Bury the Lead

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To Sara Ann Freed.

I am not a good enough writer to create a character with the grace, dignity, generosity, spirit, and courage that came so naturally to Sara Ann.

Acknowledgments

Once again I must face the unplesant task of admitting that I had help with this book. So, in no particular order, I would like to thank:

Robin Rue and Sandy Weinberg, agents extraordinaire.

Jamie Raab, Les Pockell, Kristen Weber, Susan Richman, Martha Otis, Bob Castillo, and everyone else at Warner. They have been consistently supportive and a pleasure to deal with.

George Kentris, for helping with everything legal; Kristen Paxos Mecionis, for helping with everything involving law enforcement; and Susan Brace, for helping with everything psychological. In a never-ending quest for accuracy and realism, I follow everything they say, unless it interferes with the story.

Those who read early drafts and contributed their thoughts, including Ross, Heidi, Rick, Lynn, Mike and Sandi Rosenfelt, Amanda Baron, Emily Kim, Al and Nancy Sarnoff, Stacy Alesi, and Norman Trell. Special thanks to Scott Ryder for sharing his considerable expertise in everything from computers to skydiving.

And to Debbie Myers-paraphrasing Russell Crowe to Jennifer Connelly at the end of A Beautiful Mind-“You are the reason I am here today. You are all my reasons.”

I continue to be grateful to the many people who have e-mailed me feedback on Open and Shut and First Degree. Please do so again at dr27712@aol.com. Thank you.

• • • • •

AS SOON AS I WALK IN, the woman gives me the eye.

This is not quite as promising a situation as it sounds. First of all, I’m in a Laundromat. The actual name is the Law-dromat, owned by my associate Kevin Randall. Kevin uses this business to emotionally, as well as literally, cleanse himself of the rather grimy things we’re exposed to in our criminal law practice. In the process he dispenses free legal advice to customers along with detergent and bleach.

Also, the woman giving me this particular eye is not exactly a supermodel. She’s maybe four feet eleven inches tall, rather round, and wearing a coat so bulky she could be hiding a four-gallon jug of Tide under it. Her hair is stringy and most likely not squeaky clean to the touch.

Truth be told, even if we were in a nightclub and the woman looked more like Halle than Boysen Berry, I doubt I could accurately gauge the situation. I’m no better than average-looking myself and thus have almost no experience with women giving me the eye. In fact, though I’m not in the habit of counting offered body parts, it’s safe to say that over the years I’ve gotten the finger more than the eye. And I’ve probably gotten the boot more than both of them combined.

To totally close off any romantic possibilities in this encounter, I remain in love with, and totally faithful to, one Laurie Collins. So no matter how this round stranger tries to tempt me, I’m not about to engage in an early evening bout of tawdry Laundromat sex.

I notice that the woman’s eyes start alternating between me and the door, though no one else is entering. And as I move in her general direction, she starts to inch toward that door. This woman is afraid of me.

“Hi,” I say, figuring a clever opening like that will put her at ease. Instead, she just nods slightly and seems to draw inward, as if she wants to become invisible. “Kevin around?” I ask.

The woman mutters, “No . . . I don’t know . . . ,” then gathers her clothes, which she hadn’t yet put into the machine, and quickly leaves. In the process she bangs into Kevin’s cousin Billy, who is just coming in. Billy runs the place when Kevin is not around.

“Hey, Andy. What’s with her?” Billy asks.

“I’m not sure. I think she was afraid she might succumb to my charms.”

He nods. “We’ve been getting a lot of that lately.”

“What do you mean?”

Billy just points toward a shelf high up in the corner of the room, and for the first time I realize that there is a television up there. It’s turned to local news, though the sound is off. There was a day when that would have been a problem, but now all the stations have that annoying crawl along the bottom of the screen.

The subject of the newscast is the murder of a woman last night in Passaic, the third such murder in the last three weeks. The killer has chosen to communicate and taunt the police through Daniel Cummings, a reporter for a local newspaper, and in the process has created a media furor. The woman who just left is not alone in her fear; the entire community seems gripped by it.

“They making any progress?” I ask, referring to the police.

Billy shrugs. “They’re appealing to the guy to give himself up.”

I nod. “That should do the trick. Where’s Kevin?”

“Doctor.”

“Is he sick?” I ask, though I know better. Kevin has as many admirable qualities as anyone I know, but he happens to be a total hypochondriac.

Billy laughs. “Yeah. He thinks his tongue is swollen and turning black. Kept sticking it out for me to look at.”

“Was it swollen?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Black?”

“Nope.”

“Did you tell him that?” I ask.

“Nope. I told him he should get it checked out, that he might be getting ‘fat black tongue’ disease.” He shrugs and explains, “I’m a little short this month; I needed the hours.”

I nod; the more time Kevin spends at the doctor, the more time Billy gets to work here. I hand an envelope to Billy; it had come to the office for Kevin. “Give this to him, okay?”

“You making deliveries now?” he asks.

“I’m on my way to the foundation.”

Billy nods. “Listen, do me a favor? When you see Kevin, tell him his tongue looks like a bowling ball.”

“No problem.”

• • • • •

NEW JERSEY EXISTS in a sort of twilight zone. That is, if it exists at all. It is a densely populated, diverse collection of cities and towns, yet it has no identity. Half of it is a suburb of New York City, and the other half a suburb of Philadelphia. The Giants and Jets play football in Jersey, yet they deny its existence, referring to themselves as “New York.”

The most embarrassing part is that all the major TV stations that cover New Jersey are based in New York. Ottumwa, Iowa, has its own network affiliates, but Jersey doesn’t. It should thus come as no surprise that those same stations treat Jerseyites as second-class citizens.

Stories about New Jersey are barely covered, unless they are simply too juicy to overlook. The recent murders have successfully crossed that high-juice threshold, and the networks are all over them. Even more pumped up are the national cable networks, and I’ve been invited to serve as an uninformed panelist on eleven of the shows that specialize in uninformed panels. I’ve accepted three of those invitations, and in the process I fit right in by bringing absolutely nothing of value to the public discourse.

My appeal to these shows is based on the fact that I’ve successfully handled a couple of high-profile murder cases in the last couple of years. I must’ve gotten on some list that is shared among TV news producers. “Let’s see . . . ,” I can hear them say as they check that list when a New Jersey crime story comes up. “Here it is . . . Andy Carpenter. Let’s get him. That’ll fill twenty minutes.”

The one question always posed to me on these shows is whether I would be willing to defend the murderer when he is caught. I point out that he wouldn’t legally be a murderer until he’s been tried and convicted, but this distinction is basically lost on the questioner and, I suspect, the viewing public. I ultimately and lamely say that I would consider it based on the circumstances, and I can almost feel that public recoiling in shock. “How,” they collectively wonder, “could you defend that animal?”

I don’t really have to worry about any of that, though, because the police don’t seem terribly close to catching this particular animal. Instead, I can focus on other animals, specifically dogs. Right now I am on my way to the building that houses the Tara Foundation, a converted kennel that Willie Miller and I have turned into a dog rescue operation. We’ve self-financed it, which does not represent a major sacrifice. I inherited twenty-two million dollars last year, and about five months ago I secured ten million dollars for Willie in a civil suit against the people who conspired to wrongfully put him on death row for seven years. To put it another way, we are both filthy rich.

The foundation is named after my own golden retriever, Tara, whose official name is Tara, Greatest Living Creature on This or Any Other Planet. Willie is foolish enough to believe that his dog, Cash, is up there in Tara’s class. I only occasionally mock this notion, since Willie is my partner, the foundation was his idea, and he does most of the work.

What we do is rescue dogs from animal shelters, where they are about to be put to sleep, and then find them good homes. People come to us at the foundation, meet the dogs, and then have to endure a fairly rigorous application process to determine if we consider them to have a satisfactory home for our dogs.

As I enter the building, Willie is interviewing a fortyish couple who are interested in adopting Tyler, a three-year-old black Lab mix. Willie introduces me to the couple, Stan and Julie Harrington, and Stan makes it clear that he knows me from my TV appearances.

I take a seat across the room as Willie continues the interview. The Harringtons alternate answering, slightly anxious and clearly trying to ascertain what it is that Willie wants to hear.

“Where would the dog sleep?” Willie asks innocently, as if he’s just curious. Tyler, the dog whose sleep location is the subject being discussed, sits alongside Willie, his curiosity piqued as well.

This time Julie, fashionably and therefore incongruously dressed for these surroundings, brightens. “Oh, we’ve got a wonderful doghouse in the backyard.”

Stan nods in vigorous agreement, unaware that his wife has just blown what little chance they had of adopting Tyler. “I built it myself. It’s huge. There are people who would like to live in it.” He chuckles at the thought, then turns to Tyler. “Wouldn’t you like a great big doghouse?” He speaks in a form of baby talk.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but from my vantage point across the room, Tyler seems to edge closer to Willie, apparently aware that this couple are not going to become his new parents. And that great big outside doghouse that some people would like is definitely not going to be the place where he sleeps.

Willie and I have rather rigid ideas of what represents a good home for a dog. Stan and Julie have just demonstrated that, in our eyes, their home doesn’t make the cut. It is an unbending rule of the Tara Foundation that dogs must be allowed to sleep in the house.

I expect Willie to immediately terminate the session and send the Harringtons on their way, but for some reason he decides to delay the inevitable. He asks a question that sounds like a challenge. “Why do you guys want a dog?”

I see a quick flash of annoyance on Stan’s face. He doesn’t think he should have to answer all these questions; he should be able to buy a dog like he can buy anything else. “I had dogs when I was growing up,” he allows. “I’m a dog person.”

Willie doesn’t seem moved by this revelation, and Julie, sensing things are not going well, jumps in. “He’ll be like a member of our family. And he can guard-”

Willie interrupts, incredulous. “You want a guard dog?” He points to Tyler, who doesn’t seem that offended. “You think he’s a guard dog?”

His tone causes me to get up and walk toward them. Willie’s generally been on his good behavior, but he can be volatile, and he’s a black belt in karate, so there is always the potential for things to get a little ugly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Harrington,” I say, “I’m afraid we don’t have any guard dogs up for adoption.”

Stan is getting frustrated. “We didn’t mean a guard dog. We just want a dog that will bark if someone enters the property.” He holds up a newspaper that is on the desk. “I mean with what’s going on . . .”

He is of course referring to the murder last night in Passaic, the third victim of the serial killer who has dominated the news. It is pretty much all anyone is talking about. “Julie’s alone in the house all day,” he points out.

“Then why don’t you adopt a goddamn burglar alarm?” Willie asks, standing and getting a tad hostile. I shoot him a look that says, “I’ll handle this,” but he disregards it. “Or maybe you can adopt a fucking Secret Service agent.” These dogs are like his kids, and he’s not about to put them in the line of fire.

Stan gets up. He’s not going to confront Willie, since in addition to being a “dog person,” he’s a “sane person.” “I can see this was a mistake,” he says. “Come on, Julie.” She’s a little slow, so he helps her to her feet and guides her toward the door. The last thing I hear her say before they exit is, “But what about the dog?”

Willie shakes his head in disgust. “Losers.” Then he turns to me. “You know why losers like that come here? They don’t want no dog. They come here because of you, because they think you’re hot shit.”

Now I get annoyed, an increasingly frequent occurrence of late. “Fine. It’s my fault. Okay? Does that make you happy?”

He grins widely; Willie can change moods even faster than I can. He taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, lighten up, huh? You can’t help it if you’re hot shit.”

Willie is only partially right about why people like the Harringtons come here. The two big cases in the past year have made me a celebrity lawyer of sorts. But one of those cases was Willie’s, and as a wrongfully convicted man set free, he’s become a big shot in his own right. So people come here because they’ve heard of both of us and it’s a cool thing to do, rather than go to breeders or pet stores or whatever.

“We’ve placed thirty-one dogs,” I say. “That’s not bad for five weeks.”

He nods. “Damn right. Not bad at all.” Then, “You going to the meeting tomorrow?”

He’s talking about an informal investment group I made the mistake of organizing. I’ve regretted it from day one, which was about two months ago.

I nod reluctantly just as the phone rings, which now and always sends the twenty-five dogs at the foundation into a barking frenzy. I pick it up and shout into the receiver, “Hold on!” I then wait the thirty seconds or so that it takes for the dogs to quiet down before I speak into the phone again. “Hello?”

“How can you stand that barking?” It’s Vince Sanders, editor of what passes as the local newspaper in Paterson. Vince is always pissed off about something; this time the dogs just happened to have given him a good reason.

“Fine, Vince, how are you?”

“Did you hear what I said?” he snarls.

“I hang on your every word.”

“Then hang on these. Come down to my office.”

“When?” I ask.

“When? A year from August, bozo.”

Although the “when” question didn’t go too well, I decide to try another one. “Why?”

“You’re still a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“You want to hire me?”

He doesn’t consider this a question worth answering. “Be here in twenty minutes.”

Click.

• • • • •

VINCE SHOULD BE a happy camper these days. His paper’s circulation has gone through the roof since the murders began, mainly because Daniel Cummings, through whom the killer has chosen to speak to the public and police, is one of Vince’s reporters.

Vince brought Cummings in about six months ago from somewhere in Ohio, I think Cleveland. He made him his top crime reporter, although Cummings can’t be more than thirty. I’ve only met him once, but he’s a pretty easy guy for a defense attorney to dislike, a strong law-and-order type who clearly believes in a presumption of guilt.

I’ve known Vince for about a year. He’s cantankerous and obnoxious on the surface, but when you chip that away and dig deeper, you find him to be surly and disagreeable. You probably could say Vince and I have become good friends, if your definition of “friends” isn’t too rigid. We’re not “Ya-Ya Brotherhood” types, but we hang out some in sports bars and trade insults, which fits my definition pretty well.

Vince usually starts off our conversations with five minutes of complaining, but he doesn’t do that when I arrive this time. Instead, he offers me a chair and starts telling me what’s on his mind, almost like a normal human would do. “I want to hire you,” he says.

Since I’m a criminal attorney, I’m surprised. Under all the bluster, Vince is a straightforward, ethical guy. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask.

“Of course not. I want you to represent the paper. Not officially. Like a consultant.”

Vince’s paper is owned by a newspaper syndicate, which employs lawyers by the barrelful. “You already have lawyers. What do you need me for?”

“They’re idiots. Besides, you’ll be dealing only with me. They won’t even know about you. You’ll be my own private idiot.”

I’m not understanding any of this. “So you’re going to pay me?”

“Pay you? Are you out of your mind?”

My friends share two common views about money. They think they don’t have enough, and that I have too much. “This is what I do for a living, Vince. I’m a lawyer. I got an A in money grubbing in law school.”

He throws up his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Fine. You want my money? No problem.” He yells out so he can be heard beyond the closed office door. “Shirley! Don’t mail that check to the Orphans Fund! I need it to pay the big-time lawyer!” He turns to me, shaking his head in disgust. “It’s just as well. Little brats don’t have parents, they think that entitles them to three meals a day.”

I know that Vince is lying; I would know that even if he had a secretary named Shirley. But I’m not going to get any money out of him, and I’m curious as to what is going on, so I accept a jelly donut as a retainer. For the rather rotund Vince, it’s a significant payment.

Vince describes his concern about the newspaper’s position in the Daniel Cummings matter. He has no idea why the killer has chosen Cummings as his conduit, and though he loves the resulting boost in circulation, as a journalist he’s uncomfortable that his newspaper seems to have become part of the story.

“These last couple of weeks there have been more cops in here than reporters,” he says.

“But you’ve been cooperating?”

“Of course. I mean, there’s no source to protect, right? Daniel’s only source is the killer, and he has no idea who he is.”

“So what are you worried about?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Nothing specific, but who knows where this is gonna go? Who knows what the cops are gonna ask us to do?”

This doesn’t seem like Vince; he’s usually far more confident and decisive than this. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll keep an eye on things. I’ll have to talk to Cummings.”

Vince nods. “I told him you would. Just so you’ll know, he’s not thrilled about it.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “He seems to think you’re a major pain in the ass.”

“You told him that?”

“I didn’t use the word ‘major.’ I used the word ‘total.’ He also doesn’t want you interfering with how he does his job.”

I nod. “I don’t expect to. Is he a good reporter?”

“As good as any I’ve ever had,” he says. “When do you want to talk to him?”

“How’s tomorrow morning? Around eleven? And I’ll want the stories he’s written on the murders to read through tonight. Plus the stories in the other papers.”

“Done,” he says. “Laurie back yet?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Maybe if you’d take on some clients, she wouldn’t have to go work for somebody else. Hey, why don’t you put her on this case?”

Laurie is a former police officer whom I employ as my private investigator. There is no way she’d want to work on this. “First of all, this isn’t a ‘case,’” I say. “Second of all, she likes to be paid in money, not donuts.”

He takes a big bite out of a glazed one. “Women don’t know what they’re missing.”

• • • • •

TARA GREETS ME at the door when I get home. She has a tennis ball in her mouth, a not-so-subtle reminder that I haven’t taken her to the park in two days. I drop off the stories Vince gave me and we head out.

The place we go to is called Eastside Park, less than five minutes from my house on Forty-second Street in Paterson, New Jersey. It’s the house I grew up in, the house that contains every memory worth remembering. I moved back in after my father died, and feel like I’m home, now and forever.

Paterson has always been considered a good place to leave, and getting out was long regarded as a sign of upward economic mobility. For that reason, even though I’m still there, I am in touch with very few of my childhood friends, who have headed for parts wealthier.

Going to Eastside Park always brings back memories of those friends and the times we shared. It’s where we played baseball, football, and tennis, where we tried to look cool in the futile hope that the girls would notice us. It’s also where I hit my one high school home run. It was against East Paterson High, a city we never had much respect for, mainly because any place that names itself based on its direction from Paterson can’t have too much going for it. We were obviously right, since they’ve since changed their name to Elmwood Park.

But back to the home run. I can still feel the ball hit the bat, can still remember flying around the bases as the left fielder tried to field it. It should have been scored a triple and an error. I knew that then and know it now. But my cousin was the scorekeeper, he ruled it an official home run, and nothing can ever change that.

I didn’t have Tara in that distant past, which automatically means the present is a hell of a lot better. We toss the ball around for about fifteen minutes. I don’t throw it quite as far as I used to; Tara is eight years old and starting to slow down. Considering the implications of that sends very real spasms of anxiety through my gut. And since I’m not a big fan of self-inflicted gut spasms, I avoid such thoughts at all costs.

When we’re done, we stop at a coffee shop with outdoor tables. I get an iced coffee, and Tara has water and a bagel. Her favorite is cinnamon raisin, probably because she knows I don’t like them and therefore won’t steal any. As we usually do, we hang out for a half hour, which gives Tara enough time to be petted by fifty or so passersby.

