And there it was.

My mother, whose maiden name was Kinsey, was born in Lompoc, California. I was indeed a member of the Kinsey family, despite the fact that there had been no contact (that I knew of) in the years since my parents’ death. At the time, I’d paid for a copy of the form, which I’d placed in my files. Now I looked at it with new eyes. My paternal grandfather—my father’s father—was Quillen Millhone. My grandmother’s maiden name was Rebecca Dace. Their only son, my father, was Terrence Randall Millhone, who went by the name Randy. He listed his place of birth as Bakersfield, California, which I’d forgotten. Terrence Dace’s full name was Randall Terrence Dace. The two given names had probably been recycled through the family in variations from one generation to the next, going back who knows how far. If Rebecca Dace had brothers, it would explain how the surname Dace remained in play.

Why hadn’t I made the connection when I first heard the name? It’s not as though Dace was a common name like Smith or Jones. The truth was, I’d been raised thinking of myself as an orphan. My Aunt Gin, for reasons of her own, had neatly sidestepped any talk of our family history. While she was intimately acquainted with the facts, she felt no compulsion to advise me of my antecedents. When assorted Kinsey relatives appeared in my life, I reacted as though my world were being invaded by aliens. I was unaccustomed to cousins and aunts, and I chafed at their overtures, which were motivated by goodwill. The existence of my maternal grandmother, Cornelia Straith LaGrand Kinsey, was a shock and not one I received with grace. Over the past couple of years, I’d adjusted (more or less), but I wasn’t entirely reconciled to any of it.

In my defense, when I’d first clapped eyes on the John Doe, cold and gray and still as stone on a gurney in the coroner’s office, I’d had no reason in the world to believe the man was in any way related to me. Now, for all practical purposes, he belonged to me, and I was charged with the responsibility of overseeing the distribution of his assets, which apparently consisted entirely of cash, left entirely to me. Why did this seem so wrong? There was no mention in the will itself as to what he’d wanted done with his remains. I’d make arrangements for his funeral, but his children might want a part in that decision. Despite their rejection of him and his subsequent repudiation of them, he was still their father, and the issue was by no means settled. Whether his death did or did not change the emotional climate in their hearts, it was still my job to carry the news to them and to offer an olive branch. Surely, his kids must have felt relieved when they learned of his innocence. Whatever the nature of their estrangement, at least the specter of their father as a sexual predator and cold-blooded killer had been laid to rest.

The other question that bore consideration was this: if R. T. Dace and I were related, which appeared to be the case, then what was the connection? While it was only speculation on my part, the answer seemed obvious. Dace had come to Santa Teresa because he’d heard that his favorite “Uncle R” had moved here with his family. He’d heard the news of his uncle’s death, but he’d still thought he might contact surviving family members. The slip of paper in his pocket didn’t refer to the personhood of Millhone, the private investigator. It was Millhone, the private citizen. The only conclusion that made sense was that Dace’s favorite “Uncle R” was my father, Randy Millhone. Terrence Randall Millhone and Randall Terrence Dace were related by blood, though I had no way of knowing if their relationship was actually that of uncle to nephew or something more convoluted. If I was correct in tracing a line to my grandmother Rebecca Dace, then Terrence was most likely my cousin somewhere along that branch.

This is what stopped me in my tracks. If I was right, then the four black-and-white photographs of Dace’s “Uncle R” were the only pictures of my father I’d ever seen. I shut the door on that painful notion, which I’d deal with once I had the snapshots in hand. Right now, they were tucked away in Dace’s safe deposit box along with the other documents I could lay claim to once I sorted through legal matters.

I pulled out the telephone book and looked in the yellow pages under “Attorneys.” In the subcategory “Wills, Trusts and Estate Planning,” there were twenty-one lawyers listed and I’d never heard of one. It wasn’t quite noon, so I picked up the phone and called Lonnie Kingman, my attorney of record. He’s my go-to guy at the first sign of legal troubles, which have cropped up more than once in the course of my career. For a period of three years, we’d shared office space, in that he’d accorded me the use of his conference room for business purposes after I left California Fidelity Insurance.