Jonathan Kellerman and Jesse Kellerman
The Lost Coast
To Faye
To Gabriella
One
Chapter 1
I’d been off the force and out on my own for a year when I got a call from Peter Franchette.
We met in downtown Oakland, at the same sushi restaurant where I’d last left him on a rainy afternoon, sitting across from a sister he’d never met. I’d tracked her down for him — a bit of extracurricular activity that was part of why I was off the force and out on my own.
The summer sun was harsh as he stepped in from the street. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all. You shaved your beard.”
“And you grew one.”
I’d grown my hair out, too. The extra length masked a scar running from temple to nape.
“My wife likes me better this way,” I said.
We took a booth, put in our order, made conversation. Peter told me he’d kept in touch with his sister, closely at first. Then less so.
“She has her life, I have mine.”
I nodded.
“And you?” he asked. “Charlotte must be — what. Four and a half?”
“Good memory. We have a son now, too. Myles.” I showed him my phone.
“What a bruiser. Am I wrong, or does he look like you?”
“Yeah, he’s a clone.”
“Cute. So how’s life as a private citizen treating you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Thanks for meeting on short notice.”
“No problem,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“This kid I mentor, Chris Villareal — super-bright guy. His company does interesting stuff with AI and traffic grids... Anyhow. He showed up to a recent meeting looking pretty distraught. His grandmother passed and named him executor of her estate. Without warning him.”
“Always a fun surprise.”
“From what I gather, there’s not much in terms of dollars. It’s just disorganized, and he’s run across some things that don’t feel right.”
“How so?”
“You’d be better off hearing it from him.”
“Has he spoken to an estate attorney?”
“I set him up with my person. She thinks it’s not worth the trouble, Chris should drop it.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“I think it’s a matter of principle. He and his grandma were very close. The lawyer was the one who suggested a private investigator. She had a name but I thought of you.”
“Appreciate it.”
The server approached with our food.
I split a pair of chopsticks and sanded them together. “Have him call me.”
“Great.”
Toward the end of the meal, he said, “You know, you never cashed my check.”
The check in question was made out to my daughter for $250,000 — a reward for my efforts. At the time I was still a county employee, sticking to the rules. Most of them.
Crazy money for the job. Peter’s venture capital success had earned him more than I could imagine, but mega-rich isn’t necessarily mega-generous.
“I tried to,” I said. “The bank wouldn’t accept it. They said it was too old.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“What’d you wait so long for?”
“I didn’t want to get fired.”
He shook his head. “What I get for using paper... Well, look,” he said, digging out his phone, “at some point I decided you weren’t going to deposit it. So I made an end run.”
He began tapping at the screen. For a moment I thought he might zap me the money electronically, a quarter of a million dollars in a quadrillionth of a second.
Instead he turned the screen around as if to show off pictures of his own kids.
I saw a banking app, with one account, labeled Charlotte Edison — 529 Plan.
“Technically it’s in my name. I didn’t know her Social. Happy to transfer it whenever you’d like. You can see for yourself, it’s done pretty well.”
The balance was $321,238.77.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I think I should remind you,” I said, “I have a son now, too.”
Chapter 2
I met Chris Villareal at his grandmother’s house in Daly City, a suburb of San Francisco also known as Little Manila. Her neighborhood, scaled with postwar tract housing, was walking distance to the Asian bakeshops and markets along Mission Street.
He’d arrived early. Boyishly handsome, he leaned against the door of a silver BMW coupe with a laptop pinned under his arm, tapping a sneaker and straining to smile beneath a crest of black hair.
Branded start-up T-shirt: the Bay Area’s tribal signifier.
He removed his sunglasses and hung them on his neckline to shake hands.
“My condolences,” I said.
“Thank you. She lived a good life. But it’s still hard.”
I nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”
The house was a stucco box, pastel pink, jammed between pastel neighbors. Concrete steps rose to a decorative security gate. Chris slipped off his shoes and left them on the doormat. I did the same.
He shut off the alarm system and led me past an entryway altar crowded with Catholic figurines. Everything was old but cared-for, living room furniture polished to a dull glow, sofa and chairs upholstered in a vivid floral pattern. The extended family was large and well represented on the walls, as were members of the Holy Family and various saints. A crucifix loomed.
“She’d be mad if I didn’t offer you something to eat or drink,” he said.
“I’m good, thanks.”
He’d commandeered the dining room for his workspace. Accordion file folders labeled in black marker covered the table: B of A, Chase, Citi, VA, Life Insur (Lolo John), Medicare, Soc Sec, 81-2 Taxes, 83 Camry, 09 Camry, Util, Receipts.
Wrinkled cardboard boxes brimming with loose paper lined the baseboards, awaiting their turn. More boxes and folders piled on the chairs. It looked like an all-you-can-eat buffet for goats.
“She kept everything.” He tapped his temple. “Immigrant mentality.”
We sat beneath a giclée print of The Last Supper, and he ran me through the basics.
Marisol Santos Salvador, born 1938 in Manila, arrived 1957 in the United States along with husband John (deceased 1995). Five children, of whom Chris’s mother, Asuncion, was the youngest. For most of her life Marisol had worked as a health aide.
“When did she pass?”
“April 6. She had a stroke so it was fast.”
“You didn’t know she’d named you executor.”
“No. Maybe she meant to tell me. She had another stroke, about fifteen years ago, and it affected her. I don’t get why her lawyer didn’t say something sooner, though.”
“Who’s he?”
“Mr. Pineda. He’s a family friend. At the wake he came up to me. ‘We need to talk.’ I go to his office and he hands me lola’s will. Like: Tag, you’re it.”
“Is he helping you?”
“Not really. He’s almost as old as she was. I don’t think he’s completely with it, either. Basically I’m having to figure it out on my own.”
“Do you know why she chose you?”
Chris shrugged. “I’m the only one who’s not married with kids. She used to ride me about it. ‘You’re thirty, I had four kids by thirty.’ I told her I’m building a business, that’s my baby.”