We stop off on the way home to pick up a pizza and some beer. The NFL season is opening tonight, and I want to get it started on the right note. I’ll just have enough time to go over the papers Vince gave me before kickoff.

Once we get home, I inhale the pizza and plant myself on the couch with beer, potato chips, and dog biscuits. I bounce up and down lightly a few times to test out the couch, making sure it feels right, since I’ll be spending the entire football season here. Tonight’s stay will be of relatively short duration; Saturdays and Sundays, on the other hand, can last for ten straight hours, the only interruptions occasional trips to the bathroom. I’ve considered a bedpan, or a couchpan if they make them, but I’m not sure Laurie would fully understand.

With two hours until kickoff, I start reading the material Vince gave me. Cummings’s initial story on the murders appeared the day after the first killing. The victim was Nancy Dempsey, a thirty-four-year-old nurse who left her house in Paterson on a Monday evening, announcing to her husband that she was going to the supermarket. Her naked body was found the next morning in a vacant lot two miles from her home, strangled from behind. Her hands were severed and have not been found.

After reading Cummings’s piece, I read the coverage of the same murder in the other two local papers. Cummings has a quality to his work that comes through in every paragraph, a unique style and ability that his competitors lack. There is an edge to his words, a scorn for the killer, that makes his otherwise straightforward reporting come alive, and is quite compelling.

Cummings’s article clearly struck a chord in the killer as well, as he contacted the reporter that very afternoon. Thus began a cat and mouse game, chronicled by the articles, during which the killer has kept a running communication with Cummings, who in turn has been cooperating with the police. The stories reflect the need to keep the public informed, while maintaining certain areas of secrecy that the police want preserved.

Two more murders have taken place since, with approximately a one-week interval between them. Victim 2 was a sixty-two-year-old grandmother of three, Betty Simonson, intercepted in Ridgewood while returning home from a canasta game. Victim 3 was a twenty-one-year-old prostitute, known only as Rosalie, murdered last night in Passaic. These two women were also found naked and strangled from behind, with both of their hands severed and removed from the scene.

Cummings has been placed in an extraordinarily difficult situation and seems to have responded well. The stories are revealing and riveting without being overly exploitive. He describes his conversations with the killer in great detail, right down to the inflections in the man’s voice. If he is uncomfortable in his dual role as journalist and informant, he’s hiding it well. In fact, he seems to relish it; in each article he places himself as part of the lead. And through it all comes his intense, though understandable, disdain for the psycho who has chosen him as his messenger.

Tara jumps on the couch, alerting me to the fact that game time is approaching. I call Danny Rollins, my bookmaker, and place a bet on the Falcons plus five points against the Rams.

I know there have been many significant inventors and inventions throughout the course of human history. Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Alva Edison, the Wright Brothers . . . these are men who had a dream and realized it, and they received justified praise for their work. But the greatest invention of them all goes unappreciated, and its creator remains anonymous. I of course am referring to the point spread.

The point spread turns every football game into an even match and therefore makes it eminently watchable. The Little Sisters of the Poor could play Nebraska, and if you give them enough points, people will bet on them. It is pure Americana. Every team, no matter how disadvantaged, has an equal opportunity. My eyes fill up with tears as I think about it, and Tara snuggles next to me, obviously caught up in the emotion of the moment as well.

Unfortunately, in this case the point spread isn’t quite enough, and the Falcons, and I, lose by seventeen. I’m undaunted, though; it’s a long season, and I’m not going to get through it by panicking over a single loss.

I’m in bed within five minutes of the final gun, and maybe ten seconds after that I’m trying to figure out how to fall asleep with this huge pit in my stomach. It’s not just the potato chips and pizza, it’s the fact that Laurie isn’t here.

Laurie is my investigator and my lover and my best friend. We became romantically involved while I was separated from my former wife, which I guess means she got me on the rebound. If that’s true, she’s the best rebounder this side of Shaquille O’Neal, because I am in a permanent state of smitten.

Though we have separate residences, Laurie and I stay together at least half the time. Unfortunately, she has been in Chicago for ten days, working on a fraud case for an insurance company. It’s been a long ten days.

I spoke to her this morning, and she said she was going to be having dinner with some friends tonight, but I try calling her at her hotel anyway. She isn’t in her room. It’s eleven o’clock in Chicago, and she’s still out on the town? Who has dinner at eleven o’clock? And if you do, when do you have a midnight snack? Four in the morning?

What kind of floozy am I involved with?

• • • • •

I SLEEP THROUGH the alarm and then take my time walking Tara in the park, never once looking at my watch. It wouldn’t take Sigmund Freud to peer into my subconscious to find out what’s going on. I want to be late for the “investors’ meeting,” called for nine o’clock in my office.

I arrive at ten after and they’re all there, eager to get started and staring daggers at me for causing the delay. There’s Edna, my dedicated secretary, who normally doesn’t come strolling in until past ten; Kevin, my Laundromat-owning associate, who judging by the strewn wrappers appears to be on his fourth apple turnover; and Willie, the death row inmate-turned-Warren-Buffett-wanna-be. Only Laurie is missing, but she is going to participate from Chicago over the speakerphone.

Leading the meeting is Freddie Connors, the stockbroker who happily stepped into this windfall of fresh investment money by having the good fortune to be Edna’s cousin. He smiles at me. “Andy, we were afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

“God forbid” is my response.

Kevin, Edna, and Laurie all have money to invest because of me. I received a commission of over a million dollars from the Willie Miller settlement, and since I have all the money I could ever need, I split it up among them. I don’t regret doing so, and it is certainly not the reason that I’m feeling somewhat bitter.

Cousin Freddie’s style is to present investment alternatives and to encourage us to actively participate in the decision making. As a group, we have gradually split into two camps. Willie is the unlikely leader of one of the camps, and I lead the other. In Willie’s camp are Edna, Kevin, and Laurie. In my camp is me.

If this were camp color war, my team color would be beige. I study charts, look at the numbers, and make the logical, safe selection. Willie comes up with off-the-wall ideas, hatched in that fairy-tale land he calls a mind, and everything he touches turns to his team color, gold.

My team is getting its beige ass kicked.

Freddie gets Laurie on the speakerphone and then updates us on the status of our investments. In two months their collective portfolios have gone up almost eleven percent, while mine has gone down one point five. I hide my humiliation and nod wisely, as if financial retreat is all part of my grand plan.

We finally get around to discussing our options, and I talk about a telecommunications company well positioned to take advantage of a growing market, relatively debt-free, and possessing a favorable price-earnings ratio.

“An interesting idea,” Freddie concedes. “Good fundamentals . . . sound management.”

I nod smugly, appreciating the praise but acting as if I expected nothing less.

Willie makes a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort. “You have a better idea?” I ask.

He nods, then asks Freddie, “What was that prediction thing you were telling me about?”

Freddie looks puzzled: Willie is not the easiest guy to understand.

Willie says, “You know . . . that thing where you buy up a lot of stuff ’cause you know people are gonna want it in a few months.”

“Futures?” says Freddie.

“Yeah, that’s it . . . futures. I think we should buy coffee futures.”

Laurie’s voice comes through the speakerphone. “Why?”

Willie goes on to explain that the Olympics are coming up soon, and many of the events are going to be on late at night or very early in the morning. People will want to watch them and will drink coffee to enable themselves to stay awake. It is as dumb a theory as any I have ever heard.

It is not quite the dumbest theory Edna has ever heard, and she nods in appreciation of Willie’s wisdom. “If I don’t drink coffee,” she breathlessly reveals, “I’m asleep by eight o’clock.”

“I’m the same way,” Laurie chimes in.

“Then you must have had a gallon of it last night,” I say, becoming more and more pathetic by the moment. “Come on, people, this is ridiculous. You think the whole country is going to drink coffee to stay awake?”

“Of course not, but anybody who wants to sleep can drink that decaf stuff,” says Willie. “That’s part of the futures thing, right?”

Freddie nods. “Sure.”

Willie smiles triumphantly. “So we got everybody covered.”

The discussion goes on for a while longer, but everyone jumps on Willie’s bandwagon, leaving me alone with my price-earnings ratio. Kevin comes over and patronizingly tries to cushion the blow. “I think your reasoning is sound, Andy, but Willie’s on a hot streak, and I believe in riding hot streaks.”

“I hope you and your fat black tongue make a fortune,” I say, hitting a new low. I stand up. “Well, it’s really been fun, but I’ve got to go see a client.”

“We’ve got a client?” Edna asks, surprise evident in her voice.

“We’ve got a client?” Kevin asks simultaneously, shock evident in his.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re a law office. That’s what we do. We represent clients.”

The truth is, that’s not what we’ve been doing lately. I’ve been a little burned-out since my last major trial, when I defended Laurie against a murder charge. It was intense because of how much was personally at stake. Since then I’ve pretty much found a reason to turn down prospective clients, many of them because I thought they were guilty, but some because the cases just didn’t seem challenging or interesting enough.

People who don’t know any better are always comparing me to my father, viewing us both as hardworking, high-powered attorneys. Even putting aside the glaring difference that he was the district attorney and I am on the defense side, there is still little comparison. I can’t recall him ever missing a day of work; he often likened it to working on an assembly line where the products coming through were accused criminals. I pick and choose my cases and show up when I please.

You might say I couldn’t carry my father’s briefcase, but you’d be wrong. The truth is, I’m too lazy to carry it. And I offer as proof the shock on the part of my staff on hearing we have a client.

“Who is it?” Edna asks.

“Vince Sanders,” I say.

Laurie’s voice comes through the speaker. “Well, at least it’s not a paying client.”

• • • • •

ON THE WAY TO MEET with Daniel Cummings, I reflect on why I’ve been in a foul mood lately. I’m not big on self-reflection, so I try to get this session over while sitting at one traffic light.

I quickly come up with four possibilities. One, I need to get back to some real work. Two, I’m thirty-seven years old and beginning a midlife crisis, whatever that is. Three, I miss Laurie terribly. And four, Laurie doesn’t seem to miss me nearly as much. I don’t know which of those is true, but the one I’m rooting against is number four.

The meeting with Cummings is unlikely to bring me back to the ranks of the smiling humans. I have a vague consulting role, in an area of the law that I am neither expert at nor interested in. I’m sorry that I took it on at all, though Vince really didn’t give me much of a choice.

Cummings keeps me waiting outside his office for fifteen minutes while he talks on the phone. This is not a good way to start a lawyer-client relationship, but the way I’m feeling it’s an excellent way to end one.

He finally comes out to get me, a hint of an insincere, apologetic smile on his face. He holds out his hand. “Daniel Cummings.” His tone and manner are such that he might have said “Prince Charles.”

I shake it. “Andy Carpenter” is my clever response. We’ve met once before, but if he doesn’t remember it, then I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of revealing that I do.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say, starting this relationship off on a mature note.

“Come in.”

He leads me into his office, points to a chair, and offers me something to drink. I choose a Diet Pepsi, and he has a mineral water. He’s about six one, with hair so lightly colored that at first glance it looks like he’s going bald, though he isn’t. He has chiseled good looks; he’d be a natural as a Russian movie star.

I don’t know how much Vince is paying his reporters these days, but there is no way that journalism is Cummings’s only revenue source. Sell his suit, shoes, and watch and you could buy something with bucket seats. And he looks comfortable in them, like there are plenty more just like them back home in a walk-in closet the size of North Dakota.

“I don’t know if Vince told you,” he says, “but I’m not keen on the idea of you getting involved in all this.”

I’m not quite ready to share anything Vince told me. “Why is that?” I ask.

“Because I can handle it on my own, and I’m afraid you’ll get in the way. And nothing personal, but defense attorneys are not my favorite group of people.”

“That must keep them up nights,” I say as dryly as I can manage.

His grin is without humor. “I wouldn’t know.”

“It’ll help me avoid screwing things up by knowing what it is I’m dealing with. So why don’t you start at the beginning?”

He gives me a brief rundown of the events, providing little more than I got from reading the stories. The killer contacted him by phone at the office after the first murder, praising the reporter’s “understanding” of his work.

“Why did he think that?” I ask.

Cummings shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I accidentally wrote something that hit him close to home. Maybe he just liked my style. I’ve made something of a study of the criminal mind, but I can’t quite read them.”

“But he told you he would be communicating through you exclusively?”

Cummings nods. “His exact words were, ‘You will reveal me to the world.’”

“So you went to the police.” I already knew that he did, so I’m just trying to move the story along.

He nods. “Of course. The first thing they did was tap my office phone, but they neglected to cover my home phone, which is where he called the next time. Our local police strategists leave something to be desired.”

“Any idea how he got your number?”

He shakes his head. “None.”

“You said you were afraid I would get in the way. Can you be more specific?”

“If you’re looking over my shoulder, it will make it harder for me to do what I want to do.”

“Which is?” I ask.

He looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to catch the son of a bitch.”

Just then the phone rings. I see him take a nervous breath before answering it. Every call could be the killer. After a moment he picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

He shakes his head slightly, telling me that this isn’t the call. “I’m leaving now,” he says into the phone before hanging up. He stands, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. “There’s a press conference in twenty minutes.”

I start following him, even though he hasn’t asked me along. “Are you covering it or part of it?”

He smiles the first genuine smile I’ve seen. “Good question.”

We take separate cars to state police headquarters in Hackensack. Because the murders have been committed in three different communities, no one department has jurisdiction, and the state cops have taken over. Even though they’d never admit it, the mayors of the towns in question are breathing a sigh of relief. Real pressure is starting to mount to catch this guy, and the intervention of the state cops takes them off the political hook.

I get stuck in some traffic behind Cummings, and by the time I arrive he is already up on the stage with the state police brass. I take a spot along the side of the room, as the press mills about, waiting for the conference to begin.

“This is a new one for you, isn’t it, Andy?”

I look up and see Pete Stanton, a Paterson police lieutenant and my closest and only friend in the department.

“What is?” I ask.

“Usually, you wait until we identify and catch the scumbags before you represent them.”

I shake my head. “A lawyer can go broke waiting for you idiots to make an arrest. So I’ve already got myself a client.”

“Who?”

I point to the stage. “The intrepid young reporter. And the newspaper he represents.”

Pete was the detective assigned to the first murder, before anyone had an idea that there was a serial killer on the loose. Since I’m basically in an information-gathering mode at this point, I might as well start pumping good old Pete.

“You guys making any progress?” I ask.

“There are a number of leads that we’re aggressively pursuing along with our colleagues in the state police,” he says. “We’re very confident.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“Not a fucking thing.”

“You still working the case?” I ask.

He nods. “Barely. Mostly, we just admire the professionals.” He points to the brass on the stage. There’s a rivalry between the state and local police forces that will last until eternity.

“Piss you off, does it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Temporarily. As soon as the killer moves into New York or Connecticut, it’ll be interstate and the feds will move in. Then the state assholes will be on the outside with us.”

“It would be nice if one of you actually caught the bad guy,” I say.

“Wouldn’t make your client too happy.”

“Which means . . . ?”

Pete nods toward Cummings on the stage. “Look at him. He’s a star. You think he wants this to be over so he can go back to being just another typist?”

I have to admit that, though Cummings isn’t grinning and giggling, it does seem that he’d rather be on that stage than in the gallery down here with his colleagues.

Captain Terry Millen of the New Jersey State Police starts the session with a statement about the latest murder. He then refuses to answer just about everything the media throw at him, expressing his confidence that they’ll understand he can’t reveal information about this ongoing investigation. With that as the ground rule, there was no reason to have this session at all. Did he think he was going to be asked how the Giants will do on Sunday?

Frustrated by the lack of answers they are getting, two reporters direct questions to Cummings. He toes the party line, claiming that Captain Millen has asked him not to respond. Other than getting some television face time, there was no reason for Cummings to have been here at all, but he certainly doesn’t look put off at this total waste of his time.

I would like him a hell of a lot more if he was annoyed.

Like I am.

• • • • •

IT’S ONLY BEEN FIVE DAYS, but it’s already obvious that working for Vince Sanders is not going to get me out of my funk. Nothing new has come up, the police appear to be nowhere, and basically everyone is in the uncomfortable position of waiting for the killer to make the next move. I remain a figure on the distant periphery, with no real role in any of it.

I start spending more time in the office, though it’s not exactly a hub of activity. Most of Edna’s efforts are directed toward honing her skills as the world’s finest crossword puzzle player, interrupting that endeavor only long enough to check financial prices on the Internet and shriek with glee.

A hurricane has hit South America, destroying some coffee crops and sending coffee futures straight up. I make a silent vow not to drink another drop until the Olympics are over.

Kevin comes in for only an hour or so a day. There’s really nothing for him to do, and he has responsibilities running the Laundromat. When he is here, he spends most of his time on the computer, indulging his hypochondria. I looked over his shoulder a few times, and he was in chat rooms on medical Web sites, seeking and giving medical advice, with such noted physicians as LOLA427 and SICKLYONE.

Laurie is coming home tonight, and I’m picking her up at the airport. I’ve got plenty of time until I have to leave, so I decide to play some sock basketball, a challenging game whereby I shoot a pair of rolled-up socks into a ledge above my door. I am not only the inventor of the game but also its most talented practitioner.

To add some flavor and excitement, I set up grudge matches, and today’s game is between the American Heroes and the Al Qaeda Assholes. As captain of the Heroes, I’m in rare form, and we’re ahead seventy-eight to nothing when the phone rings, signaling halftime.

It’s Vince Sanders, making his daily call to check up on the nonexistent developments. “So where do we stand?” is his opening chitchat.

“It’s halftime,” I say. “I’m up by seventy-eight, and two of the terrorists are in foul trouble.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sock basketball. You take these rolled-up socks, and-”

He interrupts. “And I ram them down your throat if you don’t tell me where we stand on our case.”

He keeps calling it a case, which it certainly isn’t. “Oh, that?” I say. “I’ve got it all figured out. It was Mrs. Plum in the library with a candlestick.”

Click.

I’ve probably talked to Vince on the phone a hundred times, and the next time he says goodbye will be the first.

“You might want to take a look at this,” Edna says.

She’s pointing to a story on her computer. Edna has it set up so that various financial Web sites e-mail her when significant events in her area of interest happen. This one has to do with a merger that has fallen through in the telecommunications industry, sending all similar stocks tumbling in sympathy. Mine is down a point and a half.

“Thanks for sharing that,” I say.

She smiles. “Want me to make you some coffee? It might make you feel better. Everybody’s drinking it these days, you know.”

Stifling my impulse to strangle Edna with my bare hands, I head over to the foundation. I walk in on Willie looking positively giddy; when he sees me, he rushes over and gives me a high five. He’s probably heard that my stock went down.

That’s not it. “Carrie just walked the fuck out the door!” he screams.

