Gatlin and I met in his posh office. He wore his signature russet corduroy suit. He sat in a wide-beam chair opposite me. A jade-handled letter opener twirled in his fidgety fingers. “Frank, this is an abominable mess,” he said.

A tense silence spoke for me. Even with his millions, Gatlin still couldn’t pay enough to keep things tidy. Abominable messes still cropped up. He would try to dispose of them with a phone call. More times than not such as this morning, I answered the call. He’d just sketched out for me the parameters of his “abominable mess.” I tended to agree.

Grunting, I shifted my weight in the chair, then recapped. “So, Samuel is your nephew. This rich lady kept him in a love pad -- ”

“ -- the lady’s name is Pamela Reardon,” said Gatlin who liked a lawyer’s sense of accuracy. “Pamela is very rich. Samuel and she are lovers -- ”

I horned in. “Don’t you mean ex-lovers, Counselor? Your nephew Samuel is now the primary suspect in the late Pamela Reardon’s homicide.”

“Touché.” With a wry, tight smile, Gatlin motioned letter opener’s tip at me. “Except Samuel biggest sin was his illicit liaison with a married lady, certainly not a cold-blooded murder.”

“Evidently. Okay, where do I ship off?” I asked. “Manhattan? Philly? Miami? Vegas?”

“Gatlin grinned. “You’re going to love me for this. Pamela put up Samuel right down the road in a Georgetown luxury townhouse.”

“So all Pamela has to do was slip across Key Bridge into Washington, D.C. for her fun,” I said.

“I did a little preliminary snooping around,” he said. Pamela purchased this Georgetown property through a real estate broker known as a ‘Daddy Warbucks’.”

“Obviously an alias,” I said.

“It’s more like street slang,” said Gatlin. “It’s an appellation used to describe the kind of realtor who makes these arrangements on the sly. It’s almost impossible to find, much less draw any information out, of this Daddy Warbucks.”

“I don’t like this case,” I said. “It stinks. Samuel is a big boy. You’re a big lawyer. The two of you know what to do.”

As easy as grease through a goose, Gatlin played his trump card. “We haven’t discussed your fee, Frank,” he said.

A sweat line broke out along my spine. Money waved under noses does that to poor people. Playing it cool, I said, “Oh? I assumed my going rate was in effect.”

“No, let’s double it. Better yet, let’s triple it. Plus you’ll do me a gargantuan favor.”

“I’ll get back to you about what I find,” I said before beating a hasty retreat out his office door. A tripled fee? Lord, I needed oxygen. Outdoors in the sultry sun, I tramped over a yellow brick sidewalk. At ten o’clock on a Saturday morning all the beautiful people of Middleburg were out. Feeling flush myself, I aped their cocky walk until it dawned on me I’d no inkling about how to kick off my investigation.

I got Gatlin on the cell phone. Yes, he’d arrange for me to interview his nephew at one o’clock. Ducking into a used bookstore, I debated about pulling in Gerald Peyton, a bail bond enforcer I knew. I pawed through a box of Gold Medal paperbacks marked for a quarter each. I entertained second thoughts.

Gerald tagging along with me wasn’t such a hot idea, not if I wished to walk out of the jail. One look at Gerald and you’d understand my thinking. The Gold Medals had a couple mariner novels by Charles Williams I hadn’t yet read. Or maybe I had. No matter. Grinning on the inside, I paid the lady ten bucks for the entire box. You can never have enough Gold Medals. So sayeth Mark Spitz or somebody like that.

I ran late that afternoon. I blamed Mr. Williams. He wrote ‘em too good. The jail wasn’t in downtown Washington D.C. Their inmates bunked at Lorton, a prison in the Virginia suburbs. I eased my Prizm through Lorton’s main gate. To me all prisons looked the same: grim and glum. Gatlin had come through pulling strings again. They were expecting me. In the interview room, I kept glancing over my shoulder. Nobody stood between me and the doors marked as “EXIT.”

