Rory leaned on the bar, his face close to mine.

"Do you know of Bravo Consulting Limited?"

"I might have heard the name, why?"

"Your client is Ellington Bravo's granddaughter!"

"So?"

Rory stood back, arms in the air in defeat. "Do you read, listen to, or watch any news besides weather and sports?"

"Apparently I'm going to get it all right now, in one big dose."

Twenty minutes later, in one of the booths, for privacy, Rory recounted the Bravo family scandal, and the financial street's rumours over the firm's solvency. I sat silent, listening with a growing concern over just what I might have let myself in for.

"For a gumshoe, Christopher, you are sorely lacking."

"Hey, just because I don't wallow in the society pages."

"Or business, finance, and general news of the world."

"Fine. You made your point. Doesn't change anything about what I'm supposed to do."

"How are you going to do that, counsel him? Beat him up? Pay him off? What?"

"Hey! Lemme meet the guy first."

"Well you better think of something, pal, Jarmon Wyatt ain't gonna just listen and say, oh gee, okay. Thanks for your interest."

"I'll come up with something when the time comes."

"Just make sure it isn't when your time comes."

We left the booth and went back to the bar. I drained my glass and nudged it toward him.

"And when might that be? My time." I tried for sarcasm but failed; Rory had planted some doubt.

He poured another dollop and tossed in another piece of lime. "This makes us even again."

I sighed and squeezed the lime juice into the drink. "Such a prince you are, Rory."

"I worry about Nora too, Christopher. She deserves to be kept informed about your shenanigans."

"Nora's actually going to be home tonight. It's been quite a while; time to celebrate."

"Well don't let your inexperience spoil that."

●○●○●○●○●

Ellington Bravo had felt downright cheery for the first time in a long while. He'd known the feeling was transient, but with the ongoing stress dogging every waking moment, it was an oasis of relief. Lawrence's action held out a possibility of success, but time passed quickly and with few concrete results.

Carleton glared at his cell phone and slammed it shut. It was fine for Ellington to keep rubbing his hands in hope over Lawrence's manoeuvring, but he was getting annoyed at having to monitor it and issue minute-by-minute reports. With not much more than a week to go, the plan was losing a lot of its original lustre.

He pondered his situation and thought, if Cynthia emerged victorious in all this he could conceivably be in position not only to direct the trust, but see a sizeable portion go his way. All depending, of course, on whether Ellington could replenish it in time.

A covert cultivation of Cynthia might just be a prudent move; he would be the friendly counsellor and advisor. The kindly old family 'uncle'. Following this belt and suspender philosophy, the idea could yield impressive returns for minimum investment.

He just had to hope Ellington could rescue the trust while still appearing sympathetically loyal. In Carleton's world, loyalty was more a commodity and less an attribute.

He cast his first tentative line in Cynthia's direction, thrilled beyond belief when she almost instantly welcomed his overtures. He felt that she believed having the company lawyer on her side could be a definite plus down the road - the very short road to the end of the month.

As the anniversary approached, so did the circle of sharks.

Day 1 of 9 days

I rolled out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a kid heading for school. Nora grumped, bashed her pillow around and fell back into her gentle snore. I grabbed my clothes and staggered into the bathroom, shocked by the person waiting to greet me in the mirror. I thought of Robert Montgomery in Lady in the Lake, where he was only seen in reflections in the film.

In one scene, he was examining a black eye. I looked again and saw a similarity, only mine was due to lack of sleep - and there were two of them. Nora had arrived home bubbling with excitement over a court case she won, and insisted on drinking the gift bottle of champagne her partners had given her.

I couldn't permit her to do that alone, so I contributed my own exciting news as she readied for bed, and only managed a positive, supportive grunt before she crashed into a noisy sleep.

As I chiselled away my beard, I made a mental list of the day's activities; a visit to Jarmon Wyatt at his company - end of list. With a final comb of my hair and a mouth rinse, I returned to the bedroom to find Nora awake and going over papers from her briefcase.

"Did I wake you?" I asked, bending down and kissing her cheek.

"Yes."

"Oh... sorry." Usually I get a more diplomatic response; must have been the champagne overload. "Any chance you'll be home for dinner... at dinner time?"

"There's always a chance, Wallace." She always called me by my last name, now our last name. "But don't cook anything time sensitive."

I laughed. Yeah, right. Me cook. "Very well darling, I'll just live in hope."

"Be careful out there, Wallace. No gangsters or molls, okay?"

"Strictly stray cats and lost umbrellas, dear." She'd obviously missed my news.

Nora cocked an eyebrow and blew me a maternal kiss.

●○●○●○●○●

The Howden Hotel was like a gravy spot on a light coloured tie, a throwback, ten-storey dirty brick and mortar structure with concrete sills and trim, around French glass windows, and a French Provincial roof, like a stubby rain hat, of dark green shingles. It sat uncaring, mid-block, among smart offices, and modern commercial buildings.

I always tried to start my day here after leaving the house because Rory sometimes gave me free coffee. I made terrible coffee. Today it was a perfect fit because the Howden sat in the zone between the entertainment district and the financial quarter, and as it turned out, not very far from Jarmon's business.

The joe gave me a charge and Rory didn't. So far so good. I left my car at the hotel and walked the few long blocks to Jarmon's offices. At least that would guarantee I got there. The noises coming from underneath my car sounded like an MRI machine.

At one corner, where a large indescribable sculpture of cement and twisted copper pipes stood, inside a border of natural boulders, I stopped to share a smoke with a small gathering of the city's sinners.

The next block along, on a small side street, facing a scraggly little park just large enough for a couple of lunch hour benches, was another blemish, squatting amidst spanking new condominiums and offices of gleaming glass, cement and stone.

Deadline occupied a couple of rooms behind frosted glass doors on the fourth floor of a building that must have known somebody, or it would have been torn down long ago. I took an old brass-gated elevator to the floor and paused to listen at both doors, hearing nothing, but sensing the offices were occupied. I went in.

A middle-aged man with a well trimmed, beard looked up from his computer and greeted me in a thick European accent.

"I'm looking for Jarmon Wyatt," I said, louder than necessary.

"Mr. Wyatt out."

"Will he be back soon?"

"Mr. Wyatt out."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Mr. Wyatt out." Spoken with emphasis.

"Could you give him this please." I handed over one of my precious business cards and watched it sail into a tray on the corner of his desk. "Okay. Thanks."

At the end of the hall was a stairway with an attractive old wooden banister, and I let my hand polish the ancient patina all the way back down to the ground floor. So far, not so good. One of the benches in the little park across the street looked inviting, and I lit up a smoke, considering my next move.