Carrie is a seven-year-old Brittany spaniel, blind in one eye and as sweet as they come. Willie has just colorfully told me that she’s been adopted, and he goes on to say that her new parents are an elderly couple who are going to take her to live with them on their boat.

I’ve learned that there are few feelings better than rescuing a dog facing certain, anonymous death in an animal shelter and then sending that dog off to a happy life. It immediately cheers me up, and not even Willie’s question a few moments later can fully detract from that.

“You want some coffee?” he asks. “We’ve got Colombian roast, vanilla nut, cinnamon, hazelnut, and three kinds of decaf. I ordered one of those machines that make lattes, but it’s not here yet.” He pronounces “lattes” to rhyme with “fatties.”

For some reason, I don’t feel like coffee, so I leave for the airport to pick up Laurie, even though I’ll probably get there two hours early. My mood is not improved by the fact that I pass two hundred and thirty-seven Starbucks on the way, give or take a couple of hundred.

For years, Newark Airport stood as a monumental tribute to the arrogance of New Yorkers. It has always had great access by highways, ample parking, and not that much air traffic, so planes generally run on time. By comparison, the highways feeding JFK Airport are so jammed that it’s almost faster to walk, parking is a total pain, the terminals look like they were positioned by blindfolded dart throwers, and the planes are always late. Yet for a very long time, many upscale Manhattanites wouldn’t dream of taking off from or landing in Newark. The mere suggestion of it drew frowns, as if they were afraid they’d get cow dung on their shoes when they left the terminal. These attitudes have changed somewhat, but if you see somebody check the bottom of their shoes when they reach their car, you can still bet they’re heading toward Manhattan.

Being from New Jersey, I’m used to cow dung, so I don’t even look down as I walk to the terminal. Once I get there, boredom sets in, since the tightened security makes it impossible to get to restaurants or newspaper stands or even chairs, for that matter. All of those things are in that glorious land beyond security.

About twenty minutes before Laurie’s flight is scheduled to arrive, my cell phone rings. I think it might be her, calling to say she’s landed early and wondering where I’m waiting.

Instead, it’s Vince. “Where are you?”

“Newark Airport.”

“How fast can you get to Eastside Park?” he asks.

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“What?”

“How does a week from Tuesday sound?”

“Andy, I need you down here. There’s been another murder.”

I’m very sorry to hear that, of course, but there’s no way I’m leaving this airport alone. “Vince, I’m a lawyer. I don’t go to crime scenes. I hold up photographs of them in court.”

“Andy . . .”

It’s time to be firm. “I’ll have to read about it in the paper, Vince. Laurie is coming in, and-”

He cuts me off. “The victim is Linda Padilla.”

I’m outta here.

• • • • •

I’M OUT OF THE AIRPORT in five minutes, leaving Laurie to fend for herself. If Linda Padilla has been murdered, then this case is going to explode. And if Cummings is still in the middle of things, then as his lawyer, I have to make sure it doesn’t explode in his face.

Four years ago Linda Padilla was a middle-level bureaucrat working in the State Housing Administration. Having grown up in low-income housing herself, she was aware of the rather large need for improvement in most of these developments.

What she had not been aware of was a conspiracy among some of those above her to embezzle money meant for housing construction. When she discovered it, she feared that it would be swept under the rug, so she went public with the revelations. People went to jail, others turned state’s evidence, and she became an instant media star.

Superstar whistle-blowers don’t remain in bureaucracies long, and Padilla left to start a watchdog operation. Emboldened by her actions and aware of her reputation, others in different areas of government and the private sector started coming to her with their tales of official and executive wrongdoing. Padilla eagerly and effectively presented them to the world. It wasn’t long before people in power were, if not cowering, at least fearful of becoming her next target.

Padilla took advantage of her fame to become very wealthy. She was a highly sought-after figure on the lecture circuit, and the word was, she could command more than fifty thousand dollars per speech. She also wrote a best-selling book on her exploits; she had reinvented herself as a cottage industry and made a fortune in the process.

Three months ago Padilla announced her candidacy for governor in next year’s election. The public responded almost instantly, and poll after poll showed that she had the very real potential to turn the state’s political landscape upside down.

But Vince’s words make all that moot, and her murder is likely to initiate a media earthquake. I listen to the radio on the way there, and the news is sketchy at this point. All that is known is that Linda Padilla has been killed, and there is speculation that she is in fact the latest victim of the serial killer that has been stalking the area.

It takes me almost twenty minutes to get to Eastside Park and another ten minutes to work my way close to the crime scene. If I were a looter anywhere else in New Jersey, I’d be salivating, since there’s no doubt that every cop in the state is here in Eastside Park. There are so many car lights and floodlights that it seems like daytime, though it’s approaching nine P.M.

Since in the eyes of the police I have no standing in this case, I’m limited as to how close I can get. I’m trying to maneuver around that problem by finding cops I recognize when I see Vince pointing to me and talking to an officer. The officer nods and comes over to get me, bringing me inside the barricades. As I walk toward Vince, I look around but don’t see Daniel Cummings.

Vince grabs me by the arm. “Come on.”

He starts taking me toward the crime scene, which means we have to navigate through what seems to be five million people.

“Where’s Cummings?” I ask.

“With the state police.”

“Was he contacted by the killer?”

He laughs a short laugh. “Yeah. You might say that.”

A few moments later I understand his cryptic comment. Cummings is leaning back on a chair as a paramedic bandages his head. It appears the bandage is protecting a wound on the left side of his temple.

The medic finishes and nods silently to Captain Millen, the state cop who ran the press conference and who is in charge of what is rapidly becoming a train wreck of a case. Millen walks over to Cummings and starts talking to him.

“So, Mr. Cummings, you feeling okay?” I can tell his concern lacks something in the sincerity department, since he does not wait for a response. “Tell me everything that happened tonight. Leave out nothing.”

Cummings frowns his displeasure at this. “Captain, I already told the story to the officer. Can’t you-”

“No, I want to hear it from you.”

“Captain Millen, my name is Andy Carpenter,” I say, my voice deep and powerful so as to convey my authority. “I’m representing Mr. Cummings.”

“Good for you.” He doesn’t seem to be cowed.

“My client is obviously injured.”

“And Linda Padilla is obviously dead. So stop interrupting or I’ll have you obviously removed.”

He’s speaking to me as if I am an annoying child. This is unacceptable and demeaning, but I back off, so as to avoid getting sent to my room for a time-out.

Cummings, coherent enough in his injured state to know that he’ll get no help from me, begins to tell his story. He had received a phone call on his cell phone while driving on Route 3, about fifteen minutes from here. It was the killer, who told him that the next victim was about to be killed in Eastside Park, near the pavilion.

Millen interrupts. “How did he know you’d be out with your cell phone?”

Cummings shrugs. “For all I know, he tried me at home first.”

As the conversation continues, I learn that the police had been tapping all of Cummings’s phones except the cell phone that the killer called on. It was not Cummings’s personal phone; it was one supplied by the paper, which he kept in the car and rarely used. He hadn’t thought to mention it to the police and is baffled as to how the killer could have gotten the number, since he doesn’t even know it himself.

“What did you do next?”

“I rushed here, of course. And I tried to keep him on the phone as long as I could. I thought maybe I could save whoever . . . if he was talking to me . . . well, he couldn’t do anything.” He glances over toward the inside of the pavilion, where Ms. Padilla’s body lay covered. “Finally, we got cut off as I reached here. I tried calling you, but there wasn’t any cell phone reception. So I went in . . . hoping to stop . . .”

My own cell phone goes off, rather untimely considering what my client has just said.

“Hello?”

It’s Laurie, calling from the airport. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Eastside Park . . . there’s been a murder.”

Millen looks over at me, then back to Cummings. “How come his cell phone works here?”

Cummings has a flash of anger at Millen. “I don’t know . . . and I really don’t care.”

“Who was murdered?” Laurie asks.

“Linda Padilla,” I say. “Take a cab home. I’ll call you.”

I hang up, having smoothly accomplished the difficult feat of making my own client look like a liar.

“Good job” is Vince’s sarcastic whisper.

I shrug as Millen questions Cummings in excruciating detail about the phone conversation, seeking to find out every possible nuance, probing for exact words used, tone of voice, et cetera. Finally, Cummings tells Millen that he doesn’t remember much more. He was apparently hit on the side of the head by an unseen assailant. He was knocked out, though he doesn’t know for how long, and when he came to, he called the police, since the cell phone’s reception had somehow been restored.

“Did you see him at all?” Millen asks.

“No.”

“His car?”

“No.”

Cummings seems to wince in pain and touches the bandage on his head.

“Captain,” I say, “he needs to get to a hospital.”

Millen seems about to argue, then changes his mind. “We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

The paramedics load the reluctant Cummings into the ambulance, which will take him to the hospital for X rays. Once he is gone, Vince and I walk off to talk alone.

“What do you think?” Vince asks.

“How well do you know Cummings?”

“Very well,” says Vince, a little too quickly. “Well enough. Why?”

“He was lying. The cell phone story was bullshit. I walk Tara around here all the time, and I’ve never had a problem with reception. And I heard Laurie clear as a bell.”

“So maybe your-”

“You got one? Call your office.”

Vince takes out his phone and dials his office. After a few moments he cuts off the call; it obviously worked.

“Why would he lie?” Vince asks.

“I don’t know . . . maybe he wants to be a hero and catch the killer himself. But if I knew he was lying, then you can be sure Millen knew it even faster. And with the pressure that’s about to come down, he’s not a guy to jerk around.”

Vince doesn’t say anything for a few moments, worry etched on his face. There’s something going on here, and as the lawyer, it would be nice if I knew what it was.

“Vince, are you telling me everything? Because I feel like there’s a whole bunch of missing pieces here.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. Why wouldn’t I?”

I shrug, since I have no idea, and he continues. “I’ll talk to Daniel in the morning. You wanna go grab a beer at Charlie’s?”

Charlie’s is a combination sports bar/restaurant that is my favorite sports bar/restaurant in the entire world. Simply put, it is the Tara of sports bar/restaurants. But there is absolutely no chance that I will be going there tonight with Vince.

“Let me see . . . ,” I say. “A beer with Vince, or seeing Laurie for the first time in two weeks? Mmmm . . . Vince or Laurie . . . Laurie or Vince? Gorgeous woman . . . or fat slob? A terrific evening with the woman I love . . . or a night of burping and slurping with a pain in the ass? Help me out here . . . I just can’t decide.”

“I’m buying,” he offers.

“Even though that would be a historic event, I’m going to pass. Call me in the morning after you’ve spoken to our boy.”

I leave Eastside Park and stop off at my house to pick up Tara before I go to Laurie’s. I never leave Tara alone in the house all night, and my plan is to spend this particular night at Laurie’s. Of course, it’s always possible that she’ll have a different plan. It’s her first night home . . . she might be tired or just feel like being alone.

I ring her doorbell and she comes to the door. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and nothing else, and she kisses me in such a way as to make me confident that my plan is going to work.

And it does. Brilliantly.

• • • • •

THE FIRST THING I do in the morning is turn on the television to see the kind of play the Linda Padilla murder is getting. It’s as big as I expected: national news and the lead story on the Today show.

I’m surprised when Daniel Cummings is Katie Couric’s first interview, from his hospital room. He tells what happened with a heavy emphasis on his heroism in the face of danger; if Eastside Park were Iwo Jima, Daniel would be commissioning someone to paint him planting the flag. It’s becoming increasingly clear that my client is trying to use these murders to achieve stardom.

As an ex-cop, Laurie is anxious to hear more about the situation, and she peppers me with questions. She can’t quite understand my role in this any better than I can, questioning why Vince brought me into the case. And questioning even more why I agreed to do it.

“He’s my friend,” I point out.

“But you don’t think he’s telling you everything.”

I nod. “That’s true.”

“Why are you letting him get away with that?” she asks.

“He’s my friend.”

She leans over and kisses me. “I love your simplicity.”

I nod. “Along with my virility, it’s one of my best traits. You want to work on the case with me?”

“For free?”

“Yup. But you’ll get to watch my simplicity close-up.”

“I’m weakening,” she says.

“And there’s absolutely nothing for us to do.”

“Then I’m in.”

I’ve now accomplished my main goal, which is to have company while I’m wasting my time. Had Laurie not agreed to be my investigator, I probably would have asked Tara next.

Since I have nowhere else to go, I suggest that our first stop should be the hospital to check on Cummings’s condition, though he seemed fine when he talked to Katie Couric. Laurie asks that we first stop off at the murder scene; she wants to get a feel for what happened.

I wait for Laurie to shower and dress, which is unlike waiting for any other woman. Laurie can get out of bed and be ready to leave the house in ten minutes, as fast as any guy I know. But she looks considerably better than any guy who ever lived.

We sample the radio stations on the way to the park. If the killer hoped to get maximum attention and instill maximum fear in the public, choosing Linda Padilla as a victim was a brilliant move. Her murder has ratcheted up the “state of siege” mentality in the community.

Just during our ten-minute drive, on news stations we hear straight reporting, rehashed but unsubstantiated rumors about Linda Padilla’s connections to organized crime, testimonials about the purity of her life, tip hot lines set up by the police, amateur profiles on the killer’s psyche, and quotes from Captain Millen and Cummings.

Over on talk radio the callers are angry, demanding action and FBI intervention in the case. “Harry from Lyndhurst” considers the problem one of police priorities. “They got time to give me a speeding ticket, but no time to catch this killer.” Harry, it turns out, is one of the more thoughtful callers.

There is still a police presence at the scene, and the public is kept away by the ten or so cops assigned to protect it. Two of them were trained by Laurie when she was on the force, and she has no trouble getting them to let us in.

Padilla’s body was found in the pavilion, so that is where we go. There is a chalk outline where the body had been. I wonder whose job it is to draw that, and if they give a class in it at the Police Academy. If I were a cop, that would be the assignment I’d go after. I’d even be willing to start as an assistant chalker and work my way up.

“She was strangled?” Laurie asks.

I nod. “From behind.”

“She wasn’t killed here.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

She points to some scrape marks which lead to the area where the body was. “She was dragged . . . from that door . . . probably wrapped in a sack. If she was alive, he wouldn’t have bothered dragging her this far . . . he would have killed her closer to the door. There’s also no blood; if her hands were cut off here, even postmortem, there would be some blood.”

There’s something about the way she re-creates what happened here that both chills me and leaves me very sad. No one deserves to be dragged in a sack to be dumped on a cold floor. If there is a way to end a life, this sure ain’t it.

We’re quiet on the way to the hospital, each of us affected by what we have just seen. Laurie is frustrated; she knows this maniac has struck four times and will keep going until he’s caught. She wants to be involved in tracking him down, rather than simply hanging out with the lawyer for the newspaper that is reporting the story.

“Why would he pick a guy like Cummings?” I ask.

“Certainly, he wants attention, a forum to speak to the world without exposing himself to danger. But why Cummings? It’s hard to say. Isn’t he a law-and-order, tough-on-crime guy? Maybe that’s why the killer picked him. It’s another way to thumb his nose at authority. Which also may be why he picked Linda Padilla.”

“I’m not so sure,” I say. “There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the victims. My guess is they were chosen at random. Padilla may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

We arrive at the hospital and walk through the lobby toward the elevators. Laurie sees the cafeteria down the hall. “I just want to get a cup of coffee first,” she says.

“More coffee?” I ask. “Doesn’t anybody drink tea anymore? What the hell is this society coming to?”

“Investments not going well?” she asks, but since she knows the answer, she doesn’t wait to hear it, and heads to the cafeteria.

When we finally get to Cummings’s room, he is sitting in a chair, fully dressed and talking to Vince. I introduce him to Laurie, and then Vince gives Laurie a big hug and wide smile. For some reason, Laurie brings out gracious behavior in human beings otherwise incapable of it.

Cummings says, with obvious frustration, “So, defense attorney, you specialize in getting clients out of confinement? How about getting me out of here?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, irritated by his tone.

“Hospital regulation bullshit,” says Vince. “They have to do all kinds of paperwork before a patient can be released.”

“That’s nice for them, but they have five minutes. I have work to do.” Cummings looks at his watch, as if that will make his threat more credible.

“Relax, Daniel,” says Vince. “Your story for tomorrow is written already.”

Cummings’s face shows no sign of relaxing, and he opens the door, calling out to a nurse as she walks by the room. “Nurse, we need to get out of here.”

The nurse answers nervously, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cummings, I’m sure they’ll be here momentarily.”

She closes the door and doesn’t hear him ask, “Who’s ‘they’?”

Cummings doesn’t go back to his chair and instead paces the room. He turns to Laurie and me. “Are they making any progress on the murders? I’m cut off from the damn world in here.”

As I’m about to tell him that I have no idea, the door opens and Captain Millen walks in, flanked by five officers. They seem to come in a little too quickly, as if rushed, but that is not the most surprising thing about their entry. The most surprising thing is that they are holding guns.

“What the . . . ?” Cummings starts.

“Turn around! Hands against the wall!” Millen barks as his officers move toward Cummings.

Vince says something-I can’t make out what-and moves toward Cummings. Vince is pushed out of the way by the officers, and Laurie grabs hold of him, keeping him out of the fray.

“Are you crazy?” asks Cummings. “What the hell . . . ?”

Millen pays no attention, screaming even louder. “Now! Against the wall!”

Cummings still doesn’t react, and is roughly turned around, pushed against the wall, and his hands are cuffed behind his back.

“Daniel Cummings,” Millen begins, “I am placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

He completes the Miranda warning. By now Cummings has been reduced to stunned silence. “What is the charge, Captain?” I ask.

“For right now it’s just the murder of Linda Padilla. But my guess is, there will be others.”

He signals for his officers to take Cummings out of the room, and they do so immediately. As Cummings leaves, I say, “Do not say a word to anyone until I am in your presence.” Cummings doesn’t respond; the shock of all this is affecting his mind’s ability to process.

“Do you understand?” I ask. “Not one word.”

He finally nods slowly, then is led away.

As Millen follows them, he turns to me. “Well, lawyer, looks like you got yourself something to do.”

• • • • •

I LOOK OUT THE WINDOW and see a large group of reporters and three television trucks in front of the hospital. Millen obviously leaked the word in advance so as to take full publicity advantage of the arrest.

“Let’s go,” I say. “They’ll be taking him down to County.” It’s the place where the newly arrested are taken for booking and processing.

Laurie starts for the door, holding Vince by the arm and leading him along. Vince looks stricken, even more so than Cummings had, and for the first time in my memory he seems speechless.

Our car ride down to County is relatively quiet. The radio is reporting the arrest, and Millen and the DA are already planning a press conference to gloat. I attempt to question Vince, to see if he had any inkling of what could be behind this, but all he can say is, “There’s no way . . . just no way.”

