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  “Not a bad idea,” Michael said, handing her the keys.

  Q tucked her hand into Jane’s as they stood and waited for Monica to stop in at the ladies’ room. Late diners across the room were talking quietly, when one, a woman, squealed and rubbed her cheek. She held out her hand to her husband who said loudly, “It’s just a pearl, isn’t it?”

  Q squeezed Jane’s hand hard. Jane watched her niece bite her bottom lip.

  “Next time, honey,” she said. “Maybe next time it’ll be us.”

  Monica and Q climbed into the backseat and were asleep on each other’s shoulders within one minute of leaving the parking lot.

  Michael gave Jane instructions, but knew his sister’s excellent sense of direction and trusted her to find her way back to his house, a fairly straight shot down six miles of freeway.

  “So you’re not a collector anymore, Mikey?” asked Jane. “Doesn’t your wife ever look in drawers?”

  “Not if she thinks they’re empty. C’mon . . . like you tell Charley everything.”

  “I’d tell him if someone threatened to kill me.”

  “I thought we were talking about baseball cards,” said Michael.

  Jane waited.

  “You saw how quickly the guy backed down. That Joe must have some kind of birthmark or something. When I’ve been confronted, all the jerks needed to do was get a good look at my face to know I wasn’t the guy they wanted.”

  “Yup,” said Jane. “You’ve had pretty patient guys, you know, the kinds that get up close to look at you. What if some real thug thought he spotted the crook who ripped him off and he didn’t bother to come across the room. What if he had a gun?”

  “This detective thing’s getting to you, Janie. This isn’t cops and robbers. This is real life. No one is going to shoot me because I look like an Internet huckster who sells phony signed rookie cards. Next exit, then left,” Michael said, sinking down into his seat.

  “Roseville,” said Jane.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Jane, pulling the BMW into her brother’s driveway, next to the babysitter’s hatchback.

  “For a minute I thought you were going all Citizen Kane on me,” said Michael. “Look at my women back there,” he said softly. “Aren’t they something? And now I’ve got a son, too. I’m lucky, Janie. I’ve got everything in the world I want.”

  Jane smiled but didn’t comment. Maybe it was because she used to work in advertising, maybe it was because she now made her living in two worlds, both of which were strongly influenced by need and greed, but she had never known anyone, anywhere, any time, who had everything he wanted.

  After helping Michael get Q and Monica, a surprisingly heavy sleeper, into the house and up to bed, Jane made herself a cup of ginger tea. Setting her cup on the coffee table, using one of Monica’s many Pottery Barn coasters, Jane carefully slid open the drawer where Q’s stamp collection was stored. Jane reached behind it and pulled out the white cardboard box labeled “baseball cards.” Inside were loose cards—Jane was pleased that none were rubber-banded together. She wasn’t a collector of sports cards, but she had found them for several clients and true collectors despaired when they saw perfectly fine collectible cards damaged by the wear and tear of the rubber band.

  “A 1951 Bowman Mantle rookie card,” whispered Jane aloud. It didn’t take an expert to know that this was one valuable card. Odd, though, since 1951 would have been a little early for her little brother’s boyhood collection. There were other rookie cards in the box, too, some of them signed. Most of the players were names Jane recognized, Hall of Famers, legends. Some were from before Michael’s time, before Jane’s time, and some played long after Michael’s collecting days. Her brother must have been acquiring these as an adult. Jane estimated that the box was worth several thousand dollars. These were certainly not his childhood cards. Nellie had not spared Michael’s baseball collection from her ruthless purges of their childhood treasures after all. Ha! Jane thought. Even if she did like you best, you had to buy back your childhood memories just like I did.

  A piece of acid-free paper separated the top layer of cards from another layer. Jane lifted a corner of the tissue, expecting to see more of the same, cards of similar value. Oddly . . . surprisingly . . . she saw exactly more of the same. One, two . . . six Bowman Mantle rookie cards. Five Hank Aarons. Five Jackie Robinsons. Four Nolan Ryans. All rookie cards. And although Jane was certainly no expert in sports memorabilia or ephemera, she was pretty sure, based on the sheer quantity of such rare and valuable cards, all mingling together in one box, most—if not all—of these cards had to be fakes.

