It's true enough," I said.

"Good." She met my eyes. "I need someone who can't be bought."

She left. The door closed softly behind her. I sat there for a while, looking at the envelope full of cash and the photograph of a man who smiled like he had something to hide.

Then I put on my jacket, straightened my tie, and went to work.

---

Coronado Partners occupied the third floor of a limestone building on Wilshire Boulevard, sandwiched between a dentist's office and an insurance brokerage. The lobby had marble floors and a directory board with brass letters. Coronado Partners was listed as "Real Estate Development & Investment." The elevator was operated by an old man in a uniform who didn't look at me twice.

The third floor had glass doors with the company name stenciled in gold. Behind the doors was a reception area with a pretty brunette at the front desk and framed photographs of buildings on the walls — apartment blocks, shopping plazas, a hotel that looked like it was somewhere in Palm Springs.

The brunette looked up and smiled. "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to speak with someone about Hugh Osgood."

The smile dimmed. "Mr. Osgood is no longer with the firm."

"Since when?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

I gave her my card. She looked at it, then at me, then picked up the telephone and spoke quietly into the receiver. After a moment she hung up and directed me down a hallway to the last office on the right.

The nameplate on the door said CORNELIUS "DUTCH" LOFTUS — MANAGING DIRECTOR.

I knocked and went in.

Dutch Loftus was a big man who'd learned how to wear a suit. He was maybe forty-five, broad in the shoulders, with sandy hair combed straight back and a face that had been handsome once before it got thick. His office was paneled in dark wood and smelled like cigars and aftershave. He stood behind his desk but didn't come around to shake my hand.

"Mr. Kelley," he said. His voice was smooth, the kind of smooth you get from years of selling things to people who don't need them. "I understand you're asking about Hugh Osgood."

"His wife hired me. He's been missing since Tuesday."

"Missing." Loftus said the word like he was tasting it. He sat down and gestured at the chair across from him. I took it. "That's unfortunate. But I'm not sure how we can help. Hugh resigned on Monday. Came in, cleaned out his desk, and left. No notice, no explanation. We were as surprised as anyone."

"His wife says he left for work Tuesday morning and never arrived."

"Then I don't know what to tell you. From our end, he was gone Monday. Maybe he had plans he didn't share with her."

"Can I see his office?"

"He didn't have an office. He had a desk in the accounting bullpen. It's been reassigned."

"Already? It's been three days."

"We're a busy firm, Mr. Kelley. We can't leave a desk empty."

"What about his things? Files, personal items?"

"Boxed up and stored. Company policy when someone leaves without giving proper notice."

"I'd like to see the box."

Loftus smiled. It was the kind of smile that looked friendly if you weren't paying attention. "I'm afraid that's company property. Personnel files, financial documents — you understand. Confidentiality."

"His wife might feel differently."

"His wife is welcome to contact our legal department." He stood, signaling that the conversation was over. "I hope you find Hugh, Mr. Kelley. He was a good worker. Quiet. Reliable. But people do strange things sometimes."

I stood too. "One more question. Did Hugh seem worried about anything in the weeks before he left? Anxious, distracted?"

Something moved behind Loftus's eyes — a quick calculation, there and gone. "Not that I noticed. But then, Hugh wasn't the type to share his feelings. You know the type. Head down, pencil moving. A numbers man."

"Sure," I said. "A numbers man."

I left the office and walked back through the reception area. The brunette at the front desk was typing and didn't look up. I paused at the glass doors and looked back down the hallway. Loftus was standing in his doorway, watching me. When he saw me looking, he stepped back inside and closed the door.

I rode the elevator down and stood on the sidewalk, squinting in the afternoon glare. Something was off. Miriam said Hugh left Tuesday and never arrived. Loftus said Hugh quit Monday. One of them was lying, and right now I had no way to know which.

But I knew one thing: when a company boxes up a missing man's desk the same week he disappears, they're not following policy. They're cleaning up.

I lit a cigarette and started walking. I had work to do.