We arrive at County and become fresh fodder for the waiting press. I am barraged with questions, but I refuse all comment, saying that I am waiting to speak with my client. I really have no idea what the facts are, and I don’t want to get caught saying something that I will have to retract later. Wherever this is going, there will be a media spotlight on it the entire time, and we’ll have to play the public relations game well.

Laurie, Vince, and I hang out in the waiting area while Cummings is booked, even though I’ll be the only one allowed in to meet with him. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Vince this upset, and I can tell Laurie is noticing this as well.

Except for the time spent waiting for a deliberating jury to return a verdict, these might be the most anxious moments a lawyer can have. The authorities feel they have the evidence to convict the accused, yet as his lawyer, I have absolutely no idea what that evidence is, or even what the facts of the case are.

This situation is even more troubling than most. With all the media attention, the district attorney and police would be particularly loath to make a mistake. They have been under tremendous pressure, but it would increase tenfold if they arrested a suspect and then released him.

They also must know that if they have the wrong man, then the world will realize it as soon as another murder is committed. They would not risk looking so foolish unless they were positive they were right.

I’m not at all sure I even want to take on this case. Cummings might well be guilty, and I don’t really have any compelling need for a serial killer as a client. Besides, I wasn’t even that crazy about him when I thought he was just a law-abiding, pompous reporter.

I decide to broach this with Vince, who is the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. “You know, Cummings might want to pick his own attorney” is the wimpy way I go about it.

Vince shakes his head. “No way. You’re the best. He knows that; I told him that.”

“Vince, I agreed to represent you and the newspaper. I didn’t know I-”

Vince interrupts me, a flash of panic in his eyes. “You’ve got to do it, Andy. You’re the only lawyer I trust to handle this.”

Just then an officer comes out and tells me that I can see Cummings. I nod, but first I want to finish this with Vince.

“Vince, it doesn’t matter who you trust. You’re not the client. And there are plenty of good lawyers. All I’m saying is-”

“No, it’s got to be you.” Vince doesn’t seem to be willing to let me finish a sentence, so I just let the officer lead me off to see Cummings.

I’ve never physically been with someone when they are being processed after entering custody, but in addition to fingerprinting, photographing, emptying of pockets, and the like, the arresting authorities must go over the accused with a confidence-remover.

All but the most seasoned criminals come out of these sessions looking simultaneously depressed and distraught, and Cummings is no exception. Gone, at least for the moment, are the cockiness and air of superiority that I experienced in the past. There is not yet even room for outrage; the fear and humiliation are too dominating. It may be an indictment of myself to say so, but I like him better this way.

“Have you said anything to them since your arrest?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “You told me not to.”

I nod. “Good. That becomes a rule from this day forward. Now, tell me what you know about why you were arrested.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea. One minute I was working with them, telling them what the killer was telling me, and the next thing I know they’re saying I’m the killer. It’s insane; they must be under so much pressure to make an arrest that they just picked the closest person.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Daniel.” My mind registers that I’ve started thinking of him as “Daniel,” rather than “Cummings,” because I need to get personally close to my clients. Then my mind registers that I am thinking of him as a client, which means I must at least be considering taking on the case. Sometimes my mind has a mind of its own.

I continue. “That same pressure you’re talking about would make them extra careful about charging someone unless they’re sure.”

His mind doesn’t seem to fully register this. “So what are you saying?”

“That they must have some evidence, evidence that they consider substantial, tying you to this. You need to think about what that could be.”

He nods and takes some time to think. “I guess only that I knew information . . . like where the bodies were, how they were murdered, things that only the killer could have known.” He throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “But that’s because the killer was telling me everything!”

“And why did he pick you?”

“I don’t know,” he says with some frustration. “I already told you that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you told me before. The world has changed now; you have to look at everything from an entirely different perspective. There’s-”

He interrupts me. “But you don’t understand-”

I return the favor, interrupting him. “It’s you that has to understand . . . so listen carefully. There is a reason you’re here. For us to prevail, we have to find out what the reason is, then shoot it down. And your recollections, your perceptions, can be our most valuable tools. So I know this is hard, but you don’t have the luxury of worrying, or feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to help yourself, by helping me.”

There is no chance that little speech will get through to him, at least not yet, since the shock of his arrest is too fresh. But if I harp on it enough, it will eventually have an effect.

For now I’ll give him a specific assignment. “You know as much about these murders as the police do. So what I want you to do is piece together where you were when each one was committed. I want to know where you were, what you were doing, and if anyone saw you do it. If we can prove you didn’t do any one of the four, their case falls apart.”

Daniel nods, but it’s not hopeful, and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to report that he was home in bed, alone, at the time of the murders. Or that aliens abducted him and sprayed him with antimemory juice.

The door opens and Millen and another cop in plain clothes come into the room. Millen speaks to me. “We would like to question your client, if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe he would like to present his side of the story,” he says.

“Maybe you should have given him that opportunity before you arrested him.”

Millen just nods and the two of them leave. He doesn’t seem terribly disappointed; he knew I’d never let Daniel speak to him. As a thorough cop, he had to go through the motions.

The guard comes to take Daniel back to his holding cell, and when I leave, there are two messages waiting for me at the desk. One is a notification from the district attorney’s office that the arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow, which is Friday. They are moving quickly and don’t even want to wait until Monday, another sign of confidence. They think their case is strong enough already and have no doubt the grand jury will indict based on it.

The other message is from Laurie, reporting that she and Vince will be at Charlie’s, waiting for me. I head over there, though in truth I would prefer to go home and think things through.

Laurie and Vince are sitting at our regular corner table when I arrive, but it would not take Sherlock Holmes to look at this scene and know there is something amiss. First of all, there is a full plate of french fries on the table, and Vince is paying no attention to them. I can’t overemphasize the inconceivability of such an event. Secondly, the television facing their table is tuned to the local news, while every other one in the entire bar has ESPN.

Vince sees me walking toward them and stands up, as if somehow that will get me there faster. “What happened?” he asks. “How did it go?”

I explain that Daniel volunteered nothing much to me and that I refused to let him volunteer anything to the police. “But they seem very confident of their case.”

“What is their case? What do they have?” He’s asking questions in pairs.

“I don’t know, and Daniel claims not to either. I’ll probably learn more when I meet with the DA, and in any event they’ll have to turn over everything in discovery.”

He tosses out another pair. “So this is going to trial? We can’t stop it?”

“Not unless Daniel pleads guilty.”

He shakes his head. “Impossible. Won’t happen.”

“Vince, why don’t you tell me everything that you know and I don’t?”

He sighs and then nods in resignation, as if this is something he dreads. “Daniel was married when he lived in Cleveland. Things didn’t go well for him.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“About a year and a half ago his wife was murdered.”

The thud that echoes through the bar is the sound of my stomach hitting the floor.

“Did they catch the killer?” I ask.

“Nope. It’s still an open case.”

“Was Daniel a suspect?”

“Of course not. I mean, you know how it is, they always check the family first. Especially since she had a lot of money; her parents left her a bundle. But there was no evidence he was involved, which he wasn’t.”

“And you kept all this a secret?”

He flashes some annoyance. “What secret? He didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody kept it a secret. The guy’s wife was murdered. Is that something you’re going to go around broadcasting?”

“How was she killed?” I ask.

“She was shot.” He says this with a measure of triumph, as if the difference in causes of death completely exonerates Daniel from being involved in any of this. “And both her hands were still on the body.”

I look over at Laurie, who doesn’t seem surprised at what Vince is saying, which means that Vince told her all of this before I arrived. She and I make eye contact, but my eye-reading skills are not quite well developed enough to know what she is thinking.

“Vince,” I say, “you need to face the possibility that Daniel is guilty. There can be some civil ramifications for your newspaper, so-”

“He’s not guilty. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“You’ve met your quota. So why don’t you tell me how you can be so sure?”

I see Laurie flinch slightly; she must know what’s coming and also knows I’m not going to like it.

“I’m sure because he’s my son,” Vince says.

• • • • •

“I WAS IN THE RESERVES, stationed in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri,” relates Vince. “Putting in my six months so I could get out of going to Vietnam. I got a weekend pass, I met Daniel’s mother, she got pregnant, end of story.”

My keen intuition is telling me that her pregnancy was in fact not the end of the story, so I probe further. “So you’ve kept in touch with Daniel all these years?” I ask.

He shakes his head with some sadness. “No. His mother never told me about him . . . we had no contact at all. Then, when he was eighteen, he contacted me. Since then I’ve tried to do what I can. I mean, I’m not Ward Cleaver, but I’ve done okay. I’ve been there when he needed me. I paid for the parts of college that his scholarship didn’t cover.”

Vince, a responsible father. The mind boggles. I wouldn’t trust him to watch my beer.

“Where is his mother now?” Laurie asks, helping me out. She knows that I have trouble speaking when I’m totally incredulous.

“She died about three years ago,” Vince says.

“I don’t suppose it was of natural causes?” It’s an obnoxious question to ask, but Vince doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, some kind of cancer,” he says. “I’m not sure . . . we didn’t really have a relationship . . . it was just that one night.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I ask. “I mean, having a son, that’s the kind of thing people usually mention.”

“You always tell me everything?” is his challenge back, knowing that our friendship is not nearly that intimate. “I mean, we’re guys, right?”

I see Laurie roll her eyes, one of the few eye signs I can actually read.

“We sure are, and proud of it. The Two Musketeers.” I’m trying to lighten things up a little.

“I guess I was ashamed,” Vince says, some emotion getting through the gruff exterior. “I missed so much . . . I never saw him grow up.”

“How could you know?” Laurie asks.

“I guess I couldn’t. But I sure never tried to find out. Then when he wanted to go into journalism, I figured I could help him more if people didn’t know he was my kid.”

“Makes sense,” I say, even though I’m not sure it does.

“So you’ll stay on the case?” Vince asks. “You’ll defend him?”

I’m in a bit of a quandary here. I’ve pretty much decided there is no way I’m going to take on this case, but I have no idea how to tell this to Vince. “I’ll defend him” is what I say, probably not the best way to get my point across.

He smiles, and I can tell he’s relieved, because he reaches out to shake with his right hand and grab a french fry with his left. “Thanks, Andy. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. And believe me, Daniel can pay your fee, no problem.”

My nod is pained; my client can pay for his defense against charges of murder with the money he inherited from his murdered wife. “Why don’t you ask Laurie if she’ll work on it with me?” I ask, fully subscribing to the “misery loves company” theory.

Vince’s head turns toward Laurie as if it’s on a swivel. “Will you?”

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Of course.”

Vince goes at the french fries with both hands; he’s feeling a hell of a lot better. “I really surprised you, didn’t I?” he asks, smiling for the first time.

I nod. “You sure did. I still can’t believe it. You actually had sex with someone.”

We hang around for a few more minutes and then leave. Laurie and I don’t go home together, since it’s Thursday and we only stay together on Sundays, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It’s one of the goofy little rules we’ve set up to keep our relationship from moving too fast, though by now I’ve forgotten why fast is a bad thing.

Tara is waiting for me when I get home, and we go for a long walk. I hate walking, yet love walking with Tara. If she weren’t around, I would drive to the front curb to get the mail. Fortunately, I don’t have to even think about that, since she will always be around.

During the walk I make another attempt at introspection, trying to understand my feelings about friendship. A murder case is an enormous undertaking, and this one is bigger than most. It will dominate my life for months. I don’t want to do it, yet I am going to because I consider Vince my friend. I only met him a year ago, I obviously know very little about him, yet that friendship is pushing me over a legal cliff.

I take Tara home and go right to sleep; this introspection stuff can get really tiring.

I wake up in the morning, not with a plan exactly, but with a desire to get things moving. I arrange for Kevin and Laurie to meet with me at the office at nine A.M. Kevin’s reaction to the situation as I lay it out is fairly close to mine; he’s feeling anxious to get back in the legal saddle, but not at all comfortable with the horse we are about to ride.

There is a press conference scheduled by the DA, Tucker Zachry, at ten o’clock, and we turn on the television to watch it. I’m sure that Tucker is not going to reveal key elements of their case, but I am curious to find out who in his office will be assigned to prosecute it.

Tucker Zachry was elected to his office last November with sixty-three percent of the vote, a healthy majority to be sure. Based on his looks and television presence, I’m surprised he didn’t get ninety percent. He’s in his late thirties, six foot two, and apparently in just as good shape as he was when he came in fourth in the Heisman balloting as a quarterback at Stanford. He has a ready smile for his constituents and was even a decent lawyer before moving into this higher office.

Obviously, I hate him.

Tucker opens the press conference with a self-promoting speech about the horror of the crimes, about his dedication to protecting the populace, and about the extraordinary police work that has resulted in Daniel Cummings being arrested. He should begin the speech with “Dear jurors,” since every word he says is meant for the prospective jurors out there in television land.

There is no mention of the particulars of the prosecution and the case against Daniel. Tucker professes to wish that he could share the juicy details, but the fact that he is conducting an ongoing prosecution makes that impossible. He even waxes eloquent on the rights of the accused, rights that he wouldn’t really care about unless someone mussed his hair with them.

It isn’t until the question and answer session that the first piece of news comes out. “Who will be the prosecutor on this case?” a reporter asks.

Tucker permits himself a small smile. “You’re looking at him.”

The reporter, surprised, follows up. “You personally?”

Tucker nods. “Yes. I think it’s that important. And with all the attention sure to be paid to it, I want to be the one on the firing line. If something goes wrong, I will take the heat.” He pauses for effect, setting his jaw in determination. “But nothing will go wrong.”

I turn the television off. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“That’s my Mr. Positive,” Laurie says.

“Have you ever seen him in court?” Kevin asks. “Is he any good?”

“Good, not great,” I say. “But he’s aware of his limitations, so he’ll have the top people in his office backing him up. The problem is that he knows the evidence, knows the case, and if he thought there was one chance in a thousand he could lose, he wouldn’t go near it.”

We’re all aware that there’s not much we can do about refuting the evidence without knowing what it is, so I put in a call to Tucker to arrange a meeting. His secretary says he’s not there, a claim that has some credibility, since I was watching him give an interview to CNN just moments before.

“I want to meet with him sometime today, after the arraignment,” I say.

His secretary makes a noise that indicates she finds that timing rather unlikely. “Mr. Zachry is quite busy today.”

“See if he can fit me in between Bill O’Reilly and Larry King. Or if he’d rather, I can get the judge to juggle his schedule for him.”

It’s a rather empty threat, since the prosecution’s obligation is to turn over the evidence in discovery, not to meet with the defense attorney. But the secretary seems cowed. “I’ll speak to him as soon as he gets back.”

Kevin and I drive down to the hearing. Laurie really has no function there, so she heads off to wrap up some final details on her insurance case.

On the way there, Kevin says, “Listen to this.” He then proceeds to flap his left arm against his body, much like a chicken. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” I ask.

“This.” He flaps his arm again.

“You’re flapping your arm like a chicken,” I point out, trying to be helpful. “So I guess I hear a flapping noise.”

“You don’t hear the clicking?” he asks, renewing the demonstration.

“I don’t think so. It’s more of a flapping. What’s wrong?”

“Rotator cuff.” He flaps his arm again. “It hurts like hell when I do this.”

“Is there a reason you need to do it?”

He doesn’t have time to answer, as we are just arriving at the courthouse. The press is out in full force, another reminder that this case will be as high-profile as they come. Public sentiment is going to be stacked against us; there is a natural inclination by people to believe that if the police charge someone, that person is almost certainly guilty. Add to that the fact that these are murders that scared and shocked the entire metropolitan area, and we’ll be lucky if a lynch mob isn’t formed.

Once inside, we are brought into an anteroom to see Daniel. I want Kevin to meet him and give me his assessment, since I’m still not wholeheartedly into this representation.

Cummings has regained some of his self-confidence since the last time I saw him. He shakes Kevin’s hand vigorously and welcomes him to the “team.” I see Kevin wince slightly and flap his arm a few times, probably making sure the rough handshake didn’t increase the clicking.

“The ‘team’ is what I want to talk to you about, Daniel,” I say. “As I’m sure you realize, I was originally retained by Vince to represent the newspaper-and only by extension, as one of its employees, you.”

He nods and waits for me to continue, so I do. “This is now an entirely different matter, and you are entitled to the counsel of your choice.”

He looks puzzled, as if trying to understand what I’m getting at. “Are you saying you don’t want to represent me?”

“Not at all. I’m saying you can have whoever you want.”

“Including you?”

I nod. “Including me.”

He smiles, leans over, and shakes Kevin’s hand again. “Then welcome to the team . . . officially.”

Now that we’ve got a team, it’s time for the coach to issue some pregame instructions. I tell Daniel that the arraignment is a formality, that the only time he will be asked to speak is to plead.

“I assume you want to plead not guilty?” I ask.

“Damn right,” he says.

I go over my rather healthy fee with Daniel, which he agrees to as if it is of no consequence. He says he will ask Vince to bring him his checkbook, so he can give me a retainer of two hundred thousand dollars. I make a mental note to find out just how much money he inherited from his murdered wife.

“I want you to make a list of everybody you’ve ever known who might have a grudge against you. Also, everybody you’ve ever known that you would consider capable of these kinds of murders.”

Daniel agrees to start thinking about these things, and Kevin and I go out to the courtroom. We are there before the prosecution, which is no surprise, since Tucker wouldn’t have it any other way. Just as the champion comes into the ring last for a title fight, so Tucker considers himself the titleholder for this court fight.

When the Great One finally enters, he sees me and comes over, his charming smile lighting up the room. “Andrew, good to see you,” Tucker says, bringing to a total of one the number of people who call me “Andrew.” My guess is, he believes addressing me by a name I don’t use will somehow get under my skin. It doesn’t, but I’ll get my revenge anyway.

“Nice to see you, Tucky my boy,” I say, watching his quick, involuntary grimace. “You know Kevin Randall?” He turns and shines the charm spotlight on Kevin, which relieves me from the glare for a moment or two.

They greet each other, and then Tucker turns back to me. “I hear you were tough on my assistant.”

I shrug. “All in the pursuit of justice. We need to meet.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” he asks.

“No, right now we’re exchanging insincere pleasantries and chitchat. I want to discuss the case.”

His smile gets about forty degrees colder. “If you’re looking for information, you’ll get it in discovery. If you’re looking to plead it out, you’re wasting your time. This one is going all the way.”

Before I have a chance to respond, Judge Lawrence Benes comes into the courtroom, and Tucker and I go back to our respective corners. Judge Benes is unlikely to be the trial judge; his role is strictly to handle the arraignment.