  3

  When her alarm rang at 6 A.M., Jane sat up in bed, startled out of a dream where miniature baseball players chased her with bats, pelting her with orange and blue baseballs. She wasn’t surprised by the dream, only by the fact she had managed to sleep at all.

  After discovering her brother’s secret stash of baseball cards, she had returned to the guest room, and packed for her next-day, early departure, arguing with herself over what she should do. She had poked her nosy nose into business where it didn’t belong and found out something she shouldn’t know. Something she didn’t want to know.

  Was Michael a crook? An Internet scam artist?

  Of course not. He was a lawyer working for a real estate firm and making a magnificent salary. He and his family were more than comfortable, living in a lovely home just outside of Palm Springs. He didn’t need to nickel-and-dime his way through an Internet baseball card forgery racket. The whole idea was ridiculous.

  Then again, Mantle rookie cards might be worth a few thousand dollars. Not exactly nickels and dimes. Monica had expensive taste and could only work part-time since the baby was born. And maybe the new baby had put a strain on their budget. Maybe Michael had lost money in the stock market. Hadn’t everyone? How could a real estate firm still be making money? Maybe he was a gambler and had debts . . . they weren’t that far from Las Vegas . . . maybe he had fallen into a bad habit . . . losing their life savings at the blackjack table. It was this line of thinking and questioning that had kept Jane up most of the night. There was no answering to accompany the questioning. She had no idea what, if anything, she should do about the cards. After all, maybe this was partly her fault. She had been a lousy sister, avoiding a visit for years.

  Jane had to be honest. Hadn’t she resented Michael moving so far away? She had envied his easy relationship with Don and Nellie—birthday cards and bouquets, a holiday visit every five years or so, the occasional swing through Kankakee when he was in the Midwest on business. Michael had absented himself from the day-to-day of Don and Nellie and the EZ Way Inn, and Jane was jealous that he didn’t get the daily calls, the nags, the judgments, the worries, the criticisms, the . . . oh hell, how had she managed to make it Michael’s fault that Nellie loved to torment Jane?

  And if Jane had stayed in closer touch, been a better older sister? Might she have saved Michael from this fall into fraud? Oh God, how serious was this crime? If Michael were knowingly selling forgeries . . . ? Was that a felony? Was he sending them through the mail? Did that make it a federal offense? How much time would he have to serve? Jamey wouldn’t even know his father, unless Monica brought him to the prison for visits, and although Jane liked Monica well enough, she just wasn’t sure enough of her grit—could she stick with a man in prison? And Q. What would happen to Q?

  Jane would step up. That’s all there was to it. She’d be a real aunt to her niece, take her to all the places she had promised her in postcards and funky souvenir gifts. Every stamp that Q cherished? Jane would take her to the country where it originated.

  The problem, of course, with speculation of the magnitude in which Jane was engaging was that it begged hundreds of questions without answering one. And the one for which Jane needed an answer was whether or not her brother, Michael, was a crook.

  “Are you meeting Tim at LAX, then flying back to Chicago together?” Michae
l asked, holding up the coffeepot to offer Jane a refill.

  “Joe?” said Jane.

  “As in ‘cuppa’?” asked Michael.

  “As in, are you Joe? Do you have anything to do with the Internet scam that these guys have been accusing you of?”

  Michael set down the coffeepot. With a quick look through the kitchen door toward the stairs that led to the bedrooms where his wife, daughter, and baby boy still slept, he came over to the table where the breakfast he had made for his sister remained untouched.

  “I am not, nor have I ever been, a character named Joe. I haven’t sold anything under false pretenses on the Internet. I have not broken any laws or committed any acts of fraud,” said Michael. “And that’s all I am going to say about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I want to get to the bottom of this, and I have to ask, you know, because—”

  “Don’t tell me why you have to ask, okay?” said Michael. “It’s fine. You asked, I answered. Now I have a question.”

