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me—’’
    ‘‘Now.’’ She hung up.
    Sanchez Marks filled the top floor of a Spanish-style building near the courthouse. Walking into the lobby, I looked out the full-length window at clouds hanging over the city, torn gray pressing on red tile roofs and sodden palm trees. A flock of sparrows darted past. Down the hall, the lights were on in Lavonne’s office. I finger-combed my hair, trying to look presentable. Jesse could carry off the scruffy-with-the-boss act, but he already had the job. I called her name.
    ‘‘Door’s open,’’ she called back.
    She stood at her office window, arms crossed. She was wearing black, from her slacks to her turtleneck. Her unruly dark curls and half-glasses completed the look: urban, eastern, as un-Santa Barbaran as she could possibly get. She’d only lived here for twenty-five years.
    I smoothed my track bottoms. ‘‘Excuse my getup. I was . . .’’ What, punching the bag? Hurling weights? Eating iron filings? ‘‘What’s urgent?’’
    She turned from the window. What could possibly make her so anxious to bring me on board today? And what was I going to say, yes or no?
    She took off her glasses. ‘‘I need to ask you a question. I want a frank answer.’’
    Uh-oh. Did she consider Jesse and me too combustible to work near each other? I tried to gauge her expression. She had only a few soft spots—for her bookish husband, for the zaftig daughters whose faces laughed from the photos on her desk, and for Jesse. She admired the way he lived his life. Fearlessly, doggedly. Throttle up. If it came to a choice between my boyfriend and me, I stood no chance with her.
    ‘‘Certainly,’’ I said.
    ‘‘Have you seen these before?’’
    She handed me a piece of paper. Confusion bit. It was a photocopy of three checks. With many digits, totaling almost five thousand dollars. Made out to Evan Delaney.
    ‘‘Did you cash those checks?’’ Lavonne said.
    My pulse thudded. ‘‘No.’’
    My gaze jumped over the photocopy. That was definitely my name, on the line that said, Pay to . Then I saw the account the checks had been drawn against, and nausea skated through me. Datura Incorporated .
    ‘‘What’s going on?’’ I said.
    ‘‘Those checks were stolen from Datura.’’
    Datura was an important client. This was bad news. Very bad.
    ‘‘I didn’t take them, Lavonne.’’
    Her shoulders lowered. ‘‘Then explain how they came to have your name on them.’’
    My legs felt like linguine. ‘‘I can’t.’’
    Datura Incorporated was the company set up to handle the business dealings of Karen Jimson and her husband Ricky—known in his day as Slink, front man for a band called Jimsonweed. They were hard-rock millionaires. They lived on a cloistered spread in Montecito, where Karen invested Ricky’s money, and Ricky planned his next comeback tour.
    The landslide had just slipped a few more feet. This wasn’t coincidence.
    ‘‘Karen called me at home an hour ago,’’ Lavonne said. ‘‘They’re giving me a chance to clean up this mess without involving the police. So if you have anything to say to me, say it now. She and Ricky are on their way over.’’
    I forced myself to breathe quietly. ‘‘Good. Let’s straighten this out right here.’’ But my lips felt numb. The last person I wanted to see at eight on a Saturday morning was Karen Jimson, the Iron Pixie.
    ‘‘You were out at the property three weeks ago, weren’t you?’’ Lavonne said.
    ‘‘That’s right. With the draft contracts for the Embarcadero syndication.’’ I tried to look at the date on the checks, but my vision was pulsing. ‘‘Is that when they were stolen?’’
    In the lobby, the elevator chimed. A moment later we heard a heated soprano voice.
    ‘‘Where is everybody?’’ Boot heels clacked on the hardwood floor in the hall.
    Lavonne put her glasses on. ‘‘Here.’’
    Karen appeared at the door. When she saw me, she crossed her arms and leaned against the