Then Samuel trudged up clad in the usual Bob Barker jailhouse jumpsuit. Orange, of course. A pair of burly bulls guarded him. They brandished riot guns. I checked behind me again to see a clear shot to the nearest “EXIT.” Wiry and weasel-faced best described Samuel. The guards’ long shadows and flinty glares fell on us. Samuel and I conversed in low tones.

“I had no part in Pam’s murder. We were lovers, for God’s sake. Maybe I loved her a little, too. But I never told her because things were never like that between us.”

A surly grunt came from one bull. Ignoring him, I asked Samuel, “Who, then, looks good for it? Any ideas?”

Sinewy shoulders shrugged. “That’s a no brainer,” said Samuel. “Her old man, Victor.”

“Did Victor find out you were slapping the hard hickory to his wife?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t seem to care. They were both cool with any action on the side.”

Anybody could see the flaw in Samuel’s thinking. “Then Victor wouldn’t have a motive to kill his wife, would he?”

I’d snuffed out Samuel’s last candle of hope. Dejection smoldered on his pinched face. “No, I guess not,” he said.

I spoke fast. “On the other hand, even the coolest of husbands might lash out at any time against his cheating wife. An unfaithful just rubs against a man’s natural grain.”

Samuel flashed up his eyes at me. “I dig your point.”

“I bet. Did Pamela keep other any Romeos? You know, set them up in a love pad like yours?”

Naked jealousy crazed Samuel’s narrow face. “No, I was enough man for Pam. I kept her happy. She always left Georgetown beaming with this big smile.”

Never really relaxing, I stood up, anxious to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

“What? You’re leaving me hanging by a rosy red rat hair?”

“Samuel, your uncle is concerned. That’s why I’m came. Making bail, however, isn’t in the cards. Mr. Gatlin said something about you needing to grow up. Jail is the best catalyst for that to happen. My advice? Cooperate and watch your back.”

That said, I bailed out of Lorton Prison. Grim and glum disappeared until a funeral cortege in the opposite lane crawled by me. The cars had on their four-way flashers. Daytime running lights had nixed the old custom to switch on headlamps. Funerals bummed me. Stabbing the gas pedal, I sped all the way down Route 50 back to Middleburg. Expressionless, Gatlin heard the summation of my visit to the poky.

Gatlin asked, “How is Samuel holding up, Frank?”

“I think the jailhouse cure is working,” I replied. “He’s shed some of the playboy attitude.”

“If Samuel can elude any shivs in his back, he’ll come out of this a stronger man.” Gatlin tore a sheet off a memo pad. “Here’s Victor’s current address. Go rattle his cage and see how he sings.”

Looking down, I read from it. “Who the hell is Norah Bix?”

“Victor’s current concubine.”

I folded up the sheet of paper. “Neither strikes me as a jealous, enraged spouse. There’s no motive here.”

“Could be Victor decided to turn over a new leaf in their marriage,” said Gatlin. “If he’s lying to you about Pamela, you’ll pick up on it.”

For a second time that day, I went out to chat about a dead lady. While an MP, my investigative skills had been taught in a classroom. After I put out my PI shingle, I found myself sucked more and more into homicides. Private eyes weren’t supposed to handle murders. You turned into salt or something. Still anything was possible in this business, especially with Gatlin pulling the levers.

Victor’s hellhole was up Route 50, past Upperville, even past Buchanan Hall. I drove fast. No funeral processions met me. Thus encourage, I jinked into a short driveway lined by yellow forsythia bushes. The house, a two-story clapboard, wasn’t any great shakes. Did Victor indulge in a little slumming? The only way to know was to knock on the door. My second louder rap stirred some footfall in the foyer. Two unsnapped locks later, a middle-aged man with a cratered face stood in the threshold, a questioning glint in his hazel eyes.

Introductions went fast. Victor waved me inside. I smelled onions before sneezing. He caught my puzzlement and told me he liked to cook gourmet dishes. Not hungry, I launched into my reason for calling on him. Once he understood the gist, he laughed, a boom starting deep in his barrel chest.

