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  “You know me, Bryce,” Jane Ann was saying wryly, her expression controlled and calibrated. “A veritable woodsprite, popping up here and there, bringing joy wherever I go. Is Matilda the bald one?”

  Bryce nodded. “A fashion victim, I’m afraid, but she could become a gifted poet.”

  “So could a million nerds with a million word processors.”

  Suddenly the young man made a speech. “I got to take a leak and make a call. Meet you in the Jag.” He punched a button and was gone.

  Bryce was still digesting his brief presence when Jane Ann asked a question. “Mom around?”

  “In the conference room. Why?”

  “My beemer got stolen.”

  “When?”

  “Last week some time. I left it on Folsom for a few days.”

  “Why on earth did you do that?”

  Jane Ann shrugged casually. “Some guy offered me a ride in a Ferrari.”

  Bryce glanced at the groaning elevator. “Does that mean you and Lloyd are through?”

  Jane Ann waited till he looked at her. “It means Lloyd doesn’t have a Ferrari.”

  Bryce seemed less pained by the implication of promiscuity than by the news that Lloyd was still in her life. “Did you report the theft?” he managed.

  “That’s what I’m doing now,” Jane Ann said, and flounced out of the room in search of some reinsurance from her mother.

  Bryce looked at me with the parent’s familiar stew—a mixture of pride and pain. “She’s a wonderful girl—bright, talented, articulate—and I love her very much. But I’ll always be the ugly stepfather, I’m afraid. Which is too bad, since she’s going through a rough time right now, trying to decide who she is and what to do with her life. Wild parties, lots of drugs I’m quite certain, living with that young man—he calls himself a musician but he doesn’t seem to own an instrument.” Bryce smiled bleakly and shook his head. “They always think they can put a stop to it before it gets out of hand, don’t they? But sometimes they can’t. Right, Marsh? Sometimes they just get lost in the hubbub.”

  I decided not to mention Margaret’s similar concern. “A pretty common situation,” I said instead.

  “I just wish I could be more of an influence. Her father has always lavished far too much money on her—at some point he became afraid to say no to anything Jane Ann asked of him, I suppose because she always threw such tantrums when she didn’t get her way. So she got the impression early on that money and the things it buys would solve all of her problems. But it obviously hasn’t, because beneath that outrageous exterior Jane Ann’s essentially insecure. Perhaps even frightened. And Margaret’s response to the situation has been to keep doing more and more of what’s already been done, because she feels guilty about not being close to Jane Ann in her early years.” Bryce shook his head sadly. “Both of her parents act as though a ton of money will keep Jane Ann out of trouble, when in my opinion the opposite is more likely to occur.”

  “If you’re so worried, why don’t you do something about it?”

  Bryce shook his head. “Whenever I try to interfere, one of them makes reference to Periwinkle’s latest balance sheet, which calls into question my competence and effectively shuts me up. But someone needs to do something—Jane Ann seems to be becoming increasingly manic and self-destructive. But as long as she sees me as little more than a leech upon her mother’s assets, I won’t have any influence for the better.”

  His expression became the frame for a heartfelt plea. “Which is why this book is so important to me, Marsh. It could save my business, and maybe Jane Ann, too.”

  He handed me the photocopies. My thoughts more on Jane Ann than on his manuscript, I gathered the papers in my lap and left Bryce Chatterton to the potent devices of his wife and stepdaughter and the ominous lad named Lloyd.

  Oblivion is delivered by a variety of servants—booze and drugs, music and madness, quite often by theology. Since I first read Robinson Crusoe and The Deerslayer, my own assistant has been fiction—I’m more familiar with the sleeping streets of Gibbsville and the teeming fields of Yoknapatawpha than I am with the grandeur of Pacific Heights or the raucous blocks of Mission Street, though I’ve never been out of California.

  But in the circumstances in which I find myself, to be oblivious is to die.

  Homage to Hammurabi, p. 88

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  About the Author

  Stephen Greenleaf (b. 1942), a former lawyer and an alumnus of the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop, is a mystery and thriller writer best known for his series of novels starring PI John Marshall Tanner. Recognized for being both literate and highly entertaining, Greenleaf’s novels often deal with contemporary social and political issues.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1987 by Stephen Greenleaf

  Cover design by Drew Padrutt

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2731-1

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