Daniel is brought in, and the arraignment begins uneventfully. He is held over for trial in the murder of Linda Padilla; at this point Tucker is not including the other murders. My request for bail is denied, and the setting of a trial date is postponed until a judge is assigned. Daniel’s not guilty plea is spoken firmly and with conviction, which is important only because the press should report it as such.

I make a demand for immediate discovery, since there really is nothing we can effectively do until we know what they have.

Tucker stands; he can get up and down hundreds of times without wrinkling his pants. I get up once and it looks like I hung my suit in a blender.

“Your Honor,” Tucker intones, “the prosecution, in representing the people of this state, is keenly aware of our responsibilities. This case is being watched all across this great country of ours, and we will do nothing to jeopardize this defendant’s rights under our Constitution. The materials to be turned over to the defense are being compiled even as we speak.”

I take a moment to control my nausea and then respond. “Your Honor, if you could ask Mr. Zachry to provide transcripts of these speeches in advance, then we could stipulate to such revelations as the greatness of our country. And I should point out that it is the defense position that our country is great from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam.”

Laughter erupts from the gallery, and I see a momentary flash of pain on Tucker’s face. He does not like to be embarrassed, so I make a mental note to embarrass him as much as possible. If he reacts emotionally, then he might make a mistake in front of this “great country of ours.”

The hearing ends, Daniel is taken back to his cell, and for the first time I notice Vince sitting near the back of the courtroom. I walk toward him, and he waits as the gallery empties out.

“Tucker doesn’t look too worried,” he says.

“He’s not.”

“I am,” he says.

I can’t think of anything positive to say, so I don’t.

• • • • •

THERE IS A MESSAGE on my phone machine when I get home. It’s from Sam Willis, reminding me about a commitment I had made for tomorrow night. Like most advance commitments I make, I somehow vaguely thought it would never arrive and had thus wiped it from my mind. Now it’s here, and I can’t think of a way out of it.

This particular event is a charity wine tasting. I don’t know exactly what that is, but there’s almost no chance I’m going to like it. I should have asked Laurie to join us; she would have been pleased to. Laurie’s social consciousness is such that she would willingly sign up for a charity root canal.

My plan for the daytime Saturday hours is to watch college football and indulge in some noncharity beer tasting. This is the beginning of the season, so there are mostly mismatches between teams at the top and the bottom, rather than competitive conference games. It therefore represents another day to give thanks to the inventor of the aforementioned point spread.

I watch sixteen games over nine hours. Now, this may sound like an extraordinary accomplishment, but I am a humble man, and I always share credit when it is warranted. So I want to go on record as saying that if the Academy of Televised Sports Degenerates in America presents me with its award, the coveted ATSDA, even before I thank the academy I will thank my devoted partner, the remote control.

Without it, I’d be just another commercial-watching loser, unable to control my own fate. But with the remote secure in the palm of my hand, or more often resting on my chest, I am all-powerful. I don’t think I’ve missed an important play since the Carter administration. The remote control, to paraphrase Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, “completes me.”

As I get dressed to attend the charity wine tasting, I turn on the news to see if the world exploded while I was watching the games. I discover that while I have effectively shut out thoughts of the Cummings case during football, I’m the only one who’s done so. Two of the three cable news networks are discussing Daniel’s prospects, and their collective opinion seems to be that the only question is whether he will get a lethal injection or a public beheading. One of the talking heads refers to me as Daniel’s “flamboyant attorney” and warns that my skills are not nearly strong enough to carry the day.

Sam pulls up outside and beeps the horn. I wave that I’ll be right down, then go through my departure ritual with Tara. Just before I leave, she always jumps up on my bed and I pet her for a short while. Then I put a biscuit on the bed, but she pretends to be uninterested in it. Of course, it’s always gone when I return home.

Sam Willis is my accountant and friend, not necessarily in that order. He is brilliant when the subject is money, but lacks the ambition to match. As a result, I am probably his only rich client, and when I came into my fortune, he acted like a five-year-old in a toy store.

As I approach the car, I realize with a small jolt that I have not prepared for what constitutes the competitive aspect of our friendship. We have come to call it song-talking, which basically means smoothly fitting song lyrics into what is otherwise a normal conversation. Sam is an absolute master of it, and the gap between our skills has grown steadily.

“Hey, Sam, let’s get a move on it, okay?” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “We’ve got a ticket to ride.”

It’s such a weak opening that I cringe as I say it, and Sam just shakes his head sadly. He knows that true greatness is measured by the stature of one’s opponents, the “Ali needed Frazier” theory. What I’ve just said is further proof to Sam that I’m not exactly his lyrical “Smokin’ Joe.”

Sam doesn’t even bother to respond in kind, holding his big guns back until later. Instead, he mentions that he saw coverage of the Cummings case on television and that it was mentioned that I’m his lawyer.

“You gonna need my help?” he asks.

In addition to being a financial genius and an amazing song-talker, Sam is a computer wizard. I used him to help me on Laurie’s case, and he and his assistant made such great progress that the criminals came after them. Tragically, the assistant, Barry Leiter, was killed in the process, and I will never get over the intense guilt that I feel about it.

“I don’t think so, Sam.”

I say this in a tentative way, and Sam immediately understands what is behind my answer. “Because of Barry?” he asks.

I might as well answer semihonestly, since he’ll see through it if I don’t. “Partly. I just can’t take a chance.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Andy. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

He’s right about that, so I avoid number one thousand and one by not bothering to answer. Instead, I change the subject. “Where is this place we’re going?”

“Well, I was looking at this map,” he says, holding up the map he’s talking about, “and according to this, it’s only just out of reach, down the block, on a beach, under a tree . . .”

My heart sinks, not because Sam has chosen West Side Story, but because lately he has elevated his song-talking game to a new level. He hammers me with themes, using different but related songs throughout an entire evening. Recently, we were discussing vacations, and in the course of an hour he welcomed me to the “Hotel California,” promising that I would get a taste of “life in the fast lane” in a “New York Minute.”

He’s still looking at the map. “Wait a minute . . . on second thought it looks like it’s around the corner . . . or whistling down the river.”

Our destination turns out to be nowhere near the river. It’s a culinary institute in lower Westchester, and we are two of about eighty people there to taste wine for charity. We’re divided into groups of twenty and put into what seem like typical classrooms. The only difference is that on tables in front of each chair are five glasses of wine.

“This is gonna be great,” Sam says.

“Yeah. Yippie,” I say, not quite sharing his enthusiasm.

Sam lifts up one glass in a toast. “Come on, Andy, cheer up. We’re gonna rock it tonight. We’re gonna jazz it up and have us a ball.”

“Do me one favor, will you, Sam? Just don’t tell me you feel pretty, oh so pretty.”

The “class” begins, and I am immediately transformed to another planet, a place where people spin wine around in their glass, analyze it as if it’s a top-secret formula, and use words like “flinty,” “oaky,” and “brassy” to describe the taste. Not having previously chewed on flint, oak, or brass, I have no idea what those things taste like, which puts me at a considerable disadvantage. I’m not even sure what they mean when they say a wine is dry; I spilled some and had to mop it up with my napkin just like I would something wet.

My sense is that this particular charity’s goal is not to educate me, but rather to get me so sloshed that I won’t realize how big a check I’m writing when they make their pitch at the end. I fool them by taking little tastes, mainly because I know that I’m going to have to drive Sam home, as he is downing flinty drinks with his left hand and dry, oaky ones with his right.

I write my check and we head out toward the cars. Our walk takes a little longer than it should, since we are stopped by about a dozen reporters, as well as three or four cameramen with television lights.

“Hey, Andy,” one of them calls out, “have you heard what they’re saying about Cummings?”

Nothing good can come from that question, and I cringe in anticipation. I could fake it and give a “no comment,” but I want to know what has happened, and when I find out, I might well have a comment.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been inside, toasting to charity.”

Another reporter jumps in. “They’re not talking on the record, but they’re saying he also murdered his wife.”

“I assume the ‘they’ you’re talking about is the prosecution. Unlike Tucker Zachry, we intend to prove our case in a courtroom. Thanks for coming, people. I recommend the wine, although it’s a little oaky.”

I start walking toward the car. Behind me, with the cameras off, I hear the incorrigible Sam explaining my cranky mood in terms that only Officer Krupke could understand. “He’s very upset. He never had the love that every child oughta get.”

I lead Sam to the car, and I get in the driver’s seat. Sam looks at me with genuine concern. “Is your boy innocent?” he asks.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Sam can read me, and he knows I have some very real doubts about that innocence. “I thought you always had to believe in your clients.”

“Belief is an evolving concept.”

“But you’re sure you want to represent him?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” I say without conviction.

Sam shakes his head disapprovingly. “I don’t think you should.”

Just what I need, more advice. “And why is that exactly?”

“A boy like that, he’d kill your brother. Forget that boy and find another. One of your own kind. Stick to your own kind.”

• • • • •

THE INITIAL EVIDENCE against Daniel Cummings arrives in three boxes at ten o’clock on Monday morning. Its promptness is a further demonstration that Tucker is going to play this strictly by the book. He has no intention of being nailed on any kind of technicality involving procedure; his case must be too good for that.

What is here represents only a small piece of what will eventually be the prosecution’s case. The investigation is ongoing and in fact just beginning, but this is daunting enough.

The first set of documents is technical in nature. I am nontechnical in nature, so it takes me a while to understand them. Basically, what they say is that technology exists that can tell in fairly precise terms the location of a cell phone when it receives a call. They’ve employed this technology in this case, and the results run counter to Daniel’s story. According to the reports, Daniel was already in or near the park that night when he received the call, which was made from a nearby pay telephone. Daniel had said it took him fifteen minutes to get to the park after receiving the call. Even worse, Daniel’s fingerprints were found on that pay phone, leaving the clear impression that he made the call to himself so as to fabricate a story.

With this information on hand, the police then executed search warrants on Daniel’s house and car while he was in the hospital. Hidden in the car’s trunk were Linda Padilla’s clothes, including a scarf, which the police believe was used to strangle her. And wrapped in that scarf were her severed hands.

It goes downhill from there. Three other scarves, bloody but mercifully without severed hands, were found hidden in Daniel’s closet at home. Tests are being done to confirm that they are from the previous three victims. I would say it’s a pretty safe bet that they are.

When Kevin, Laurie, and I finish going through the documents, it’s so quiet in the office you can hear a severed hand drop. It’s Laurie who finally breaks the silence. “This is bad,” she says, vastly understating the case.

Kevin doesn’t respond, which means he agrees. It’s up to me, as the lead defense attorney, to give the upbeat analysis. “This is just their side of it” is the best I can manage.

“Do we have a side?” Kevin asks.

“Not yet,” I say. “But we’re gonna get one.”

Their faces do not show great enthusiasm, more like total dread. “Look,” I say, “if you guys want to back out of this, I’ll understand.”

“But you’re staying in?” Laurie asks.

I nod. It’s not a vigorous or enthusiastic nod; it’s more just having my neck go limp and letting my head roll around on top of it. But it conveys the message: I’m staying on the case, and I’m doing it for Vince.

“We’ve had cases that looked bad before,” Kevin reasons. “I’m in.”

We both look to Laurie; she is aware that hers is one of the cases that looked particularly grim before we turned it around. Countering that is what I know to be her absolute horror at the prospect of helping a serial killer. “Okay,” she says. “Me too.”

I’m very glad to have them aboard. “Then let’s kick this around,” I say.

We discuss the case for the better part of two hours, at the end of which I verbalize my evolving strategy, pitifully obvious though it might be. “Either Daniel is guilty, or someone is trying to make him look guilty. It doesn’t do us any good to assume the former, so let’s go with the idea of an unknown bad guy. We have to find out who it is and why he’s chosen Daniel as his target.”

Kevin does not seem convinced about any of this, a sign of his intelligence. “My problem,” he says, “is that we seem to be talking about a killer who randomly picks and murders victims and cuts off their hands. In other words, a real weirdo.”

I know where he’s going; it’s bothered me as well. “Yet that’s not the type of person to concoct an elaborate frame-up,” I say.

Laurie nods her agreement. “Unless the murders weren’t random.”

The problem with that is that the victims were in no way similar; there is a young nurse, a street hooker, a grandmother, and a gubernatorial candidate. It seems hard to believe there is a connection between them, but that’s one of the things we have to look for.

We make the decision to look at each murder individually. If we can exonerate Daniel on any one, then he might well be off the hook on all of them. Left unsaid is the one fact that hangs over us: If there are no more murders, Daniel will look even more guilty. It’s left unsaid because no one wants to talk about the obvious flip side: If someone else is brutally strangled, it makes our case. Vicious murders are a tough thing to root for.

Kevin makes the suggestion that we bring in Marcus Clark, a private investigator who helped us in Laurie’s defense. His methods are unorthodox but effective, and Laurie and I both agree that we can use him. Kevin volunteers to contact him.

We also understand that publicity is going to be a key component of our efforts and that the responsibility for that will fall on me. It’s not something I enjoy, but that doesn’t make it any less necessary.

Two hours ago we had nothing. Now we have a plan, things to do, information to digest, a mountain to climb. Deep inside me, so deep that it could be just a gas pain, I feel a rumbling, an eagerness to get the game started.

I always approach my cases as games; it helps me kick into gear the competitiveness that I need. When I was younger, I wanted to spend my life playing baseball. I was a shortstop, and I could have made it to the majors if I could only hit the curveball or the fastball or the slider or the change-up.

So criminal law is the game I play. It’s always one game, winner take all, none of this sissy four-out-of-seven stuff. And right now I’m getting ready.

Play ball.

• • • • •

I AGREE TO DO THREE interviews from the list of thirty or so requests that Edna has received. During the course of the day, each of the shows promotes my appearance as an “exclusive” interview. I assume this means that at one particular moment, I will be talking only to their interviewer. It certainly can’t mean that I am going to say something unique to any one of them; what I say to one I will say to all. It would be nice if I could figure out what that will be.

I arrive at the studio in Fort Lee from which the interviews will be conducted over satellite or tape or whatever it is they use. The three cable news networks, Fox, MSNBC, and CNN, have pooled their resources, and all the interviews will be done in succession from this one place.

My interviews would be better suited to the E! Network, providing “E” stands for “evasive.” Or maybe the Sleep Channel, if there is one. What I should have done was brought Tara and gone on Animal Planet.

The interviewers are moderately competent at their craft, though there is certainly not a Ted Koppel among them. They all ask the same questions, trying to gain insight as to the evidence against Daniel and the strategy we will use to combat it.

I’ve always been a political junkie, and the time I’ve spent watching politicians being interviewed has not been wasted. The trick is to decide what you want to say and then say it, without any real regard to the question asked.

Some typical examples:

Question 1: How is your client going to plead?

Answer: He is going to plead not guilty because he is not guilty. He’s looking forward to a full vindication in a court of law.

Question 2: What is the evidence the prosecution has against your client?

Answer: That’s not completely clear right now. But what is clear is that we will mount a vigorous defense. My client is looking forward to a full vindication in a court of law.

Question 3: What did you have for breakfast this morning?

“I’m glad you asked that, because I had eggs, pancakes, and bacon. My client wants me to be well nourished and strong for the fight ahead, since he is looking forward to a full vindication in a court of law.”

On the last show, I am part of a panel of “experts,” all of whom are defense attorneys and/or former prosecutors. They wax semi-eloquent about the case and have two things in common. None of them has the slightest knowledge of the facts, and all of them think Daniel will be convicted.

The host takes calls from viewers, and their comments and questions are considerably more troubling. On my previous high-profile cases, while the public naturally assumed the accused was guilty, they weren’t worked up about it. In this case, passions have been stirred, and their hatred of Daniel and by extension his lawyer, me, is palpable.

I leave the studio and go home, where Laurie is waiting for me. She’s gone to the trouble of making me a late dinner, which is why I neglect to mention the thirty-five thousand potato chips I had between interviews.

We stare at each other during dinner. I’m staring at her because she possesses a casual beauty that quite literally and quite frequently takes my breath away. Since she doesn’t do much gasping when I enter a room, my guess is that she’s staring at me for a different reason.

“I’ve never seen you like this, Andy.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you take on a case, you jump in with both feet. Like you can’t wait to attack it. And the tougher the case, the more anxious you are. But not this time. This time you’re a different kind of anxious.”

I nod. “I feel like Scott Norwood is lining up to kick a field goal.”

“That’s a little too cryptic for me,” she says.

“I’m a big Giants fan, you know that, and when they were in the Super Bowl against the Bills, I was pumped. I mean, I really wanted them to win. But I also took the over, because I thought it was a very good bet.”

By now Laurie must realize this is not going to be the most intellectual of discussions, but she plows on. “What is the over?” she asks.

“You can bet on whether the two teams combined will score over or under a certain number of points. I thought the Giants would win a high-scoring game, so I took the over.”

“Got it,” she lies.

“So it gets to the end of the game, and the Bills kicker, Scott Norwood, lines up to try a field goal. If he misses, the Giants win, but the game would stay under the number. If he makes it, the Giants lose, but it would be over the number. So if the Giants win, I lose the bet. If the Giants lose, I win the bet.”

“Andy, I think it might be time to get to the point.”

“Okay. I hated that moment. I hated being torn, rooting both ways. When I win, I want to win, no reservations. I don’t feel that way about Daniel yet. As his lawyer, I have to fight for his freedom, but I don’t know if he should be out on the street.”

“So maybe you should drop the case.”

“Maybe I should. But then maybe I shouldn’t be a defense attorney. Because that’s what defense attorneys do: We represent people that might be guilty. And only by giving them the best defense possible do we get to find out if they really are.” I’m lecturing her with condescending bullshit, and I force myself to stop.

“He’s got money. He’ll get a good lawyer. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“That’s true,” I say unconvincingly.

“But his father’s your friend.”

She is right, of course. It’s all about Vince. She can see right through me. “You make me feel naked,” I say.

She looks at her watch. “I was hoping by now you would be.” She comes over and kisses me, takes me by the hand, and starts leading me to the bedroom.

“Now, this I have no reservations about,” I say.

“What?” she asks.

“I never think about Scott Norwood when we’re making love.”

“I do,” she says.

• • • • •

MARCUS CLARK IS the most frightening human being I have ever seen. His body appears made of iron; if he should break a bone, I believe the doctor would weld it together. His bald head is so cleanly shaven I can see my cowering, wimpy, skin-and-bones, pasty-white reflection in it. But even more intimidating than his appearance is his manner, his presence. He rarely talks, and moves slowly and deliberately, yet he projects pure menace.

The notable exception to this is when he is with Laurie. When he sees her, his face lights up, or at least softens, and he sometimes even speaks in sentences upwards of three words. I have an involuntary tendency to hide behind her when he is in the room.

He’s come to my office this morning to get his assignment. Marcus is a private investigator who was very helpful taking over when Laurie was under house arrest and unable to aid in her own defense. His techniques, while I don’t really want to know the particulars, are extraordinarily effective in developing information.