“Good glory, that’s rich,” he said. “Me bumping off Pamela. You know we had pre-nuptials drawn up? I don’t stand to gain a dime from her demise. Vice versa, too.”

“You’re pretty cavalier about her murder,” I said.

“We led separate lives,” said Victor.

I then asked, “What’s your alibi?”

Victor wagged his head. “Not what. Who. Ms. Bix will vouch for me being with her.”

I asked, “Where is Ms. Bix?”

“Upstairs. Naked. Waiting. For me.”

Too much information, my brain computed. I just sat there nodding at him.

Victor went on. “Look, Norah and I have a deal. I cook up a fancy dinner. We eat. Then we go romp in the hay. Life is good. Very good. Why ruin it all with an untidy murder?”

Getting a sharper picture of their hedonistic marriage, I decided to go pursue more promising avenues. “Who do you think might’ve done in your wife?”

Scratching his thick thumb, Victor sank into thought. “If I was a cop, I’d hunt up Daddy Warbucks.”

I grunted. “The real estate broker? And his real name is?”

“No idea,” said Victor. “I’ve never met the guy. Only heard Pamela speak his name once or twice in passing.”

“He must be licensed by the D.C. government,” I said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Victor. “A few weeks a developer was in the news for sticking up houses all over Northwest without the required licenses and zoning permits.”

“So it’s easy enough to fly under the radar.” Then the obvious hit me. “If Mrs. Reardon and you didn’t mind each other’s indiscretions, why all the damn secrecy?”

Victor chuckled again. “Pamela didn’t want to cause a scandal at Middleburg’s tea parties and art gallery openings. As for me? I could care less. My reputation is already secured as the town’s rogue and cad. In all candor, I bask in my role as the royal son of a bitch. It lends me a devilish aura, a hot turn-on for a certain class of ladies.”

I didn’t bother to ask for clarification. If he named names, I might’ve known a few of them. Was it Ross Macdonald or Nelson Algren who said don’t shit where you have to eat? When Victor offered me a cold lite beer, I begged off with profuse apology. Beer and such didn’t ride on my wagon any more. He understood my oblique meaning, we shook hands, and I left. When I called Gatlin, he listened.

“Besides in a comic strip, where else might we find this Daddy Warbucks?” he asked me.

“Check Pamela Reardon’s emails,” I said. “Her cell phone records.”

Gatlin dropped his phone, then said, “Sorry. That’s too high tech. Sly, old tricks might be faster.”

“What did you have in mind, Counselor?”

“What if we send some vibes through the Middleburg grapevine that I’m interested in a sugar shack of my own?”

I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Frank, I’m a millionaire, a good catch. Enough said. Stay on task. Since it’s known you’re my go-to guy, your inquiring around for me would seem natural enough. Let it slip that you want to deal with Daddy Warbucks. Make it plain you’re looking for the goods only he can deliver.”

“Then what?”

“You put out feelers that get his attention. Daddy Warbucks contacts you. You meet, sketch out my wants. You put a tail on him after the meeting and we see what develops from that point.”

“You know, that sounds so damn dumb it might actually work,” I said. “Let me do a little barhopping tonight. I’ll put out the word. Maybe this Daddy Warbucks will go for the bait. Ciao, Counselor.”

For the rest of the afternoon I sat parked on a side street deep in the shadows of the old vinegar works. To kill time, I read And the Deep Blue Sea, a 1972 Edgar nominee for Best Paperback Original. For a man with only a tenth grade education, Charles Williams sure did tell a mean story. By the time I’d finished up the sea yarn, Middleburg had segued into its Saturday night party mode. The beautiful people were out in full regale. Longhaired, willowy girls strutted on the sidewalks dressed down in Gucci designer jeans and peasant blouses. Most guys were cookie-cuttered like the pre-cancer Marlboro Man or pre-Vegas Elvis.

