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  “I’ll take your word for it. The reason I’m calling is, Grandma recently lost some money to a scam artist in California—”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m trying to piece together what happened. He called her several times. He was impersonating my brother, Michael.”

  “But Michael’s dead.”

  “Yes.” I hadn’t wanted to talk about Grandma’s mental failings, but there was no way to avoid it. “Grandma has had some memory lapses, and…well, she believed she was talking to Michael.”

  “I see.”

  “During one call he said he’d met you.”

  “I haven’t met anyone recently who was impersonating Michael.”

  “He wouldn’t have used the name Michael, I’m sure. He seemed to take an interest in the fact that you have the only surviving male descendants from your grandfather.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. I live in the mountains, and we’re somewhat isolated from the rest of the world. Like Elizabeth, my short-term memory is sometimes suspect, but I’m positive I’d remember anyone who talked to me about my genealogy. My grandfather was a Boyd. My grandson is the last remaining Boyd, unless he has a son, which I hope he does. The Boyds have a long heritage. He’s currently living the carefree life of a young single male, and I don’t know when that’s going to change—if ever.”

  Jason’s tone wasn’t totally approving.

  “I’m sure some girl will snag him. Well, my call was a long shot. Thanks for your time, Mr. Boyd.”

  “Please—Jason. After all, we’re cousins. Elizabeth and I had a lot of fun together when we were young. Tell me more about what happened to her.”

  Jason Boyd didn’t want to end the call. He sounded lonely. I told him the details about the grandparent scam. Then we chatted about how I had lost and recovered my identity and he asked about my life since. He told me he lived alone in Idyllwild, a village in the San Jacinto Mountains “over the mountain from Palm Springs.” His wife was dead and his children were scattered. His geographically closest relative was his only grandson, also named Jason, who was living in Los Angeles. He made me promise to visit him the next time I was in California. I said I would.

  I enjoyed talking to him, because he was interesting and because he was a cousin. After conversing with Jason for a while I carried the phone to Grandma so she could speak to him. Jason and Grandma carried on a lively conversation for fifteen minutes. I was glad of that. Grandma was depressed because of her mental problems.

  I asked Grandma where the name Jason came from. She chuckled and said she thought one of her ancestors had been enamored of the Greek myth that told about Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece.

  ***

  I went to the police station in response to Detective Johansson’s message, anxious to find out any news she might have about the scammer. Johansson met me in the lobby, shook my hand, and guided me to a small conference room. She laid a folder on the table, opened it, and pulled out a drawing of a man’s face. He was wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap.

  “This was done based on the description given by the clerk at the drug store who handed the money over to the perp. The same clerk waited on him both times. It was made by an LAPD sketch artist.” She handed it to me.

  The face was that of a light-skinned man with no unusual features, except his nose might be a little big. Several lines on his face indicated he might be middle-aged, but you really couldn’t tell age from a drawing like this. He appeared to be wearing a small ring in his left ear.

  I pointed to it. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “It’s an earring. The clerk noticed it. An earring in a man’s left ear supposedly means he’s straight, right ear gay, although that’s not the unanimous opinion. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice much else about the man except that he was well dressed—meaning he was wearing jeans and a clean, generic T-shirt.” She chuckled and glanced at a written report. “Caucasian, hair color unknown, eyes unknown, no scars or other unusual characteristics noted. Medium build. Age unknown but not old. Oh, there’s one other thing mentioned.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He seems to have some sort of problem with his hands. The clerk said it looked like he had the creeping crud.”

  I smiled. “That’s descriptive. Do the Los Angeles police have any leads?”

  “Unfortunately, no. No similar scams have been reported to them. Mrs. Horton appears to be his only victim. They’ll let us know if anything turns up.”

  “Were you able to trace the cell phone number?”

  “It was a prepaid phone. There’s no name or account associated with it.”

  “This isn’t much to go on. May I have a copy of the report and the picture?”

  “I’ll get copies made for you.”

  I waited while Johansson went off to make copies. Why had I asked for copies? What could I do with them? I didn’t know. I wanted to feel useful. One thing Grandma’s problems accomplished was to shake me out of my lethargy.

  CHAPTER 5

  I returned from my morning run wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, with the matching top tied around my waist. The days were getting warmer and my spirits were improving. It wasn’t only the weather. I had a purpose to my life—taking care of my grandmother.

  Grandma had granted me financial power of attorney. She didn’t resist, as I was afraid she might. She seemed happy to get rid of the responsibility. I moved her accounts to a new bank and discovered she was well fixed, financially, in spite of the loss of ten thousand dollars. I was thankful for that.

  I went into the house, determined to head upstairs and take a shower, but Audrey intercepted me in the front hall.

  “Frances Moran called. She wants you to call her back right away.”

  “Thank you.”

  I owed Frances my life, or at least my identity. She was the forensic genealogist who found my grandmother. She was very good at identifying bodies and finding people. I would do anything for her.

  I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the outlet on the refrigerator. Grandma was napping in the adjoining family room. I decided to make the call from my bedroom, upstairs, so I wouldn’t wake her. I chugged down the water, went to the stairs, and took them two at a time.

