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As a research and compatibility specialist for one of the country's most exclusive matchmaking agencies, I spend my days helping wealthy people find their perfect partners.

Or, more accurately, I spend my days locating people based on ridiculously vague information.

A first name.

An old photograph.

A chance meeting at a charity gala.

You'd be amazed how many billionaires apparently fall madly in love without bothering to ask for a phone number.

Idiots.

Very rich idiots, but idiots nonetheless.

Fortunately, their terrible social skills pay my bills.

They've also helped me build a network of contacts most private investigators would kill for.

Which is how I found this place.

One of my former clients, whose marriage I practically performed a miracle to arrange, put me in touch with an attorney who specializes in property records.

A few favors later, I had the location of a secluded parcel of land outside Roseburn Falls.

Owned by one Preston Chavez.

It took some persuasion.

And one very expensive bottle of whiskey.

But here I am.

Committing a felony.

For free.

I move toward the bookshelf.

There are more photographs here. Mostly motorcycles and men who look like they'd consider punching someone a perfectly acceptable afternoon activity.

No family pictures.

No woman smiling beside him.

Nothing that suggests anyone shares this house.

Good.

The last thing I need is an angry girlfriend discovering me in her man's living room.

I inspect the books, looking for anything connected to the fire investigation.

Four years ago, a commercial building burned down.

A man died.

The official investigation closed.