Laurie, Kevin, and I are going to investigate the local murders, but I have a feeling that the murder of Daniel’s wife could factor into this case at some point. That is what I want Marcus to look into. It will mean his spending a great deal of time in Cleveland. I could send Laurie instead, but Marcus’s absence will have significantly less effect on my sex life.

“He killed his wife?” Marcus asks me.

“No, he’s our client. Our clients don’t kill people. They’re accused of it, but we brilliantly prove that they’re innocent.”

“You want me to find out who killed her?”

I nod. “In a perfect world, yes. But I’ll settle for whatever you can learn.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can. Edna’s gotten you an open plane ticket, and we’ll make a hotel reservation for you.”

“No spa,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t stay at hotels with spas. And it’s gotta be near a Taco Bell.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Ice machine.”

I look at Laurie, but she looks away. I’m going to have to deal with these travel issues on my own. “Right,” I say, pretending to make notes on a legal pad. “No spa . . . Taco Bell . . . ice machine . . . you want regular cubes or the kind with those holes in them?”

I’m taking a risk poking fun at Marcus, but he lets me off the hook by ignoring me. He grunts that he can leave immediately, so I hand him over to Edna to make the travel reservations.

Kevin goes off to meet the husband of Betty Simonson, the grandmother who was the killer’s second victim. I’ve assigned myself to check Nancy Dempsey, the first victim, but I’m at least temporarily unable to get in touch with her husband, so I decide to join Laurie in investigating the third murder, that of the street hooker. Linda Padilla, by far the most prominent of the victims, will be the last one we look into, and we’ll all focus on that.

The vacant lot where the third victim’s body was found is a scary place, even though it’s only eight o’clock in the evening, five hours before the estimated time of death, one A.M. It’s in an industrial area of Passaic, which obviously has two distinct shifts of workers. The day shifters are those who carry a lunch pail and work in the factories; the night shifters carry condoms and work on their backs.

It’s the night shift that has come on when we arrive, which is just as well, since the victim was a member of that group. The police reports say that her colleagues knew her only as Rosalie, though no one knows if that’s her real name. They have been unable to further identify her, but have guessed her age to be twenty.

We walk over to an area where there are three Dumpsters, behind which Rosalie’s naked body was found. It is a filthy area, and I see at least three rats scurry off when we arrive. I never knew Rosalie, and never will, but I know that she died too young and with far too little dignity.

Laurie makes the same comment she made in Eastside Park, at the site Linda Padilla was found. “She wasn’t murdered here.”

My response is every bit as insightful as it was then. “How can you tell?” I ask, though I know from my research that she is right. Rosalie was murdered in her own apartment; and the place was vandalized in the process.

“It wouldn’t make sense; it’s easy to get a hooker alone,” she says. “You just have to hire her. Then she takes you to a place she has, and if you want to kill her, that’s where you do it. With no one around. She would never have taken him back here; she’d have a room somewhere nearby.”

We walk toward the curb, which serves as a sort of showroom for the young women. Some are just teenagers, and at least three-quarters of them are African-American, though Rosalie was white. Right now they are participating in the economic mating ritual, talking to men who pull up in cars and signal to them.

“Must be asking for directions,” I say.

Laurie doesn’t respond. Hooker jokes are not really her thing. Compassion and human dignity are her things.

We walk over toward two ladies, waiting by the curb for customers to pull up. One is dressed in a gaudy red dress, the other opted for gaudy green.

“Hi” is my clever opening.

They look at me blankly. If they are feeling sexual desire for me, they’re concealing it well. “Cops?” Gaudy Red asks.

“Used to be,” Laurie says. “Not anymore. Now I’m private.”

“So what about him?” Gaudy Red asks, jerking her thumb toward me.

“He’s a lawyer.”

Gaudy Green snorts, and the two street hookers share a small laugh, undoubtedly mocking my profession. Then Gaudy Red asks, “So what do you want?”

“We want to know about Rosalie, the girl that was murdered,” Laurie says. “We’re trying to find out who killed her.”

“Did you know her?” I ask.

Gaudy Red looks at Gaudy Green, who thinks for a moment and then nods her approval. Gaudy Red says, “Over there. Sondra. She was Rosalie’s roommate.”

We thank them and walk off in the direction that they are pointing, toward another woman, close to thirty years old, standing near a parked car, working alone. Laurie introduces us to her and tells her that we want to ask her about Rosalie.

“I don’t know who killed her,” Sondra says, then looks away, as if hoping we’ll be satisfied with her answer and disappear.

“We understand that,” says Laurie. “We’re just trying to learn about her, to understand who she was. Maybe that will help us figure out why she was killed.”

Sondra looks doubtful but goes on to describe the Rosalie she knew. She does so in bland generalities: Rosalie was nice, and a lot of fun and generous, and a real good friend and roommate. She could be describing a sorority sister, except if she was, we probably wouldn’t be standing near garbage cans, dodging rats and watching johns drive up.

“Was Rosalie her real name?” I ask.

Sondra shrugs. “Beats me. I don’t know who she was before or where she came from or why. It don’t matter much, you know?”

“Can you think of any reason why she was killed?”

A flash of anger. “Yeah. Because there are weird assholes in this world, and she went off with one of them.”

Sondra has very little information to provide, no matter how much we prod. She thinks Rosalie came from the Midwest, though that is just a guess, and she thinks she might have run away from a family with money, because she knew all about nice clothes, even though she didn’t have any.

We show Sondra pictures of the other victims, with the faint hope she’ll recognize them as somehow being connected to Rosalie. She does not, and we’re about to conclude this interview when a car pulls up. A guy gets out and strides purposefully toward us. If central casting needed a pimp, this is who they would send for. He’s got the car, the clothes, the attitude, the whole package.

“They bothering you, Sondra?”

Sondra’s demeanor changes instantly; her fear of this man is palpable. “They ain’t bothering me, Rick. We just talking.”

Rick smiles briefly. “Oh, you just talking? I thought you supposed to be just working.”

What happens next goes by so fast that it seems surreal. Rick slaps Sondra across the face, and she falls back. Then Laurie grabs Rick and spins him around and down face-first onto the hood of his car. He screams in pain, and I see blood spurting onto the hood from the place where his intact nose used to be.

He tries to get up, but Laurie has his arm behind him in what looks like a wrestling hold. She slams his head down again, and he moans in agony. Then she actually opens her handbag and takes out a pair of handcuffs, cuffing him behind his back.

Finally, I spring into action, albeit verbal action. “Holy shit,” I say. My comment seems to have little effect on events as they are unfolding.

Sondra is crying softly, but Laurie and Rick are paying just as little attention to her as they are to me. Laurie takes out her cell phone and calls a friend on the force, asking that officers be sent down to make an arrest. Then she takes Rick’s car keys and drops them down a sewer.

Rick attempts some kind of talking noise, but his exact words are lost as they fail to navigate through the blood and smashed teeth. Laurie makes the reasonable assumption that what he was going to say was not conciliatory in nature, and smacks him hard in the back of his head.

She leans over until her mouth is maybe an inch from Rick’s ear. “I’m going to have some people check on Sondra every week, and if anything bad happens to her, anything at all-if she gets hit by lightning or catches a cold-I’m going to think it’s your fault. And compared to what will happen then, tonight will seem like a day at the beach. You understand?”

Rick mumbles something that sounds like “Miskshbelflk.” I assume that’s pimp-talk for “Yes, crazy lady, I understand real well. Please don’t smash my face again.”

The police show up and take Rick off to face assault and various other charges that they and Laurie will dream up. They don’t seem terribly concerned by his injuries, and as an officer of the court, I assure them that Rick sustained those injuries while resisting a citizen’s arrest.

After they’ve gone, Laurie turns to Sondra. “Do you want out of this?” she asks. “You can do better.”

Sondra laughs a short laugh, as if the idea is ridiculous. “Where am I gonna go?”

“That’s the easy part,” says Laurie. “The hard part is wanting to.”

“I’ll be okay,” she says.

I take out my card and hand it to her. “If you’re not, call me,” I say. “Next time I won’t be so easy on him.”

Sondra goes off, and Laurie and I head back to the car. “I didn’t know you still carry handcuffs,” I say, grinning like an idiot.

“I figured if I told you, you’d grin like an idiot.”

“You got any more of them?” I ask, since the first pair went off with Rick.

“I do, but I only use them in the pursuit of truth and justice.”

“Oh,” I say. “Damn.”

• • • • •

DR. JANET CARLSON must be the best-looking coroner in the United States. It’s ironic, because she had to have been voted “Least Likely to Hang Out with Dead People” in high school. She’s about five foot four, a hundred and ten pounds in rubber surgical gloves, and at thirty-five years old still looks like every guy’s dream date for the senior prom.

But put a scalpel in her hand, and you don’t want to mess with her.

I once helped Janet’s sister out of a sticky legal situation with her ex-husband, so she owed me a favor. I’ve called in that favor about fifty times since, but she doesn’t seem to mind, so I’m doing it again today.

Janet’s full medical reports on the murders aren’t in yet, or at least they haven’t been turned over to the defense, so I go down to her office to find out what I can. As soon as I arrive she buzzes me in; she almost seems anxious for the company. Maybe because the other ten people hanging out with her are in refrigerated drawers.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” she says. “Tucker would tie me to a tree and flog me.”

I close my eyes. “What a great visual . . .”

She laughs. “So what do you want?”

“Information that will clear my client.”

She touches her apron pockets. “Sorry, I left that in my other apron.”

We finish bantering, and she takes me through what her reports will say. “It’s pretty straightforward, Andy. All four women died from manual strangulation, probably with a cloth. Cause of death in each case is asphyxiation.”

“Were they sexually molested?” I ask.

“No.”

I’m surprised to hear this. “Isn’t that unusual, considering they were naked?”

“In my experience, very. And there was no semen found on or near the body, so it’s likely he didn’t masturbate, although two of the bodies were moved. But it’s refreshing, don’t you think, Andy? A prudish sex fiend.”

“If they died from the strangulation, when did he cut off their hands?”

“Postmortem. Very neatly done . . . he took his time. Same thing with the clothes.”

“They found the clothes?”

“Only Linda Padilla’s,” she says. “But I doubt that they were ripped off in any of the cases . . . there would have been some abrasions. I believe he cut them off after the victims were dead, most likely with the same knife he used to cut off the hands.”

“Without passion?” I ask, since she’s making the murders sound almost clinical.

“I would say so. If there was, it’s certainly well hidden.”

I thank Janet and head back to my office. What she had to say is surprising and vaguely disconcerting. I had been having trouble seeing Daniel as a psychopath and was counting on the jury feeling the same way. Janet’s portrayal of the crimes is such that it may not be the work of a psychopath, at all, but rather someone making it look that way. That would make the killer smart, cold, and diabolical, a role Daniel is far more suited to.

On the more positive other hand, if the killer is more calculating than psycho, he would be quite capable of pulling off the frame we are claiming has been perpetrated on Daniel.

Vince is at the office when I arrive, and he starts in on his daily ritual of questioning me about progress in the case. I’ve basically been telling him what I know, for two reasons. First, I cleared it with Daniel, and second, I don’t know anything.

“What do you know about Daniel’s sex life?” I ask.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a pretty straightforward question, Vince. Is there anything unusual that you know of?”

He’s upset by the question. “Of course not. Come on, Andy, he’s my son.”

“Having your genes is not exactly proof of normalcy.”

“The killer had weird sex stuff going on?” he asks.

“He murdered women, stripped them naked, and cut off their hands,” I say. “There’s a hint of the loony in that, don’t you think?”

Vince believes his role in this is to convince me of Daniel’s innocence. While he’s babbling away about that, I glance at the call list Edna left on my desk. First on the list is Randy Clemens. He called only once, which is not a surprise, since inmates in state prison are allowed to make only one phone call a day. Next to Randy’s name is Edna’s note: “He needs to see you right away.”

I defended Randy Clemens on a charge of armed robbery four and a half years ago. The state had a strong case, but not an airtight one. I came to like him and believe in his innocence. The fact that he’s calling from prison should give you some idea of how successful I was in his defense. After he was sentenced to a minimum of fifteen years, his wife divorced him and took their daughter to California.

It is a source of ongoing pain and guilt that Randy is behind bars, and those feelings are exacerbated every few months, when he calls me with ideas he has thought of for appeal. They never have any merit or prospects for success, and it always falls to me to break that news to him. What he can’t accept, what I have trouble accepting myself, is that his legal game was played out and he lost. No do-overs allowed.

I ask Edna to call the prison and arrange for me to visit Randy on Saturday. I don’t want to go, I never want to go, but I can’t stand the idea of him sitting in his cell, feeling that I’ve abandoned him.

Kevin and Laurie come back for a meeting I’ve called to go over what we’ve learned. I don’t really expect anything to come from these initial efforts; I believe that if there is a motive anywhere to be found, it will be in the Padilla killing. But it’s more likely that there was no motive to any of this other than lunacy, despite the curious tactics the perpetrator used.

Kevin says that he visited with Arnold Simonson, husband of Betty, the grandmother who became the second victim.

“They lived off their Social Security and his disability insurance; he hurt his back while working as a foreman in a carton factory,” Kevin reports. “They were high school sweethearts, married forty-two years, hoping to move to Florida next year. Two grown kids, four grandchildren . . .” Kevin is obviously upset as he recounts this.

“So no apparent motive?” I ask.

“Zero. And I showed him the photos of the other women, but he had never seen them before.”

I nod. My guess is that the only thing we’re gonna find these people have in common is that they were killed by the same person.

“He showed me their family album,” Kevin says. “How anybody could have hurt that woman . . .”

I discuss with Kevin and Laurie what I learned at the coroner’s office, and Kevin makes the very logical suggestion that I should talk to someone with professional insight as to the killer’s state of mind. I make arrangements to do that, then I leave for a meeting with my client.

Laurie heads off to talk with the husband of Nancy Dempsey, the first victim. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to turn our collective focus to Linda Padilla. We need to find proof that the killer is logical, that the crimes had a motive, because only then can we make a credible case that he framed Daniel.

• • • • •

THE HORROR OF confinement is starting to take its toll on Daniel. I am told that loss of freedom is a nightmare that cannot be fully understood unless experienced. Daniel is experiencing it right now, and I can see the devastation on his face as he is led into the visitor’s room. What he doesn’t realize is that he hasn’t yet faced the worst part. That will come if we lose the trial and the system puts him away and moves on to other things. Willie Miller once told me that the feeling of hopelessness, of being forgotten, is the toughest part of all.

Daniel sees me as his only link to the outside world, and his only hope to ever get back there. He sees me this way because it is true, and it’s a pressure that makes me uncomfortable. For instance, right now, before I’ve said anything, Daniel is desperately hoping that I’ve brought some news that will end his agony.

I haven’t.

My expressed purpose for being here is to bring him up-to-date on the progress of our investigation, but since there basically is none, I’m able to get that out of the way quickly. What I really want to do is probe his story about the night of the Padilla murder; I don’t believe his version of events, and I’m hoping there’s another explanation for his lie besides him being the killer.

“Did you know Linda Padilla?” I ask.

“Why? You think I killed her?”

I deflect this question by lecturing him on his role as the defendant. He must tell me everything there is to tell; the worst possible thing that can happen is if I am surprised in court by something the prosecution knows that I don’t. Tucker will find out if Daniel had a connection to Linda Padilla, so I must know as well.

“I knew her,” he says, his voice an octave lower. Actually, it could be a bunch of octaves lower, since he’s barely whispering and I have no idea what an octave is.

“How well?” I ask.

“I met her a couple of times, maybe three. The last time I interviewed her.”

“About what?”

“I was working on a story about organized crime in North Jersey, how it had evolved, how strong it is today . . . that was the main thrust. She kept coming up in my research, so I approached her.”

I’m not surprised to hear him say this: Linda Padilla’s name has often been linked to the mob, albeit always through unsubstantiated rumor and innuendo. There are those who believe organized crime supplied her with much of the information she used to rock the establishment. Of course, those believers consist mainly of those she has attacked and/or her future opponents, but the talk has never been completely eliminated.

“In what context did her name come up?” I ask.

“I couldn’t be sure, but my sense was that she was somehow beholden to them. I asked her about it, but she completely froze me out. Denied it, then wouldn’t talk about it.”

If Daniel is telling the truth, and if his information tying Padilla to organized crime is correct, it could be a link to the chalk outline of her body in a pavilion in Eastside Park. Of course, it doesn’t explain the other murders, none of which bear the markings of mob hits, but at least it’s something.

“How are you coming on your whereabouts at the time of the murders?”

He frowns, which is an answer as clear as any words he can say. He says them anyway. “I was home in bed. I’m up every morning at five-thirty, so I go to bed early. All the murders happened after midnight, except Padilla, and . . .”

He doesn’t finish his sentence and he doesn’t have to. He wasn’t home in bed the night Linda Padilla was killed; he was in Eastside Park with her body.

I ask Daniel how his prints could have been on the phone in the park. He doesn’t know, but his theory is that the blow he took to the head knocked him unconscious, and the killer took advantage of that to screw off the phone and place it in his hand. The killer then screwed it back on, with Daniel’s fingerprints on it. It is a theory that would have little if any chance of holding up; there is not even any conclusive evidence that Daniel lost consciousness. Yet it is a measure of our plight that I file the idea away for further consideration and possible use later.

Daniel is sticking to his story about being miles away from the park when receiving the cell phone call from the killer. I’m going to have to get experts to question the technology, if such experts exist.

Daniel’s theory about how the other scarves got into his house is less sophisticated, but he’s very vocal about it. “It’s a setup, Andy, don’t you see? Would I leave things like that around to be found? I’ve covered criminal cases for ten years! I know how these things work.”

While I’m at the prison, I get a message from Edna. We have been informed that the grand jury has returned an indictment, not exactly a major surprise, and that there will be a hearing on Monday in front of the trial judge. That judge has not been appointed yet, but it’s expected to be announced no later than tomorrow. While judges are assigned randomly, I would suspect this will be slightly less random than most, since this trial is a political hot potato.

I leave Daniel after about a half hour, promising to keep him regularly informed of developments. I drive to the Haledon office of Dr. Carlotta Abbruzze, a shrink whom I had about five sessions with three or four years ago. It was at a time when my then wife, Nicole, and I were having some problems, and I was trying to determine if I was the cause.

Basically, I wanted to sit and talk about my marriage, but Carlotta, as she encouraged me to call her, wanted me to lie on the couch and relive my childhood. Since I can’t remember a single problem in my childhood, this seemed a waste of time. Besides, I reasoned, there was always the danger that I might discover some actual childhood problems, which I had no desire to do.

