I’m a little bit of a puzzle, I’m afraid. I look Chinese. That’s because I’m half Chinese and half Cherokee. Unfortunately, I never knew my parents, a story for later maybe. I was adopted by an elderly white couple from Phoenix. I speak English, no Chinese. But in keeping with the stereotype, I’m very good at math. I became an accountant, one who specializes in forensic accounting, which means I investigate criminals, people who try to cook the books. I also acquired a private investigator’s license when I moved to San Francisco.
I’ve never met Mr. Lehr, though he is my major client. I talk to him on the phone, or we converse by email. He is an important man in the city. He owns a lot of property, from which he earns a handsome living. I help him by looking into his investments for signs of fraud, embezzlement or kickbacks— any criminal behavior tied to the handling of money.
My private investigator’s license allows me to look into the past behavior and associations of people with whom Mr. Lehr does or might do business.
“Strand, listen,” Lehr said in a gravelly whisper. “You know the Fog City Arts Center? I’m on their board. Some crazy shit is going on down here. The staff is ready to mutiny. I told the board you’d go down, look into things.”
“What things?”
“The crazy stuff. You need to see Madeline Creighton. She’s the executive director. So arrange things and straighten it out.”
A good walk clears the brain, I’ve found. As I was walking to the arts center the next morning, I mulled over the events of the evening before. I realized that aside from mad Madeline, Emelio had already introduced me at his party to the key players—the family-oriented sales guy Craig Anglim, the attractive events overseer Vanessa Medder and down-to-earth architect Marguerite Woodson—the people I most wanted to interview. These three—five, including Madeline and Emelio—were in the best position to have access to substantial amounts of money.
The doors to the foundation were locked. The hours of operation painted on the glass doors told me I was fifteen minutes early.
I heard the water lapping at the pilings. I went to the edge and looked over. To my surprise there was a large turtle, a sea turtle. Its dark, shiny shell might have been five feet long. When our eyes met, it disappeared.
What a strange creature. A living being with its own mobile home. The moment it is observed, it hides— in the ocean or in its shell. We can see it, but only as much as it wants us to see. As is the case with all of us, it cannot completely ignore reality, but, more than most of us, it can withdraw from it.