Under the forgiving cover of darkness, I’d fit right in. Even the grease stains on my jeans wouldn’t show up. Walking the right walk, I went into the first bar, what the beautiful people preferred to call “a tavern.” A conversational buzz enlivened the smoky, small space. At a standup table in the corner, I ordered a lite beer. When it came, I tipped the waitress enough of Gatlin’s money to win a nice smile before asking her:

“You know a man who goes by Daddy Warbucks? I heard he likes to hang out here.”

“Isn’t he, like, a pal of Little Orphan Annie?” she replied.

“His name is a laugh riot, ain’t it? My boss Robert Gatlin, you see, has need of his special services.”

She asked, “Why, to sell more copies of the Sunday funny papers?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Nice crowd here tonight. Look for my high sign to get a refill in a little.”

“Got you covered.” She disappeared into the milling mob.

Every so often, I tipped the beer mug to my lips and pretended to sip. Of course, the amber, frothy liquid level had to go down. I hit on an uncanny solution that I once saw in a Mr. Magoo cartoon. A potted palm plant grew behind me. Giving my back to the revelers every now and then, I casually poured a little beer into the peat moss.

At one such time, I felt a sharp jab poke me in the short ribs. It wasn’t an accidental brush-by. The pain was too attention-getting. Lifting my head, I gazed into eyes gray and dull as a pair of grommets. The face grinned at me. I startled. The face belonged to one of the bulls at Lorton who’d earlier kept Samuel and I honest. Out of his prison guard uniform, he looked halfway intelligent.

“I hear you’re poking around for Daddy Warbucks,” he said in a growl.

“Word gets around fast,” I said. “What is it to you if I am?”

“I’m Daddy Warbucks,” he replied.

A derisive laugh rose into my tight throat. I stuffed it. He packed enough hurt in those mattocks for fists to make his claim stick. As if reading my doubt, he proceeded to rattle off a bunch of statistics about the local housing market. Something about mortgage rates and covenants. If it was a con, he ran it in convincing fashion. “Satisfied?” he asked me.

“Yeah okay, let me tell you what I’m after.” I went through my rigamorale. My client Gatlin wanted something classy but serviceable within walking distance of M and Wisconsin Streets in Georgetown.

Daddy Warbucks’ thumbnail scratched his blunt chin. “There’s a waiting list,” he said. “Might be a few months. Is your client getting antsy?”

“Let’s just say the big pink Cadillac is cramping his love life,” I said. “The back seat is a big one but not so big. Dig?”

“Sure, sure.” Daddy Warbucks leaned closer into me. He smelled of prison grime. “I do have something that just came on the market.”

“Yeah? Lay it on me, man.”

“The previous occupants won’t have a need for it anymore. But the thing is, it’ll run you twice what they paid for it. Demand drives up the rent. They didn’t like the increase and had to move on. Evicted, you might say. Still interested?”

I nodded. “Give me the particulars, I’ll run it by my man, and catch you in a day or so.”

He went for the bait. The layout he described set off alarm bells inside me. I kept a poker face and concentrated on his pitch. He concluded by saying, “Your client will rave over the place. Of course, I expect complete anonymity and confidentiality. That works both ways, too. Otherwise we both stand to loose a lot.”

“I take your point. Say, why the prison guard routine?” I had to ask him.

He grinned tarnished teeth at me. “Because what a sweet cover. I had you fooled, right?”

I didn’t refute him. He bought me a German lager beer, melted into the dim recesses, then shoved out the rear door. My next thought wondered if Samuel in Lorton Prison already had a shiv sticking in his back. I did the fake sip drill for a few more minutes. The clever, enterprising waitress winked at me. I reciprocated, then drifted out the same door Daddy Warbucks had ducked through.

The angular alley I entered was wet and smelled of rotten eggs. Under a forty-watt bulb in a cage, I hit Speed Dial #1 on my cell phone. Gatlin, still in his office, connected with his gruff greeting.

“Daddy Warbucks and I talked, “ I said. “You won’t believe the abominable mess that Pamela and Samuel fell into.”