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He’d turned up nothing to link with this one.
    Finally Rae gave up and decided to have a glass of wine while she waited for Ricky to return from his recording company’s
     headquarters in LA.
    Then the phone rang. An informant with an address for Angie Atkins’s friend Callie—last name O’Leary.

MICK SAVAGE
    H e was really pissed off, and Celestina Gates wasn’t improving his mood any.
    She strode around the living room of her Nob Hill condominium issuing statements that boiled down to it’s-all-about-me and
     why-haven’t-you-found-out-who’s-ruined-my-life. Tall, willowy, with long dark hair, she normally would have attracted Mick.
Had
attracted him when he’d first met her. Now, instead of taking her to bed, he wanted to dangle her off her twelfth-story balcony.
    Being pissed off had to do with Shar’s condition: Gates’s problem seemed so trivial compared with what had happened to his
     aunt. His aunt, who had put up with his immaturity, mentored him, given him a sure direction in life.
    If this Gates bitch had anything to do with Shar’s shooting… He waited with gritted teeth till his client’s tantrum had passed,
     sitting on her red leather sofa and looking at the gray sky above the grim brownstone facade of the old Flood Mansion across
     California Street—a creation of famed architect Willis Polk that now housed the exclusive Pacific-Union Club. When Gates finally
     sat in a matching chair opposite him and fumbled with a cigarette and lighter, he said, “Ms. Gates, something’s wrong here.”
    “Of course something’s wrong! My life and career are destroyed!”
    “That’s not what I mean.”
    Her nostrils flared. “What, you think I’m not telling you everything?”
    She’d said it, he hadn’t. “Yes, I do.”
    “How dare you—?”
    He held up his hand. “Last night I was rereading the case histories you describe in
Protect Your Identity
. In each one, it took a long time for the individual to regain access to bank accounts and establish new credit card accounts
     and ratings.”
    Wary now. “Yes.”
    “I understand that as an expert on identity theft, this would be easier for you to accomplish than for a run-of-the-mill victim—even
     one using your book.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Yet you chose to hire our agency.”
    “Well, sometimes an objective investigator can do a better job than the individual involved.”
    “Uh-huh. You claim you’ve been financially ruined.”
    “I have been.”
    “This condo—your mortgage is ninety-five hundred and thirteen dollars a month.”
    “How do you—?”
    “And that Jaguar in the garage downstairs is leased for three thousand.”
    “… Right.”
    “Your credit cards are all clean, and over there in the foyer are five big shopping bags full of stuff from places like Gucci
     and Neiman Marcus.”
    “So what’s your point?”
    “You don’t seem to be hurting—at least not as badly as you’ve made it out to be.”
    “I’ve tapped into my savings—”
    “Your column’s been canceled, nobody wants you on TV, clients are running like hell from your consulting firm. And you told
     me a book contract’s on hold. You’re spending a lot for someone who’s living on her savings and has no prospects for future
     income.”
    She stubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. “I have an image to keep up.”
    “According to you, that image is ruined.”
    “All right, so I’m a compulsive shopper.”
    “I doubt that. You’re too savvy a businesswoman to yield to impulse.”
    “We all have our faults.”
    “And one of yours is lying.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Never lie to an investigator when you’re trying to pull off a scam, Ms. Gates. It’s too easy for us to check into your background,
     credit rating, and finances. I did, when I started feeling uncomfortable about you. Everything’s golden, except for a scam
     you pulled off before you left your hometown in Texas. And that’s been pretty well covered up; I