  I sat on my bed and punched in the number. Frances answered almost immediately.

  “Carol?”

  “Hi, Frances. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve got some information for you. I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

  Frances wasn’t one to waste time on pleasantries.

  “I don’t need any more bad news right now.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think you should hear this. Since we last talked, I’ve been dabbling in trying to find more relatives for you whenever I had a chance. You said Mrs. Horton was the only living relative you knew about and you’d like to know if you had any more. On your father’s side—your Japanese ancestry—all your relatives are in Japan, so I concentrated on your mother. I’ve found some distant Horton cousins of your grandfather, but the most interesting is the Boyd line through your grandmother.”

  “A few days ago I talked to a Boyd cousin on the phone—Jason Boyd. Grandma told me about him.”

  “Which Jason Boyd?”

  “That’s right; there’s more than one of them. The one I talked to is a first cousin of Grandma. He lives in California. He said his grandson is also named Jason.”

  “Right.” Frances was silent for a few seconds. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. The grandson has been murdered.”

  It took me a while to comprehend what Frances was saying. It felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “Murdered? What…what happened?”

  “It happened two days ago at his apartment building in Los Angeles. I found out when I Googled the name ‘Jason Boyd.’”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Frances wasn’t through.

  “I was just about to giv
e you the information I’ve uncovered. There’s more that you might not know, including more bad news. You and the Boyds are descended from another Jason Boyd who lived in Northern Ireland. The two sons from whom you’re descended immigrated to the U.S. in the early twentieth century. A third son stayed in the UK. He fathered a male line that has two brothers about the age of the murdered Jason. One of the brothers is named Timothy or Tim Boyd. He was murdered about a month ago.”

  “What?” A one-two punch.

  “I’m sorry to give you all the bad news at once, but of course the first thought that occurred to me is to ask whether these two murders are linked or just coincidence.”

  “All my relatives are dying, and I haven’t even met them.” I had a sudden impulse. “I want to go to Jason’s funeral.”

  “I thought you might say that. I believe it’s on Tuesday—two days from now. You said you spoke to the surviving Jason. He can give you the details. I hope you do come to California. I need to talk to you more about this. If I’m right, you may be in danger, too.”

  Frances helped the police solve cases involving genealogy and DNA. Her theories were worth listening to.

  “Do you think someone is trying to kill off the descendants of the original Jason?”

  “Perhaps not all of them. Maybe just the younger ones.”

  That was comforting.

  “Do you think my grandmother is in danger?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Just the same, as soon as I hung up I called the security service we’d used when Michael was on the loose and threatening Grandma, and arranged for them to keep an eye on the farm every few hours.

  Then I called the Jason who was Grandma’s first cousin. I thought I might have to leave a message, but he answered the phone. I could tell from his voice he was suffering. I told him how sorry I was about his grandson’s death.

  He said he was glad I called. “I was just leaving to drive into L.A. to make arrangements for the service and relatives who are coming. I was debating whether to call you or not. I didn’t think you’d want to come all the way to California for the service. You’ve never met us.”

  “I do want to come. This must be an awful shock for you.”

  “He and I were close. He came to visit me several times a year. I stopped in at his apartment anytime I was in L.A. I saw him more than any of my children. There’s going to be a memorial service on Tuesday. Jason was like me—a free spirit. The inside of a church wouldn’t be appropriate for him. It’s going to be outdoors—on the Palos Verdes Peninsula.”

  Palos Verdes. That’s where Michael threw me in a Dumpster, naked and unconscious. That’s also where Rigo, my savior, lived. That settled it. “I’m flying to California. I’ll see you at the service.”

  “That’s wonderful of you. I’m glad you’re coming. I’m reserving some motel rooms for Jason’s parents and other people. Do you want me to get one for you?”

  “No thanks. I’ll make a reservation at the same place I stayed the last time I was there.”

  “I can get you a good rate. It’s handy to the beach.” He mentioned the name and location in Redondo Beach.

  “That’s okay. I’m staying close by. But I appreciate the offer.” I wondered if he was willing to talk about the murder, or if it would open fresh wounds. “I-I haven’t heard any of the details.”

  “There was a party at the apartment building where he lived. Although there were a lot of people around when the murder took place, the police don’t have any good suspects. I’ll tell you everything I know when you get here. You said the man who scammed Elizabeth knew about our family. I know it’s a long shot—”

  “You think he might have killed Jason?”

  “Perhaps he has something against our family. I’d like you to talk to the police when you’re here if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.”

  The California police hadn’t helped me when I needed them, but I’d do this for Jason. I wondered whether he knew about Tim Boyd being killed in Northern Ireland. From what he’d said the first time I talked to him, he might not even know the Irish Boyds still existed. I decided not to bring them up yet.

  I filled Jason in on what I knew about the scammer, and we agreed going to the police was the best thing to do. At least it was a possible lead.

  ***

  After a couple of very early flights, I landed at LAX just before noon on Monday. Snow covered the tops of the mountains I saw out of the right side of the airplane during the approach—the same mountains visible from the home of Rigo’s parents. I was glad to be back. This was the second time I’d returned to Los Angeles since I’d regained my identity. The first time was to thank the people who’d helped me when I had amnesia: Rigo, who found me in the Dumpster, Rigo’s parents, and Frances.

