Bury the Lead

“I want you to find out as much information as you can about these people,” I say, referring to the victims. I give him the documentation we’ve accumulated from the police reports and other sources. “I especially want you to look for any connection at all between them. If they ate at the same restaurant, sat in the same section at Mets games, whatever, I want to know about it.”

He glances through the documents. “Not much here,” he says. “Is there a last name on this one?”

He’s talking about Rosalie, whom we and the police know almost nothing about. “She was a street hooker. I’ll get her roommate to try and come up with any information she can, but there won’t be much. Hold her off for last.”

He nods. “Okay. This could take a while.”

Sam’s ability to hack into computers and come up with information is legendary. It also was once criminal, and I represented him when charges were brought against him for hacking into a large corporation’s computer system. He had done it in retaliation for the corporation’s mistreatment of one of his clients. I got him acquitted on a technicality and in the process developed a healthy respect for his unique talents.

“If you can’t come up with anything, don’t worry about it,” I say, knowing he will take it as a challenge.

He motions me closer. “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?”

He’s doing the Beatles, but I pretend not to notice. “I promise,” I say, though he knows I noticed.

“If it’s in the computer, and it always is, I can find out anything about anyone.”

It’s a process that truly amazes me. “How does it all get in there?”

He shrugs. “Companies that people deal with share the information with other companies-that’s part of it. But you wouldn’t believe how many people sit in their rooms and type their life into their computers.” He shakes his head sadly. “All the lonely people . . . where do they all come from?”

My mind, already cluttered, races to find a Beatles reference that I can counter with. Alas, I cannot, so I decide to leave and let Sam get started. “Call me if you come up with anything good. Okay?”

Sam nods. “Okay. And take it easy, Andy. You look tired. Something wrong? Did you have a hard day’s night? Been working like a dog?”

Got it. “I don’t know,” I say, “it must be this case, but suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be. There’s a shadow hanging over me.”

He nods. “Let it be. I’m speaking words of wisdom. Let it be.”

• • • • •

ALAN CORBIN DOESN’T want to talk to me. I suspect this because I’ve been trying to reach him for a week with no luck. And that suspicion was strengthened somewhat yesterday when he accidentally picked up my call and said, “I ain’t fucking talking to you, you little roach.”

Vince knows Corbin, of course, since Corbin is an inhabitant of this planet, but even he has been unable to arrange a meeting. I’ve used Vince to get messages to him, and one of them was a threat to subpoena him for a deposition. It was an empty threat, since I’m not legally empowered to do so, and Corbin’s lawyer called me and told me to back off.

Since backing off is not my forte, I sent another message, again through courier Vince, in an attempt to be more persuasive. I warned that I was going to go on Larry King and tell the nation-actually the world, since CNN is seen everywhere-that Alan Corbin has very strong underworld connections and was in fact Linda Padilla’s link to Dominic Petrone.

Vince further conveyed to Alan, although he said Alan was by this time screaming so loud he might not have heard, that the only way I would cancel the King interview is if there was a scheduling conflict. For instance, if I were talking to Corbin instead.

After threats of lawsuits for slander and libel, and so much wrangling and negotiating that Vince likened it to the U.N. Security Council, Corbin agreed to see me in his office for fifteen minutes. That is why I am right now in his reception area, with his secretary glaring at me as if I were Andy bin Laden.

I’m finally let in to the great one’s office. It’s immediately evident that there is a difference between “high-powered businessman” and “tall-powered businessman.” Corbin can’t be more than five foot five; one of his reasons for dating the much taller Linda Padilla must have been to secure her help in reaching things on high shelves.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I say cheerfully.

He looks at his watch. “You’re on the clock, asshole. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” He’s referring to the agreed-upon length of our interview, and I’m somewhat put off by his attitude.

I look at my own watch. “You’re short,” I say.

“I told Vince fifteen minutes,” he insists.

“I wasn’t talking about the time, I was talking about your height,” I say. “You’re short. I would say . . . five two-ish? Asshole?” It’s a tough call whether or not I should be coming back at him like this, but there’s no chance I’ll get something out of him if he thinks I’m just going to accept his bullshit.

