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The clipping was from the San Diego Union, dated on a Thursday about six weeks before, and headlined MYSTERY DISAPPEARANCE OF LA JOLLA FINANCIER. I read on.

Deveer, whose financial empire includes interests in Alaskan and South American oil drilling ventures, was last seen leaving his home at 4 p.m. on Tuesday, presumably to attend a meeting at his company’s downtown San Diego headquarters. His 1984 Cadillac Seville was later found abandoned in a loading zone at Lindbergh Field. Checks with the airlines have indicated Deveer did not take any commercial flight from the airport.

Mrs. Deveer states that she knows of no reason why her husband would disappear voluntarily...

I turned the clipping over, just to make sure there wasn’t something on the other side that was more relevant to Elaine’s letter, but found only part of an ad for men’s suits. I reread the clipping, but could make no sense of it. What did a missing oilman have to do with the illegal activities at Casa del Rey? Or with Elaine?

When I looked up, Thorburn was watching me expectantly. “This doesn’t mean a thing to me either,” I said. “Did Elaine know this Roland Deveer?”

“I’m not sure, although I doubt they traveled in the same circles — Deveer is married to a socially prominent woman and active in high-toned civic causes. But then I didn’t know much about Elaine’s personal life.”

“Apparently no one did.” I remembered Rich Woodall and his claim that Elaine was mother to a gorilla named Fred. “Do you know anything about her tax situation?”

“A little.”

“Had Elaine made any large donations to the San Diego Zoo in the last year or so?”

“The zoo?”

“Their Adopt-an-Animal Program. The adoptee may have been a gorilla.”

Thorburn smiled faintly. “I doubt it. She and I met semiannually with her tax practitioner, Hugh Katz. I’m certain that kind of deduction would have come in for some humorous comment.”

“I guess so. May I have a copy of this clipping?”

Thorburn nodded and took it out to the reception area, then returned in a minute with a Xerox copy. “Do you intend to pursue this unofficial investigation?” he asked.

I put the clipping in my purse and stood up. “What makes you think it’s unofficial?”

“Something Anne-Marie said when I called her.”

I smiled. “She knows me too well. But in answer to your question — yes, I do.”

“Well, I suppose you know the dangers of that. If you need any legal advice, call me. And let me know what you find out.”

I thanked him and assured him I’d be in touch — only to report my findings, I hoped. But on the other hand, it was nice to know who to call if I got arrested again.

I stopped at a phone booth down the street and called Roland Deveer’s wife in La Jolla. She agreed to see me as soon as I could get there. If anything, the woman, who spoke in a low, cultured voice, seemed overly eager to talk with a total stranger who had merely identified herself as a private investigator interested in Mr. Deveer’s disappearance. Perhaps I would find out something useful from her.

The Deveer home was English Tudor, set well back on a pristine lawn. A uniformed maid answered my knock and led me through a large hallway and across a sun porch to a terrace paved with old-fashioned flagstones. A tall, thin woman rose from one of the wicker porch chairs and came forward to greet me.

“I’m Celia Deveer,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. McCone.”

“Yes. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“I’m glad to meet with anyone who may have information concerning my husband’s disappearance. May I offer you some coffee?”

“That sounds good.”