Carlotta told me that I was in heavy denial, a charge I will refuse to accept until the day I die. I stopped seeing her, but we became friends, having dinner once in a while. It cost me just as much, but at least I got something to eat, and I could sit up when I talked.

Edna has made an appointment for me with Carlotta at her office. I show up ten minutes early and sit in the waiting room for her door to open. I know that it will open exactly at the scheduled time, not one minute before or one minute after.

It does open, and one of Carlotta’s patients exits. We of course do not make eye contact; I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and I’m not about to start with a fellow shrinkee. Carlotta follows him into the waiting area and invites me into her office.

Once we’re inside and the door is closed, she says, “I assume you’re not here because of a sudden craving for mental health?”

I shake my head. “Been there, done that.”

I walk toward the couch to lie down, then do a brief turn and sit in the chair opposite hers. “I’m here for your professional expertise, for which I am prepared to pay handsomely.”

I go on to describe the murders and what I consider the unusual actions the killer has taken. I know this isn’t really Carlotta’s forte, and she would never qualify as an expert in court, but I think she can give me some insight.

When I finish, she thinks for a moment, then asks, “Do you know if the victims were strangled from the front or the rear?”

I had forgotten to cover that. “From the rear. Most likely with a scarf.”

She thinks quietly for a while longer. “Andy, what I know about serial killers probably couldn’t fill a good-sized paragraph.”

“Take your best shot.”

She nods. “All right. Let’s assume for the moment that the murders are a result of pathology, not motive. Because if there is revenge involved, or money, or anything like that, what I have to say is of no value whatsoever.”

“Gotcha.”

“The interesting factor to me,” she says, “is the absence of rape, pre-or postmortem. I’m sure you know rape isn’t a sexual crime; it’s a crime of power or dominance. Sometimes when the rapist is intimidated by women, he will commit the rape postmortem, when the victim cannot possibly assert her will.”

“But when there’s no rape? No sexual assault of any kind?” I ask.

“That could suggest a fear of women so powerful that the killer can’t assert dominance, at least sexual dominance, even after death. This is obviously just a guess, but the attack from behind would tend to support it.”

“He doesn’t even have the courage to face women head-on?”

She nods. “Right.”

What she is saying seems to make sense to me. “What about cutting off the hands?”

She shakes her head. “Very hard to say. Maybe he was abused by a woman, and the method of abuse could have involved her hands. Or maybe he feels horribly manipulated by women, and this is a symbolic way to put a stop to it. There’s really no way to tell with the limited information you have, Andy.”

I broaden the conversation to include some nonprivileged information about Daniel, including the murder of his wife. She sees little likelihood that a murder of a spouse for money could fit with the killings we’ve seen these last few weeks. It’s encouraging and confirms my instincts as well.

I thank Carlotta and head home, feeling a little better about things. I’m starting to open up to the remote possibility that Daniel is not guilty. The evidence says otherwise, but attacking evidence is what I do.

Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, on the front lawn throwing a ball to Tara. My two favorite women, waiting eagerly for their man to come home. Can my newspaper, pipe, and slippers be far behind?

Apparently, they can, since as soon as Laurie sees me she sends me back out to bring home some pizza. In Laurie’s case, she orders so many toppings that it’s more of a salad than a pizza. Since I’m a man’s man, I get a man’s pizza, plain cheese. That way I can eat four pieces, eat just the cheese off the other four, and give the crusts to Tara.

After dinner we have some wine. Laurie has opened a rather flinty-tasting bottle, but I decide that sitting in candlelight, minutes before bed, is not the time to lecture or educate her. Instead, she tells me of her session with Richard Dempsey, husband of murder victim Nancy Dempsey.

Laurie did not like him very much at all. On three separate occasions he let slip the fact that theirs was a troubled marriage, comments that Laurie considered inappropriate in light of the subsequent tragic events. “If I had given him the opportunity, I think he would have tried hitting on me,” she says.

“Should that ever happen, use the face-smash-into-the-car maneuver you used on the pimp,” I say.

She nods. “Will do.”

“Do you think he’s involved in this?”

She firmly shakes her head. “I don’t, Andy. The guy’s a little slimy, but a serial killer? I could be wrong, but it just doesn’t fit at all.”

Nothing fits, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m also feeling tired, and what I want to do right now is get into bed with Laurie. The problem is that she seems comfortable on the couch, drinking wine and petting Tara’s head.

My mind races, wondering how to lure her into the sack. I think back to the numerous techniques I tried on women during my fraternity days, but the one thing they had in common was that they never worked.

“You ready for bed?” she asks.

I fake-yawn nonchalantly. “Whenever . . .”

“Then I’ll stay up for a while. You can go on to sleep. You look tired.”

There’s as much chance of me going to bed without Laurie as there is of me crawling into the microwave and pressing High.

“No, staying up is fine. I’m completely wide awake,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I was this awake.”

She smiles, a humoring-the-pathetic-idiot smile. “I think we should go to bed. You coming?” she asks.

“Damn right,” I say. “I’m exhausted.”

She takes my hand and we go to bed.

I am Andy the master manipulator.

• • • • •

RANDY CLEMENS HAS the same look on his face every time I visit him, and today is no exception. Once again he has a plan, an idea, and he’s positive that his telling it to me will be the first step to freedom. He’s hopeful and enthusiastic, and those feelings are not tempered by the fact that every time he’s felt them before he’s been wrong.

Unfortunately, my job is to always break the bad news. But I secretly harbor my own faint hope, the hope that one day his idea for a new appeal will be brilliant, something I completely overlooked, and will result in his being set free. In a sadistic quid pro quo, it always falls on him to demonstrate that I am wrong, simply by telling me his idea.

He enters the visiting room, and his eyes seek me out from the other visitors and prisoners, talking to each other on phones through the glass partitions. He heads toward me, though pausing to warily eye the others on his side of the glass. Seeming to decide that it is safe, he sits down.

“Andy, thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s a hassle.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

He grins. “Yeah, right.” Then his voice gets lower, and the wariness returns to his eyes. “Andy, I’ve got something. Something that could get me out of here.”

I try to seem eager to hear what he has to say, but in reality I dread it. I can’t stand to shoot this man down again. “What is it?”

“I know why those women were killed.”

If you had given me a thousand guesses, I never could have predicted that was what he would have said. “What?”

“Andy, I can’t scream it out, you know? I know about the murders, and I want you to use the information to get me released. I tell them all about it, and I get paroled. They make deals like that all the time.”

“Did you know I’m representing the accused?”

The shock is evident on his face; he had no idea. “Oh, my God!” he enthuses. “This is great! This is unbelievable!”

I’m not quite ready to join in the euphoria. “What is it you know, Randy?”

Again he looks around warily, more understandable in light of what we are talking about. “It’s all about the rich one. The others were window dressing.”

“You mean-”

He interrupts me, shaking his head. “No, not here. But I won’t let you down, Andy. Just set this up, please. Give me ten minutes in a room with the DA, and your client is in the clear.”

“They’re going to want a preview before they meet.”

He shakes his head firmly. “Andy, I can’t now. Okay? I’ve heard things . . . please trust me, and please get this done. I swear on my daughter’s life . . . this is real.”

I’m not going to get any more; he’s calling the shots. And I do trust that he believes what he is saying, though I have strong doubts that he can deliver what he hopes. “Okay. I’ll get right on it.”

His relief is so powerful it seems to be seeping through the glass. “Thank you,” he says, and walks off. He looks around, seems to pause for a moment, and then hurries out of the room.

By the time I reach my car, I’ve decided what to do with Randy’s request. The DA’s office is the obvious place to go, but I’m not about to trust Tucker with it. There is too much chance he would bury the information, even if it turns out that the information does not deserve to be buried.

Instead, I call Richard Wallace. Richard originally prosecuted Randy’s case, but that is not why I choose him. Richard has always demonstrated total integrity. It’s a cliché, but in his case true: He is more interested in justice than victory.

I’m lucky enough to get Richard on the phone. I tell him I need to see him about something important, but I don’t overplay it. My belief is that this will turn out to be unsubstantiated jailhouse chatter and ultimately not amount to anything. He agrees to see me right away, and I ask that we meet at a nearby coffee shop. I don’t want to run into Tucker.

Richard is already at a table waiting for me when I arrive. We exchange small talk, after which I lay out what Randy told me at the prison.

“This should go to Tucker,” he says.

“I can’t, Richard, he’d never follow up. It would be detrimental to both my clients.”

Richard nods; he knows I’m right, and he’s trying to find another way. “I assume everything you’ve just said to me is unofficial? Off the record?”

I don’t know what he’s getting at, but he’s nodding his head, prompting me, so I nod right back. “Right,” I say, going along. “Totally unofficial and way off the record.”

“Suppose you officially come to me and tell me Clemens has something important to say, that it could involve the perpetrators of some serious crimes. But you don’t mention which crimes, or any other clients of yours that might be involved.”

I immediately see where he’s going with this. “Then you would have no reason to talk to Tucker. It’s the kind of thing you could and should handle on your own.”

He nods. “At least until I hear what Clemens has to say.”

I lean forward. “Richard, there’s something I want to officially talk to you about.” Feeling a little silly, I lay out the new version, and he agrees to arrange for Randy to tell his story. We schedule it for Monday morning, and Richard promises to set it up with the prison authorities.

Just before he gets up to leave, he says, “You know, the evidence was there, and I believe he was guilty, but the Clemens conviction never felt completely right. You know?”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

• • • • •

JUDGE CALVIN NEWHOUSE is assigned to preside over New Jersey v. Daniel Cummings. A wealthy New Englander by birth and a graduate of Harvard Law, Calvin understands the law inside and out. He’s also quite sophisticated; this is a guy who knows flinty wine when he tastes it. Yet he has always tried to portray himself as a crusty, seat-of-the-pants judge with a disdain for legal procedure but a reverence for “good old country common sense.” He’s even incorporated a trace of a southern accent, which makes him sound like a cross between William Buckley and Willie Nelson.

Calvin’s reputation is as a prosecution judge, which doesn’t exactly put him in select company. I’ve tried one case before him, which I won when he agreed to my motion for an order to dismiss. I found him to be highly intelligent and reasonably evenhanded, so all in all I’m not unhappy with the selection. It could be better, but it could be a hell of a lot worse.

One major plus is that Calvin is unlikely to be swayed by the media coverage and public pressure surrounding the case. He’s sixty-four years old, due to retire anyway, and fiercely proud of his independence. He won’t fold before Tucker, but neither will he do us any great favors.

The hearing today is mostly a formality; a get-acquainted session with the judge, during which he will set the trial date and hear a few ordinary motions. Despite that fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this many members of the press in one place. Clearly, there is nothing else going on in the world.

Vince has gone to Daniel’s house to get him a suit to wear, and when I see him in the suit, I’m glad there’s no jury present. If Calvin were inclined to grant bail, which he won’t be, the value of the suit would cover it. When there is a jury, I will not have Daniel looking so regal. He should look like a man of the people, a little tattered, with no sense of fashion. It’ll be easy to pull off; I’ll just send Vince to my closet instead.

Tucker has three lawyers from his office with him, all of whom I know to be quite competent. As a group they represent considerable overkill for the task at hand, unless Tucker is planning to use them to haul in the boxes of convincing evidence.

Tucker suggests a trial date in the prescribed two months and is shocked when I agree. I would much prefer a longer period of time, but Daniel has insisted we move forward quickly. He seems to have the notion that the trial will result in his being let out of prison, a concept not currently supported by any facts that I am aware of.

Calvin asks us whether discovery is proceeding smoothly, which to a degree it is. Boxes are arriving at my office every day, and they don’t even yet include the DNA tests, which will take a few more weeks. I’m not waiting for them with bated breath; I have no doubt the blood and hair on the scarves found in Daniel’s house will match those of the victims. My task is to convince the jury that Daniel did not put them there.

“Your Honor,” I say, “discovery has to this point been limited to the documents and reports relating to Mr. Cummings as a suspect. They indicate he wasn’t viewed this way until late in the investigation. I would request that the defense be given all reports from the investigation, whether or not they relate to him as a suspect.”

Tucker confers briefly with one of his colleagues, then stands. “Your Honor, the rules of discovery are very clear on this point, and they do not support the defense’s request. All relevant discovery is being turned over. Defense is on a fishing expedition.”

I shake my head. “Your Honor, my client was a conduit between the actual killer and the police. The police used him as such; they directed him in his dealings with the real killer. This all took place before he was a suspect. He was an integral part of their investigation, and as such we should be privy to all aspects of that investigation.”

Tucker objects again; he is on fairly solid legal ground, and it would take a surprise ruling by Calvin for us to prevail. My hope is that he will bend over backward to give us every chance, knowing that if we lose this death penalty case, appeals courts will be scrutinizing his rulings for years.

“I’m inclined to grant the defense motion,” Calvin says as Tucker does a double take. “If there are cases where the prosecution contends that innocent third parties will be injured by these documents being turned over to the defense, then I will review them in camera.”

I never expected to win this motion, so I might as well press my luck. “Thank you, Your Honor. We also request that we be provided with any prior police investigative reports concerning Ms. Linda Padilla, beyond those relating to her murder. We believe they may reveal others with a possible motive to have caused her death.”

This possible linkage of Linda Padilla to unsavory characters gets the press mumbling and Tucker jumping to his feet. His frustration is obvious. “Your Honor, there is no foundation for this. There is nothing in those reports relating to this case.”

Calvin nails him. “You’ve read those reports, have you?” He knows Tucker would have had no reason or occasion to read old, unrelated police investigative reports on Linda Padilla, yet Tucker has just said there’s nothing relevant in them.

“I’m sorry, I misspoke, Your Honor. I actually don’t even know if such reports exist. But unless they contain information about Mr. Cummings, they certainly could have nothing to do with this trial and therefore are not covered by discovery rules in this state.”

Calvin gives us another win, albeit a smaller one. He will look at those reports in camera but only give them to us if there is anything that could be beneficial to our defense.

I once again bring up the question of bail, though I’m aware it’s always a nonstarter in a capital case. “Are you trying to waste the court’s time, Mr. Carpenter?” Calvin asks.

“No, Your Honor, I am trying to prevent a man who has never previously been charged with a crime, who is not a flight risk, and who has always been a distinguished member of the community from sitting in a jail cell while we get around to finding him not guilty.”

Tucker stands. “Your Honor, the state-”

Calvin cuts him off. “Request for bail is denied. What’s next?”

I stand. “Your Honor, we have filed a motion for change of venue with the court. We feel strongly that the already strong public awareness and reaction, which has been further inflamed by Mr. Zachry’s self-serving press conferences, has made it impossible to empanel an impartial jury. We-”

He cuts me off. “I read the motion, as well as the prosecution’s response. It may take a little longer than usual, but we’ll get our jury. Motion denied. We finished here, gentlemen?”

We’re not quite finished, though my last issue is sure to be a loser. “Your Honor, Mr. Zachry has been telling the press that his case is airtight on all four murders, yet he’s held back charging my client for the first three. He’s obviously concerned that his airtight case might spring a leak, and he might need a second chance if he loses this one. I would therefore request that he not be allowed to use evidence from those other murders unless he includes them in the charges for this trial.”

Tucker states his position directly from the statute, which is that the other evidence is “proof of motive, opportunity, intent and preparation.” I know I’m not going to win; I’m simply creating an issue for appeal.

Calvin rules against us, and I head back to the office to brief Kevin and Laurie on my conversation with Randy Clemens. They’re more hopeful about it than I am, probably because they don’t understand Randy’s desperation to find something that will free him.

“So he said it was all about Linda Padilla?” Laurie asks.

“He didn’t mention her name; I think he was afraid we’d be overheard. But he referred to the ‘rich’ victim, and I don’t see how the others qualify.”

Marcus calls from Cleveland to fill us in on his progress, and we put him on the speakerphone. Talking to most people on the phone is not quite the same as talking in person; there are facial expressions and body language that can be almost as important as the spoken words. Marcus is a notable exception. The inanimate phone captures his expression and mannerisms quite well, is just as bald, and contains the same percentage of body fat.

Marcus has talked to the detective that was assigned to the murder of Margaret Cummings, Daniel’s wife. He tells us that the detective is shedding no tears for Daniel’s current plight, since he has always had a hunch that Daniel was behind Margaret’s death.

Daniel was widely considered a solid citizen in Cleveland, and support for him through his ordeal was almost unanimous, the detective being the notable exception.

“Does he think Daniel pulled the trigger?” Laurie asks.

“Unh-unh . . . farmed.” That is Marcus-speak for “No, the detective is of the opinion that our client employed a subcontractor to do the actual deed on his behalf.”

Marcus goes on to grunt that a young man had been arrested for the murder but that the case against him fell apart, and he was no longer a suspect.

Marcus has certainly not found any real evidence implicating Daniel, which is no surprise, since apparently the Cleveland police didn’t either. I ask him to stay in Cleveland and keep digging, though it makes me slightly uncomfortable to do so. The truth is that there is little chance he can uncover anything to help Daniel’s defense against the multiple-murder charges. If I were to be honest with myself, which I try to do as rarely as possible, I would admit that I’m hoping Marcus can help me learn more about who it really is we are defending.

The weekend starts tonight, and I am very much looking forward to it. Laurie is going to spend the entire time at my house, which at first glance seems like an increase in our normal scheduled time, but really isn’t. That’s because it’s a college and pro football weekend, which means that even though we’ll be in the same house, we’ll have almost no daytime interaction.

As we get close to the trial date, we’ll all be working seven-day weeks, but we’re still far enough away that we can have some relaxation. Tonight’s relaxation consists of sitting in my living room and watching Godfather I and II on DVD on my big-screen TV. It’s the one large purchase I’ve made since coming into my money, and it has been worth every penny.

Laurie and I sit on my couch and watch the movies, a bowl of popcorn and Tara between us. Tara positions herself there so she can be petted from both sides, and neither of us minds. It is literally stunning how right these times with Laurie feel, and for the first time it flashes through my mind that maybe we should get married.

The next flash is the realization that Laurie has never brought the subject up, not even once, not even in passing. I’ve always been pleased by that, relieved actually, but now I’m starting to wonder. Shouldn’t she be plotting to win me? Pressuring me to make an honest woman out of her? Telling me her goddamn clock is ticking?

I decide not to bring the subject up, but the next thing I know it’s dribbling out of my mouth. “You never bring up marriage,” I say.

My timing is not great, since just as I’m saying it Jack Woltz is discovering the bloody horse head in bed with him. Laurie screams, as she does every time we watch that scene. Moments later, when she calms down, she asks, “What did you say, Andy?”

“I said, ‘Watch out, I’ve got a feeling there’s a severed horse’s head in that bed with him.’”