He seems ready to go back at me but then thinks better of it. We’re even with the insults, and he wants to get this over with.

“Ask your questions,” he says.

“Who might have had reason to kill Linda Padilla?” is my first softball.

“No one that I know. But then again, I never met your client.”

“She made a career out of blowing the whistle on people, every one of whom would have a grudge against her. What I want to know are the special ones, the ones who really hated her, who she might have been afraid of.”

“Linda wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.”

“Tell me about her connections to Dominic Petrone.”

He laughs a mocking laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not asking you if they were connected. I already know that from five different sources. What I want to know is the extent of the relationship.”

He hesitates, unsure of what I know or how to respond.

“I will ask you these same questions on the stand if I have to,” I say.

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Look,” I say, softening my voice and acting conciliatory, “my only interest in this is proving my client is innocent. To do that, I just may have to find out who is guilty, or at least provide the jury with a reasonable alternative. I only care about Petrone if I think there’s a chance he had Padilla killed. If there’s nothing there, I don’t bring in Petrone and I don’t bring in you.”

He thinks for a moment; the idea of avoiding future involvement appeals to him. “She knew Petrone,” he says. “She met him at business dinners, political gatherings, that kind of thing.”

Those kinds of meetings are quite conceivable. Petrone has the appearance and manner of a sophisticated businessman, and he has relationships with important people from the legitimate side of the tracks.

Nevertheless, I’m skeptical. “You make them sound like casual acquaintances. I know it was much more than that.”

He nods. “He liked her, thought she was smart and had guts. He sort of took her under his wing. And she liked him, but she knew it would look bad for her politically. So she kept him at arm’s length.”

“Did that piss him off?”

He stares hard at me. “Dominic Petrone would never have done anything to hurt Linda Padilla. No way. No how.”

“Is that right?” I ask skeptically.

He nods. “That’s very right. He wouldn’t harm a hair on her head. But you? He’d break you like a twig and bury the pieces under Giants Stadium.”

Oh.

• • • • •

TRIALS DO NOT creep up on a lawyer. Birthdays and holidays creep up. The start of the baseball season creeps up. Trials steamroll; one minute it seems like you have plenty of time to prepare, and the next the bailiff is asking you to rise.

The bailiff will be asking us to rise in the case of New Jersey v. Cummings the day after tomorrow. We’re not ready, not even close. But it’s not the timing. Our real problem is, we haven’t made progress refuting the evidence, evidence that seems to increase daily.

Vince has asked me to meet him at Charlie’s tonight for a final pretrial discussion. It’s one I’m dreading, almost as much as I’m dreading the trial itself.

I’d feel better if Laurie were able to join us, but she’s with Sondra tonight. They’re out to dinner, a sort of celebration that Sondra has finally recovered from her injuries. Tomorrow I’m bringing her down to the foundation to meet Willie, who has been asking me every day for weeks when his devoted underling is arriving.

Vince has grown increasingly subdued and depressed over the last few weeks and appears the same when he arrives tonight. We order beers, and I wait for the questions that I know are coming.

He throws me a curve. “I want to announce that Daniel is my son,” he says. “I don’t want it to be a secret anymore.”

Vince has to this point not come forward with his relationship to Daniel. It would be a brave thing to do, since it would expose Vince to the same kind of public scorn and hatred as the rest of us in Daniel’s camp. It is also a piece of news that can only impact Vince’s career and reputation negatively.

“That’s your call, Vince.”

He nods. “But I want to make sure it doesn’t hurt his chances in any way.”

“In the trial? I don’t see why it would. It might even be a slight positive, maybe make him a little more human and worthy of support. But the impact on the trial wouldn’t be big enough either way for you to factor it in.”

“Then I’m going to do it,” he says.

His decision made, I change the subject. “Vince, how well did you know Daniel’s wife?”

“Margaret? I knew her . . . we weren’t close or anything. We went out to dinner a bunch of times.”

“When you visited, did you stay at their house?”