  Jane nodded.

  “Who asked you to get to the bottom of this?”

  “Why do I need to be asked? You might not think you’re in any danger, but if you’ve been threatened . . . not just here, last night, but in other parts of the country . . . ? Someone who looks just like you has pissed off a lot of people, Michael, and you might think it’s nothing, or at the most a minor aggravation, but it’s dangerous. It’s dangerous for you and your family. What if you’re out with Q or the baby and someone comes along who thinks you’re the guy who ripped him off on the Internet? And this guy decides to stay at arm’s length so he can throw a punch first and look into your chameleon eyes later? Then it won’t be an amusing little story to tell over drinks—how you look like some con man.

  “According to Ralph Mowbry, our contractor pal from last night, this Joe character lives in Illinois, and I am going to find him and shut him down—or at the very least, get his picture off the Internet, so you are not mistaken for your evil twin. Who’s my client? You’re my client, Michael, whether you hire me or not.”

  “Am I supposed to sign a contract?” Michael asked.

  “What’s a contract for?” asked Q as she came in the door. “Can I go to the airport with you?”

  Jane prepared herself for an unpleasant flight to LAX, but this time, the small plane afforded a fairly smooth ride. Her thoughts remained unsettled, though, offering a bumpy ride of another sort. She had looked into her brother’s eyes at the breakfast table and believed what he told her, but something about that box of too-good-to-be-true baseball cards was much too good to be true. Q had come along on the ride to the airport, preventing any further discussion of the matter, so that’s what she was left with—an honest-eyed declaration from Michael that he had nothing to do with con man Joe.

  Jane and Tim had not planned to meet at LAX; they were flying back to Chicago separately. Since their arrivals in Chicago were only thirty-five minutes apart, they would meet in baggage claim at O’Hare and take a Northshore taxi back to Jane’s house in Evanston. Even though Jane hated flying, especially alone, especially on such a long flight, she was grateful to have the time to think through a plan of action. Michael might not have signed a client contract, but he had agreed she should—if she so desperately wanted to—pursue the identity mix-up, as he preferred to call it, and Q was her witness.

  Jane was a list-maker. She didn’t know if it was the way all professional detectives worked . . . she had only been semipro for a few months . . . but Detective Oh always nodded when she took out the small notebook she used for her pickers “want” list, and went through the facts established or questions raised while working on a case. She would have to admit to Oh that she hadn’t made it to her licensing exam last month when she returned to their office . . . of course, if she was already busily working on this new case . . . perhaps he would forget to ask about it.

  1. Call Ralph Mowbry to find address of the phony Roseville dealer—where he sent his check.

  2. E-mail Michael for a complete description of those who had confronted him—all details—location, description, what they said . . .

  3. On which Internet auction site did Mowbry shop? eBay? What are the other auction sites?

  4. Check price on a 1951 Bowman Mantle rookie card.

  Jane knew there should be more on this list, but as the plane flew over the Grand Canyon, her lack of sleep caught up with her and she closed her eyes. Before drifting into one of those quasi-naps that airplane travel allowed, she thought about her brother’s eyes. Why was everyone so quick to believe they had been mistaken when they got in his face?

  The gods of travel were on the side of Jane Wheel this Thursday morning. She had planned on her plane being delayed or Tim’s flight being late, so she had carried two paperbacks and three small notebooks in her giant purse. The only thing for which she was unprepared was a calm, tanned Tim Lowry standing next to the baggage carousel sipping a latte from the coffee kiosk.

  Tim was good-looking in such an old movie-star way. Retro handsome was how Jane thought of him. A Cary Grant or a young William Holden. Light on his feet somehow. He had been Jane’s best friend since first grade and, since he had lost his own partner a few years back, and no one had come along yet to replace him, Tim was devoted to Jane. More precisely, devoted to Jane as well as devoted to improving Jane.

