“Hey,” said the young man. Medium height, midtwenties, frizzy dark hair, uncertain brown eyes. Indoor complexion, the haunted good looks of a teen idol softened by residual baby fat. He slumped a bit. Wore a wrinkled blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, olive cargo pants, yellow running shoes with loose laces. Pen marks stippled his fingers. The Timex on his left wrist had seen plenty of action. Milo would’ve approved.

“Police,” said America, hazarding another touch of Blanche’s forehead.

The young man watched, amused. “Cool dog. Police? What about?”

“I’m not a police officer but I am working with the police on an investigation into a woman who worked here around ten years ago.”

“Working with how?”

I showed him the clip-on.

“Ph.D.? In what?”

“Psychology.”

“Excellent,” he said. “If all goes right, I’ll have one of those. Not psych, physics. Ten years ago? What, one of those cold cases? Profiling?”

“Nothing glamorous. It’s a financial investigation.”

“Into someone who worked here-you mean Cecilia? Dad neglected to take out Social Security?”

America tensed up.

I said, “Not Cecilia, a woman named Patricia Bigelow. But if Cecilia remembers her it would be helpful.”

He looked at America. She said, “I tell him Cecilia in Guatemala.”

“I remember Patty,” he said. “The nurse who took care of my grandfather.” Extending a soft, ink-speckled hand. “Kyle Bedard. What’d she do?”

“She died but it’s not about murder. I can’t get into details.”

“Hush-hush confidential,” he said. “Sounds interesting. Want to come in?”

America said, “Meester Kyle, your father say-”

Kyle Bedard said, “Don’t worry, it’s cool.”

She walked away, wringing the chamois, as he let me in.

All that stone lowered the temperature ten degrees. I took a closer look at the colonial painting and Kyle Bedard chuckled. “My parents overpaid for it at Sotheby’s because some art consultant convinced them it was a family heirloom. My bet is some hack turned out dozens of them for Victorian social climbers.”

A walnut door to the left topped by a limestone pedicle opened on a book-lined room. The décor was Rich Man’s Library: enough leather binding to sacrifice a herd, gold-tasseled blue velvet drapes suspended from an etched brass rod that blocked out the day and spilled onto brass-inlaid parquet flooring, a massive blue-and-beige Sarouk covering most of the wood.

A carved partner’s desk bore bronze Tiffany desk pieces. A dragonfly lamp emitted brandy-colored light. Leather armchairs sagged where bottoms had lingered. A few strategically placed paintings of hunting scenes completed the image.

The room Tanya had described, the old man sitting in his wheelchair, reading, dozing.

But warring elements had intruded: acid-green beanbag in the center of the rug, piles of textbooks and notebooks and loose papers, three empty fried chicken buckets, take-out pizza box, bags of chips in various flavors and hues, soda cans, beer cans, crumpled napkins, a dandruff of crumbs.

A sleek silver laptop rested on the beanbag, flashing eerie light as the screensaver shifted: A bug-eyed Albert Einstein morphed to sullen Jim Morrison then to the Three Stooges engaged in some spirited eye-poking then back to Albie. A charging iPod suckled through a well-kinked electric cord.

Rich man’s library meets college dorm.

The room smelled like a dorm.

Kyle Bedard said, “I’m working on some calculations, the solitude’s helpful.”

“Who else lives here?”

“No one. Dad’s somewhere in Europe and Mom lives in Deer Valley and Los Gatos.”

“Ph.D. calculations?”

“An infinite array.”

“Where do you go to grad school?”

“The U. Did my undergrad at Princeton, thought of staying back east. Realized I’d had enough ice and sleet and people who thought they were British.”

“What area of physics are you working in?”

“Lasers as alternative energy sources. If my committee accepts my dissertation, my big wish is snagging a postdoc working with a genius doing cutting-edge research at Lawrence Livermore Lab. It would be cool to be part of something millennium-changing.”

“Getting close to finishing?”

“My data’s in and my writing should be finished by next year. But you’ve been through it, there are no guarantees. Show up for the orals, some committee member wants to screw you, you’re screwed. I should practice my ass-kissing skills but the work keeps distracting me.”

“That was my attitude,” I said. “It turned out fine.”

“Psych, huh? Clinical?”

I nodded.

“Thanks for that snippet of confidence-building therapy-here, sit?” Removing the laptop from the beanbag, he plopped down.

I positioned an armchair to face him, placed Blanche in my lap.

“That is one idiosyncratic dog-kind of a primate thing going on there,” he said. “What is she, some kind of miniature bulldog?”

“French bulldog.”

“Don’t you mean Freedom bulldog?”

I laughed. He smiled.

“So you remember Patty Bigelow.”

“I remember who she was. Grandfather was alive then and my parents were still together. We lived up in Atherton, didn’t come down to see him very often. I always liked coming here-to this room, the smell of the books. The room my parents would never think of entering, God forbid they’d learn something. So I was able to get some peace and quiet. He’s got some great stuff there, really rare editions.” Pointing to the shelves. “How’d Patty die?”

“Cancer.”

“That’s a drag. What kind of financial investigation did that elicit and why?”

“All I can tell you is her death raised some questions and the police are going back and interviewing everyone she worked for.”

“And they send you to interview the crazy people?”

I smiled.

He scratched his head. “Are you saying Patty embezzled? That would sure fit Mom’s preconceptions.”

“No, she’s not suspected of anything.”

“Hush-hush confidential? I can dig that. If I do get that fellowship at Lawrence it’ll be lips-sutured-shut.” He flexed his feet and the beanbag squeaked. “Cancer…I don’t remember her as being that old…I’m guessing she’d be in her fifties?”

“Fifty-four.”

“That’s way too young,” he said. “One-third of deaths are due to cancer. A fact Mom keeps reminding me of because she confuses lasers with radiation and is convinced I’m going to fry myself…Patty had a daughter, younger than me, seven or eight. Each time we visited, she’d run away and hide, I thought it was a crackup. One time I got bored and wandered out to the backyard. She was sitting in the bushes, counting leaves or whatever, talking to herself. I thought she looked lonely but figured she’d freak out if I startled her, so I left her alone. It’s got to be tough, losing her mom.”

Squeak squeak. “Funny the things you remember.”

“Do you remember anything else about Patricia Bigelow?”

“Let’s see,” he said. “She seemed to be taking decent care of Grandfather and by the end he was pretty much out of it. Dad appreciated her.”

“Mom didn’t?” I said.

“Mom has an exaggerated sense of social class.”

“Embezzlement fits her preconceptions.”

“She assumes the underclass will inevitably steal and the underclass is defined as anyone not as rich as her. When I was growing up, the maids had to open their purses for inspections every time they left the house. She’s a suspicious person, by nature. I don’t see her very often.” Weak smile. “We’re not exactly a cohesive social unit.” His foot nudged a pizza box. “I should clean this place up but I probably won’t. When Dad comes home and gets irate, my excuse will be that I was too busy. My real reason for noncompliance will be getting Dad irate. Immature, huh?” He threw back his head, poked at an eye. “Ouch, contact’s rubbing-okay, now it’s good.”

I said, “When’s your father returning?”