“Nah, I stayed at a hotel. It was easier that way.”

“Did you like her? How were they together?”

I expect a quick “Yes” and “Great,” but that’s not what I get. Vince takes a while to think about it, measuring his answer. “She was always nice to me,” he says, “and I never saw them arguing or anything . . .”

His answer invites a “but . . . ,” so that’s what I give him. “But . . .”

“There is a poem,” he says, “by Edwin Robinson. It’s called ‘Richard Corey.’”

I nod. I’m vaguely familiar with the poem, mainly because Simon and Garfunkel had a song that ripped it off. The fact that Vince is talking about it is rather stunning. Until now I thought his intellectual awareness extended about as far as “knock, knock” jokes.

He continues. “It’s about this really wealthy guy, who everybody in the town thinks has the greatest life in the world. At the end of the poem, they’re all shocked ’cause the guy goes home one night and puts a bullet in his head.”

“So Daniel and Margaret seemed to have a great life, but you didn’t think it was real?”

He nods. “Something like that. She had all this money, and they lived in a great house and had fancy cars and stuff, but there was something missing . . . something a little off. I couldn’t place it then . . . I can’t even place it now . . . but I felt it.”

Vince seems like he’s getting upset, so I try to lighten the moment. “So now I’ve learned that not only did you once have sex, but you’ve also read a poem. What a life you’ve lived.”

My effort at lightening lands with a heavy thud. “Andy, you’ve been on this for a while now. You think Daniel could have done this? Killed those people? Killed Margaret?”

It’s the first time I’ve seen him exhibit any doubt, though I’ve always suspected it had to be there. It’s ironic because I’ve become more and more willing to believe that Daniel is innocent. “I don’t know anything about Margaret, Vince. I can’t really give an opinion on that. These killings here, though, they don’t fit with Daniel. But I’m not going to lie to you . . . I’m not sure, and I definitely could be wrong.”

“Thanks,” he says, and then without another word just gets up and walks out of the place.

This is not at all the Vince I know. Except for the part where he didn’t pay the check.

I pick Sondra up first thing in the morning for the drive over to the foundation. The transformation in her has been remarkable. It’s not just the conservative clothing Laurie has gotten for her; it’s also a change in attitude. Her reluctance to go after this new life has gradually faded, if not to eagerness, then a willingness to give it a shot. Laurie has performed miracles with her.

I’m a little nervous about Sondra and Willie meeting. He could come on with a heavy-handed “me boss, you slave” routine, which might cause her to bail out. On her part, she could decide that, even though she claims to like dogs, feeding them, cleaning their cages, and doing menial paperwork don’t constitute an upward career move.

There is also the potential for a natural clash of personalities. Both are strong-willed and independent, used to taking care of themselves and only themselves. The idea of a close working relationship might be culturally repugnant to either or both of them.

Sondra and I enter the foundation building. Willie is nowhere to be seen, so I tell Sondra to wait as I look for him. He turns out to be in the back, playing with one of the dogs that has kennel cough, a minor ailment but one that is contagious. Dogs that have it must be quarantined for seven days.

“Your assistant is here, Willie.”

He jumps up enthusiastically. “All right! There’s a lot to be done around here, man. Let me get my list.”

He hasn’t met Sondra yet, but he’s actually written down a list of tasks for her to do. “Hold off on the list, Willie. And go easy on her at the beginning, okay? Your personality can take a few decades to get used to.”

He doesn’t respond; I don’t think he’s heard me. He’s too busy rushing to meet his devoted servant.

Willie gets out there before I do, preventing me from making the formal introduction. The first thing I hear is Willie’s voice. “Sondra!”

“Willie! I can’t believe it!” she yells, not concealing her delight.

By the time I get in the room, they are hugging each other and laughing, and Willie is whirling her around. This introduction has gone somewhat better than I expected.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You two know each other.” My hope is that their relationship did not begin with Willie as a customer of hers.

“For a long damn time, man,” Willie says. Then, to Sondra, “How long has it been?”

“Too damn long,” she says.

I’m finally able to ascertain that “damn long” takes them back to high school. They actually dated in their junior year and shared many of the same friends.