  I took a shuttle bus to the rental car lot and picked up the Porsche with the stick shift I’d reserved. It wasn’t easy finding a car with a stick. One rental car employee claimed nobody knew how to drive them anymore. Renters ruined the clutches of the cars. After a number of phone calls I’d found one—possibly the last stick-shift car in Los Angeles under twenty years old.

  I knew I’d driven cars with a stick shift during the two years I spent in England, even though I couldn’t remember doing it. My muscles remembered, however. Now I would be shifting with my right hand instead of my left, but I was sure I could handle it.

  The Porsche wasn’t cheap to rent, but if I couldn’t spend my money the way I wanted, what good was it? In North Carolina I drove Grandma’s old Toyota Camry. Here I would be a different person.

  I slid behind the wheel of the bright red car. I fit nicely. It exuded the new-car smell. I started it and revved the engine a couple of times, feeling the suppressed power. I found reverse, backed out of the parking space, and then slid into first gear. Exiting the rental car lot, I drove to Sepulveda Boulevard and headed south toward Palos Verdes.

  The historic Sepulveda inexplicably disappears at Artesia Boulevard and becomes Pacific Coast Highway. I’d learned a lot about the geography of L.A. when I was trying to regain my identity, and it quickly came back to me. I drove to Redondo Beach on PCH, wishing I could go faster than the posted speed limits of thirty to forty-five. I would have to take the car out to the desert and open it up.

  I arrived at the motel in Redondo Beach where I’d reserved a room, and checked in. The room looked comfortable but not luxurious, with prints of surfers and beach scenes on the wall. The main piece of furniture was a king-size bed. It would serve my purposes very well. I took out my cell phone and sent a text message to Rigo: “Meet me at our motel 5:30, sooner if u can make it. C.”

  I’d emailed Rigo from North Carolina and told him I was coming today, but I was indefinite as to the time. This was deliberate. I had a standing invitation to stay at the beautiful home of Rigo’s parents, Tina and Ernie, where Rigo also lived. I loved them but I needed time alone with Rigo. Better they didn’t know I was here yet.

  The room telephone rang. Who could it be? If Rigo called me he would use my cell phone number. I picked up the receiver and said hello. It was the desk clerk. He said he had an envelope for me. Puzzled, I went around the corner to the office. The clerk apologized, saying it was delivered that morning by a pimply faced teenager, and he’d forgotten to give it to me when I checked in.

  I took the business-size envelope and scurried back to my room. On the outside of the envelope the name “CYNTHIA SAKAI” was printed, probably by a computer. I tore it open and pulled out a piece of white printer paper, neatly folded in thirds. The computer-printed contents read as follows:

  “I KNOW YOU’RE HERE. I KNOW EVERYTHING YOU DO. YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME. JASON BOYD GOT WHAT HE DESERVED. IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE WITH WHAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW YOU WILL TOO. YOUR GRAN BETTER REMEMBER THIS THE NEXT TIME I ASK HER FOR MONEY.

  MS”

  MS? Michael Sakai? Or at least the man impersonating Michael. This was creepy. I immediately called Grandma’s home on my cell
phone. Audrey answered. I told her I’d arrived safely in Los Angeles. I asked her if anyone had called today asking for me. No. Had she told anyone where I was going, and, especially, where I was staying? No. Had Grandma talked to anyone on the phone? Not as far as she knew, but she’d been out for a while.

  I didn’t want to alarm her or Grandma so I told her not to ask Grandma about it. Grandma might not remember, anyway. I told Audrey I’d received a message at the motel from someone, but Rigo probably told the caller where I was. Then I hung up. I stared at the message for a while but didn’t get any smarter.

  Could the scammer be hacking my cell phone? I’d called the motel from it to make the reservation. In today’s technological world, anything was possible. I’d have to be careful what I said while I was using it. But I was definitely going to take the letter to the police.

  I punched in the number for the office on the motel phone and asked the clerk if anyone had called asking for me.

  “Yes. A man called this morning and asked for you by name. When I said you weren’t due to arrive until this afternoon he said there was no message.”

  “Was that before the envelope was delivered?”

  “Yes, maybe an hour before.”

  Someone had hunted me down. Meanwhile, I was determined not to let this upset me. I would be very careful who I showed the letter to, because people like Rigo were always worrying about me. I belatedly started handling the letter with a tissue, folded it, and replaced it in the envelope. I placed the envelope in one of the many zippered pockets in my suitcase. I changed into shorts, athletic bra, and T-shirt. I pulled on my running shoes and headed out the door of the motel room toward the beach to run under the warm Southern California sun.

  ***

  I couldn’t remember many events from my pre-amnesia life, but I could remember some of the books I’d read. One science fiction anthology included a story that started something like this: “The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.”

  Before I rediscovered my identity, I sometimes felt like the last woman on earth. I remembered the feeling now as I waited for Rigo. Fortunately, he and his parents provided an anchor that held me to the ground so I didn’t drift off into the ether.