We go back to watching the movie, and I successfully keep my mouth shut until just about the time that Michael goes to visit the don in the hospital. He discovers that the guards have been sent away, though I’ve always wondered why they never bothered to inform Sonny about that little fact. Michael goes to the phone and dials, at the exact moment the phone in my house rings.

“I’ll get it,” I say. “It’s probably Michael telling me to get some men down to the hospital to guard the don. Can we spare anybody?”

“No,” she says. “All our button men are out on the street looking for Solozzo.”

I nod and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Carpenter, this is County General Hospital calling.”

For an instant it registers as comical that it actually is the hospital, but I just as quickly realize that getting nighttime calls from hospitals is never a good thing.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“We have a woman here . . . she’s been shot.”

“Who is she?” I ask worriedly, but glad that Laurie is sitting next to me.

“She hasn’t been able to give us her name; she’s in surgery. But she was carrying your card in her purse.”

I’m not sure how to ask this. “Does she appear to be . . . a lady of the evening?”

“Yes, I believe she does.”

“I’ll be right there.” I hang up and turn to Laurie, who has heard my end of the conversation and is worried herself. “There’s a woman in the hospital . . . a gunshot victim. I think it’s Sondra.”

“Damn,” she says, and without another word walks with me out the door and to the car.

• • • • •

LAURIE IS SILENT during the ride to the hospital. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t feel like I should ask. It’s only when we pull into the parking lot that she breaks the silence.

“I shouldn’t have left her there,” she says. “I should have dragged her out.”

“You did all you could.”

She shakes her head. “No. I could have pulled her away and shown her something better. Made it easier for her. Instead, I asked her if she wanted to leave. She said no, and I said fine.”

“Rick is the villain of this piece. Not you.”

Sondra is out of surgery by the time we arrive. We stop in the recovery room to see how she is and to confirm that it is really her. She’s still out of it from the anesthesia. The doctor says she took the bullet in the shoulder and has lost a lot of blood, but that eventually she should be okay. A half inch to the left, and she’d be dead.

Drive-by shooting, not baseball, is a game of inches.

A hospital official brings us into his office, then asks us if Sondra has any insurance. Somehow I don’t think Rick provides major medical for his employees, so I sign a form taking financial responsibility for the costs. I wonder if they would otherwise throw her out into the street and if they would first disconnect the tubes helping her breathe.

The officers that answered the initial call have since left, but Detective Steve Singer of the Passaic police arrives to talk to us. He and Laurie know and like each other, which is the good news. The bad news is that I once took him apart in a cross-examination, and my guess is every time he shows up at a murder scene he hopes that I’m the victim.

Singer tells us Sondra was shot in a drive-by, but there are no witnesses so far willing to come forward. He asks how we came to know Sondra and how she came to have my card. I tell the story, after which he looks at Laurie, hoping she’ll refute what I have to say.

“You know anything about this?” he asks.

Laurie nods. “I was there, Steve.”

I see a quick flash of disappointment on his face, then a nod of resignation. He was hoping to at least arrest me for solicitation of prostitution, but he now knows that’s not going to happen.

“Okay,” he says. “What else can you tell me?”

“She had a pimp, a guy named Rick. He hit her while we were there,” I say.

Suddenly, Singer’s face brightens. “Wait a minute, I heard about this,” he says to Laurie. “You kicked his ass, right? The guys were talking about it.”

“He slipped and fell,” she says. “I just neglected to catch him.”

He turns to me. “What were you doing while the lady was punching him out? Holding her purse?”

His question confirms my low opinion of his intelligence. He knows nothing; the fact is that Laurie wasn’t even carrying a purse that night. It was more of a handbag.

I fire back. “Maybe if you geniuses hadn’t let the pimp walk so fast, a woman wouldn’t have been shot tonight.”

Singer grunts, goes to the phone, and calls in to the precinct. He talks softly for a few moments, holds on for a short while, and then hangs up, a self-satisfied look on his face.

“Rick is still in custody, genius.”

This is a little embarrassing, but I recover quickly. “Then he had it done.”

Since nothing I say has any credibility with Singer, Laurie jumps in for support. “It’s too big of a coincidence to be otherwise, Steve. Rick was humiliated, and he didn’t want to come straight at me, so he went after Sondra, knowing I’d blame myself.”

Singer seems to think this is sound reasoning, and he leaves to talk to Rick at the jail. “I’m gonna miss his wit,” I say to Laurie after he’s left. A few moments later the doctor informs us that Sondra is conscious and we can see her.

She’s very much weakened; a .38-caliber bullet in the shoulder has a tendency to do that. She also has no idea who shot her. “A car just pulled up real slow, and I saw the window open, and I don’t remember anything after that.”

“But you think they were aiming for you? Was there anyone else around that could have been the target?” I ask.

She shakes her head sadly. “No. It was just me. Just me.”

She is unable to provide any helpful information, and she’s soon going to have to answer the same questions from the police, so we let her doze off.

In the car going home, Laurie says, “We have to help her, Andy.”

“She’s got to want that help,” I point out.

She shakes her head. “No. That’s what we said the other day. She didn’t want it, so we backed off. Like we did our good deed and that’s enough. Well, it wasn’t enough.”

“And a better plan would be . . . ?”

“To help her whether she wants it or not, and let her see if we’re right. Then if she feels the same way, we can back off. But we cannot send her back on those streets without trying a hell of a lot harder.”

“What does that mean in the real world?”

“It means finding her a job and a place to stay. It means putting her into a position where she can develop some self-respect and dignity.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

• • • • •

I RUSH THROUGH my Monday morning walk with Tara so I can meet Richard Wallace at the prison. He’s scheduled to interview Randy Clemens at nine-thirty, and there’s no way I’m going to be late.

I arrive early enough to eat breakfast at a nearby restaurant called Donnie’s House of Pancakes. I order banana walnut pancakes, which when they are served turn out to be regular, heavy pancakes with bananas and walnuts on top. It makes me feel old, but I can remember a time when the bananas and walnuts would have been inside the pancakes.

I decide to share this piece of nostalgia with the waitress, since there are only three other people in the restaurant and she’s not busy. “It makes me feel old,” I say, “but I can remember a time when the bananas and walnuts would have been inside the pancakes.”

“Whatever,” she says, demonstrating a disregard for cultural history. “You want coffee?”

“Not until after the Olympics,” I say.

“Whatever.”

I head over to the prison at nine-twenty, carrying the pancakes around like a beach ball in my stomach. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be taking them with me wherever I go for a while.

Waiting for me at the gate are Richard Wallace and Pete Stanton. I’m a little surprised to see Pete, since Richard hadn’t mentioned bringing him, but I suppose a police presence is called for, especially if Randy is going to implicate someone in the murders.

“Good morning, guys,” I say.

They don’t return the greeting. “Andy, I tried to reach you, but you had already left.”

There is probably a scheduling foul-up; such things are very common in the prison bureaucracy. “Scheduling change?” I ask.

“Andy, Clemens is dead.”

It is as if he hit me in the face with a four-thousand-pound medicine ball. “What happened?”

“Somebody slit his throat this morning, outside the mess hall. I’m sorry, Andy.”

All I can think of is Randy’s daughter, who will never get to know what a great guy he was and how much he loved her. When she’s old enough to understand, I’m going to look her up and tell her.

Pete puts his arm on my shoulder and speaks for the first time. “Come on, Andy, the warden is waiting to see us.”

They lead me inside, and by the time we get to the warden’s office, my sadness is beginning to share space with my certainty that this cannot be a coincidence. Randy has been in this prison for four years, never once having a problem or altercation of any kind, and the day he is going to talk to us about the murders, he is himself killed.

“There was a commotion in the hallway,” says the warden. “A fight, some yelling, everybody milling around. Clemens wasn’t involved, but it was probably staged so that he could be killed without anyone seeing it happen.”

“So more than one person was involved?” I ask.

“Definitely. It was an organized effort.”

“Suspects?” Richard asks.

“Plenty of suspects, but no evidence. But I can tell you, if something like this happens in here, it’s very likely that Dominic Petrone wanted it to happen.”

Dominic Petrone is the head of what passes for the North Jersey mob, an organization that is still functioning quite effectively. He and Randy Clemens are from different worlds. There is no way Dominic had ever heard of Randy, nor had any kind of grudge against him. If he ordered Randy’s death, it is because he was told that Randy was about to say something that could hurt him.

It has to come back to Linda Padilla and her alleged mob ties. And if it does, and if the mob is somehow involved in these murders, then my client is actually innocent. Too bad my other client had to die for me to realize it.

I drive back to the office, replaying in my mind the last visit I had with Randy. I remember the wariness in his eyes as he looked around the room, the way something caused him to briefly stop as he was leaving. He knew that what he had to say was dangerous, but he was so anxious to find a way out of the prison that he was taking that chance.

I also think back to the words he used, trying to remember them exactly. He referred to the victims besides “the rich one” as “window dressing.” Among the many things I don’t know are how Randy came to know this and why the killer needed “window dressing” at all.

Marcus is waiting for me at the office when I get back, sitting stoically as Edna regales him with stories of her latest triumph. She’s managed to combine and satisfy her two interests in life, crossword puzzles and finance, by discovering various business publications with financially themed puzzles. Marcus isn’t saying anything, which could mean he’s interested or not interested or asleep.

In any event, his characteristic muteness is doing nothing to dampen the conversation. Edna peppers her sentences with phrases like “Right?” and “You understand?” and “You know?” and seems to pretend that Marcus is answering, as she nods and continues.

He has returned from Cleveland, having gathered as much information as he could. There wasn’t much to learn: Daniel was a widely respected member of the press who had no criminal record whatsoever and no known tendency toward violence. The community, from politicians and business leaders on down, supported him through the ordeal. Counterbalancing that, in addition to the detective’s hunch, are some of Margaret’s acquaintances, who say that their marriage was troubled and that she was considering leaving him.

Marcus’s hunch is the same as that of the Cleveland police: He thinks Daniel may have either killed her or had it done. Like the detective, he can’t come close to proving it. It’s just that the inheritance, the troubled marriage . . . these are things that arouse Marcus’s detective instincts. The presumption of innocence is not a concept that Marcus holds dear.

Laurie and Kevin arrive for a meeting on how we will approach the investigation of Linda Padilla. They are stunned to hear about Randy. Neither knew him, so while they are sympathetic, it’s natural that they focus on the impact this might have on our case.

Randy’s death enhances the credibility of the information he was going to provide. Kevin and Laurie share my view that there is almost no chance that his murder was a coincidence. He was going to name names, and we can only assume that the owners of those names, be it Petrone or anyone else, took steps to make sure that didn’t happen.

I call in Edna to ask her to report on the results of an assignment I had given her, which was to watch as much televised coverage of the Padilla killing as she could find.

There has been a recent tendency, probably since Princess Diana died, for television networks to cover funerals in their entirety. I’m at a loss to know what news value there is in showing people grieving and singing upbeat, gooey songs, but it must generate good ratings. I want to go on record and say that if anyone sings “You Light Up My Life” at my funeral, I will die of embarrassment. Actually, Sam Willis will probably song-talk it.

The plus side of the coverage, at least from our point of view, is that it is easy to get a handle on who were the important people in Padilla’s life. These are the people we will talk to, and Edna does a very good job of filling us in.

I give out assignments for each of us to cover. There is simply never enough time to prepare for a trial, and I want us moving quickly and efficiently. The meeting then breaks up, and Laurie stays behind.

“Sondra is doing okay,” she says. “But her recovery will take a while.”

“How long will she be in the hospital?”

“She can leave in a few days,” she says, “but she needs to rest for at least six weeks.”

“Where will she do that?”

“My house.”

I’m not surprised, but not happy to hear this for selfish reasons. Will Laurie be willing to leave her alone and spend nights at my house? Will she still feel comfortable having me stay over at hers? Is she starting down a path that is going to be filled with frustration?

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask. It’s a wimpy, completely ineffective question, unlikely to make her snap her fingers and say, “You know, I don’t think it is. Let me tell her to go back on the streets.”

She nods. “I do. But this is my thing, Andy. You don’t have to be part of it.”

I’m glad to hear this, because I don’t want to be involved in any way; I’ve got enough on my plate. “Are you going to get her a real job?” I ask.

“I’m going to try.”

“Let me see what I can do,” I say, thereby involving myself and crowding my plate a little more.

I catch a break when Vince calls, and I mention I want to see Michael Spinelli, Linda Padilla’s campaign manager. It turns out that Vince knows him very well, which is true of pretty much everyone in the Western Hemisphere. It also turns out that Vince doesn’t like him, which is true of pretty much everyone, period. But he owes Vince a couple of favors for past press coverage, so Vince offers to set up a meeting ASAP.

In the meantime, I take a ride down to the Tara Foundation to see how things are going and to apologize for not spending more time there helping out. I want to refine the apology, making it short but meaningful, because it’s one I’m going to have to deliver many times during the course of the trial.

Willie greets me enthusiastically and updates me on the foundation’s progress. “So far this week we placed Joey, Rocky, Ripley, Sugar, Homer, Hank, Carrie, Ivy, Sophie, and Chuck,” he says.

We have a veterinarian come in twice a day, and we let her name the dogs for us. She initially got carried away by the chance to display her creativity and named the first three dogs Popcorn, Kernel, and Butter. We’ve toned her down considerably, and the names are more normal now.

I’m pleased that the dogs Willie mentioned are now safe in their new homes, but guilty that I never even got to meet Homer, Sugar, and Chuck. The only end of this partnership I am holding up is the financial, and that is the least significant.

Willie shows me pictures of the dogs with their new owners. “Man, I am good at this,” he says, an assessment with which I agree.

“Yes, you are. You send out the records?” I ask. We give the dogs all their shots and make sure they’re spayed or neutered. After someone adopts a dog, we mail them all of those records, since they need them to get a license.

“Not yet.”

I look over at Willie’s desk, or at least where his desk would be if it weren’t completely engulfed in sheets of paper. “Let me take a shot at it,” I say, and go over to try to restore order.

It is while I’m trying to find Ripley’s rabies certificate that the stroke of genius hits me. “You really can use somebody to come in and help you out,” I say, hoping that Sondra isn’t afraid of dogs.

“You mean somebody to work with me?” He shakes his head vigorously. “No way. I work alone.”

“I’m not talking about working with you. I mean working for you. You would be the boss.”

“I’d be the boss?” Clearly, I’ve piqued his interest.

I nod. “The total boss. The ruler. The kingpin. The Grand Kahuna. You could tell her what to do and when you want her to do it. Within reason.”

“You said ‘her,’” he notices. “You got someone in mind?”

“Could be. I know someone who might be perfect. But she won’t be available for about six or eight weeks.”

“Where’d she work before?” he asks.

“I think she was in the motel field. She’s also been in and out of the automotive industry.”

It doesn’t take much more to sell Willie on the idea, and I leave the foundation looking forward to receiving plaudits from Laurie for dealing so quickly and successfully with her problem.

Sometimes I even amaze myself.

• • • • •

NO MATTER WHO killed Linda Padilla, one of the many secondary effects of the crime was to take away Michael Spinelli’s meal ticket. It’s a safe bet that Spinelli, as Padilla’s campaign manager, was planning to follow her to the governor’s mansion and beyond. Her death means it’s time for him to come up with a new plan.

Vince has set up my meeting with Spinelli at Padilla campaign headquarters. I’m sure a couple of weeks ago this place was bustling with activity, but as I enter no one asks me or cares who I am. It has become an organization without a reason for being, and dejection surrounds the place like faded wallpaper. The few remaining staffers are quietly packing their things, and I ask one of them where Spinelli might be. He points to an office and returns to what he is doing.

I enter Spinelli’s office and introduce myself, which prompts an immediate and unsolicited soliloquy. “I damn well shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says. “I mean, I know everybody’s entitled to a defense, but nobody forced you to represent the son of a bitch. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t talk to you. But you know what a pain in the ass Vince can be.”

“That’s something we can agree on.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want to know about Linda Padilla.”

“You mean, like, what did she eat for breakfast? Or how fast she could run a mile? You think you could be a little more specific? Because I don’t feel like chatting about this forever.”

“Okay,” I say, “here’s how it works. At the end of the day I want to find out who killed Linda Padilla. So I ask questions about her. I can’t only ask what’s important, because I won’t know what’s important until after I’ve asked a hell of a lot more questions. Of course, if you know who killed her, and why, you can blurt it out and save us both a lot of time.”

“The police think your client killed her,” he says.

I nod. “Yes, they do. I’m working on a different theory. My theory is that he’s innocent.”

He sighs and sits at his desk. “So where should I start?”

“With your relationship to her,” I say.

“I’m a political consultant; I find politicians and try to move them up the ladder. I teach them what to say, how to say it, and who to say it to. But they need to have something special going in, something that’s there before I get to them, or they can only go so far. Linda had it, and there was no ceiling for her. None at all.”

“Why did she want to go up that ladder? What was in it for her?” I ask.

“The real reason, or the one she would give if your client hadn’t killed her and you could ask her yourself?”

The question isn’t worthy of a reply, so I don’t give him one.

“She would tell you she wanted to help the people on the bottom,” he continues. “So that everybody could have a shot at the American dream like she did. She would even have believed it while she was saying it.”

“So what was it really? The power? The celebrity?”

“Duhhh . . .” is his mocking reply, letting me know that of course it was the power and celebrity, that it’s always the power and celebrity.

“Was she wealthy?” I ask.

He nods. “Loaded. Linda had the first nickel she ever made, and the last couple of years she was making a shitload of nickels.”

I continue asking questions, but he answers mostly in generalities, not providing much insight into who Linda Padilla was. There’s a good chance he has no idea, that she never let him get close.

I finally ask about the rumored connections to Dominic Petrone and organized crime, and he’s careful and measured in his response. “I never saw them together. Nothing was ever said in front of me.”

“But you have reason to believe she knew him?” I ask.

“I don’t have reason to do anything.”

Finally, probably to get me out of there, he suggests I talk to Padilla’s boyfriend, one Alan Corbin. Corbin is a high-powered businessman and had only recently been seen with Padilla in public. According to Spinelli, they were considerably closer than they let on to the press.

“Just don’t tell him that I sent you to him,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask. The fact is, Corbin was next on my list to talk to anyway, so Spinelli’s naming him is not in any sense a big deal.

“He’s not a guy I want pissed at me.”

My next stop is Sam Willis’s office, to ask him to use his computer expertise to help us on the case. It’s a move I make reluctantly because of the death of his assistant. But we need someone, and Sam has often expressed a desire to contribute, so I convince myself it’s okay.

I spend about ten minutes repeatedly and obnoxiously telling him to be careful, that if he senses anything unusual or dangerous, he is to stop and call me. There’s no reason to think he’s in any danger, but I want to make totally sure he’s safe. He promises he’ll call, more as a way to shut me up than anything else.