  “Stretch your face a little, sweetie, you have sleepy cheeks,” Tim said, draping one arm around her for a quick hug, holding his latte high and away with his other.

  “How does somebody not get those lines?” said Jane, rubbing the side of her face.

  “The good news is they still go away. In a few years, we’ll look in the mirror and think we slept funny, then realize the joke’s on us for good. I saw some magnificent Botox usage in L.A., though, after you left.” Tim spotted Jane’s case and grabbed it as he continued the conversation, just as if he and Jane had not been separated for three days.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” said Jane, hugging him again.

  “It’s only been seventy-two hours,” said Tim.

  “I thought you might stay there. I thought I might get here and find some uniformed airline personnel with a letter on a silver tray announcing your decision to take up permanent residence in Los Angeles,” said Jane. “I was a little worried. You were so happy there. . . .”

  “I’m happy everywhere. That’s cute, though, that you were worried and that you thought I could produce a miracle like that. Can you imagine airline personnel actually on duty in baggage claim? You are one cockeyed optimist.”

  At Jane’s house, Tim disappeared into the guest room, his room as he referred to it. Jane did have to admit that no other guest had ever spent the night in the fourth bedroom, a fact that actually seemed pathetic when she allowed herself to think about it.

  No phone messages to review since she had forwarded the house phone to her cell. Who would have called anyway? Detective Oh had been in California with her. Tim was there, too. Charley and Nick were in South America and called weekly on her cell. Jane stared at the phone and the vintage leather address book that sat next to it on the forties wooden phone table with attached seat.

  “I have got to get some new friends,” she said aloud, then realized she was staring at a blinking light. “Whoa, maybe I’ve got one.”

  She had turned her cell off before boarding the plane in Palm Springs and reversed the forwarding. It always surprised her when pushing buttons, answering prompts, and clicking any kind of mouse, pound sign, or highlighted text actually gave her the information, performed the task, or got her where she wanted to go.

  “Yeah? Where are you? Aren’t you in California? Don’t you get home today? Call me. It’s your mother. Nellie. Oh all right, Don, I know it. But what if somebody checks the calls before they get to her? You don’t know how they work, either, for God’s sake, I—” Next, a click, then dial tone.

  Right. Jane had accounted for Oh, Tim, Charley, and Nick, but, momentaril
y, she had forgotten her best phone-a-friend buddy. Her mother. Nellie. As her mother herself had so eloquently described herself.

  Jane would call Nellie back, of course. After coffee, after some unpacking, after dinner, after a Grey Goose, after two . . . at the least, after a hearty debriefing with Tim.

  “So I went to this sort of seminar with my friend Bill,” said Tim. “He’s into this kind of spiritual stuff and this workshop was being given by a psychologist who promised a kind of self-awareness, self-discovery, self-empowerment . . .”

  “Is this going to end with you handing me the latest self-help book by Belinda St. Germain?” asked Jane.

  “Close. Actually, though, part of this lecture I really liked. It was about living life through family groups. He said, in order to find peace and happiness and success and all that, you had to be aware that you always needed the same family members with you during each stage of your life.”

  “Right, well, Nellie’s always right here in my pocket. . . .” said Jane, patting her cell phone.

  “No. It’s more like archetypal family members. You always need an elder and a child and a feminine companion and a masculine companion and a spirit brother and a spirit sister and a teacher . . . I don’t know, there’s a few more, too, and when you lose someone, you’re adrift until you replace him or her . . . and some people stay adrift . . . and that’s when things go haywire. They drink or eat too much or whatever, trying to fill that empty slot. . . .”

  Tim got up and poured them both more coffee. “Like addictions to gambling and stuff, they’re just ways of filling up that emptiness when your family circle isn’t in order.”

  “This sounds a little New Agey for you, Tim,” said Jane.

  “Yeah,” said Tim. “But there was something about this guy, what he was saying. It makes sense, you know, that balance thing. You just need these certain figures, you know, in order . . .”