“What you been doing?” Willie asks as I cringe.

“Hooking,” says Sondra, and Willie nods, as if she had just said, “Marketing.”

“And writin’ letters,” says Willie. “I really appreciated that. I should have called you when I got out.”

“That’s okay,” Sondra says. “You were busy.”

Willie, seeing I’m puzzled by the conversation, explains that Sondra wrote to him in prison, among other things telling him to hang in there, and that she knew he could never have committed such a crime.

I can’t remember when anything I’ve planned has gone as smoothly as this meeting. Willie starts showing Sondra around the place, so I leave, but there is no way they notice.

On the way out, I hear Willie ask Sondra, “You want a cup of coffee? We got every kind there is.”

• • • • •

“ROT IN HELL, you son of a bitch.” That’s the spray-painted message on my front curb as I take Tara out for her morning walk. It was done sometime during the night, no doubt timed to provide an inauspicious start for me on this, the first day of the trial.

It’s strangely unintimidating, maybe because the perpetrator felt he needed the cover of darkness, but more likely because of what has gone on these last few weeks. I have received over twenty death threats and at least a hundred hate messages, and their impact has lessened even as their anger and level of threat seemed to increase. Kevin and Laurie have both suggested my using Marcus as a bodyguard, but I’ve resisted doing so. Why, I’m not sure. It must be a guy thing.

The morning paper contains a piece written by Vince revealing that Daniel is his son. It is thoughtful, intelligent, and poignant and therefore will certainly not make a dent in the public consciousness. The angry voices out there are simply too loud for anything to be heard over them.

The trip to the courthouse is a further unnecessary tip-off on what is to come. It seems as if every person in New Jersey has shown up to either demonstrate or watch the others do so. The demonstrators seem to be peaceful, probably because they do not represent opposing points of view. Everybody has branded Daniel a killer, and his death will be the only acceptable outcome.

I’m able to reach the courtroom only because I have a special pass that lets my car through the barricades. Our defense team was provided with only two such passes, and Kevin is picking Laurie up on the way in.

Today is jury selection, and when I arrive, I see that enough prospective jurors have put down their anti-Daniel protest signs to fill the courtroom. Within a few minutes, everybody is present and in their seats. Daniel is brought in, and voir dire begins.

Every single one of the one hundred and eight prospective jurors admits to knowing about this case, but ninety-nine of them claim they can be open-minded in deciding it. It is my task to determine, through gentle probing of their attitudes and experience, the few of them that might be telling the truth.

Tucker, for his part, has a different challenge. Since this is a death penalty case, he wants to make absolutely sure there are no jurors who are opposed to capital punishment. Tucker would view life imprisonment for Daniel as a defeat; lethal injection as a modest victory; torture and public beheading as a triumph. I don’t think the chance of acquittal has even entered his mind.

Considering the circumstances, the jury that we come up with isn’t half-bad. Kevin thinks we did great, and Daniel shares his enthusiasm. Even though Daniel reads the newspapers each day, and even though I’ve always been straight with him about our chances, I don’t think he has a clue as to how dim those chances are.

The preparation necessary in the days just before trial is incredibly intense, and we’ve been working fourteen-hour days. But with opening statements tomorrow, I observe my superstitious ritual of taking the night off from work.

I usually spend the pretrial evening quietly, with Tara, but this time I’ve amended it to include Laurie. I ask that we not talk about the trial, and she happily agrees. It helps me clear my mind and ready myself for the job ahead.

Laurie makes dinner, and afterward she suggests that we go to the den to play some gin. I think she does so as a way to boost my self-confidence, since she is the worst gin player that has ever lived. She speculates to the point that she takes cards with no regard to whether or not she needs them; I think she just goes by whether she likes the color or the pictures. I have always been an outstanding gin player, memorizing every card played and never taking an unnecessary chance.

We play five racks, and she wins only four.

With that confidence boost behind me, I take Tara for our walk. It is a time when I can think of the job ahead of me, especially the points I want to make in my opening argument. Most important, I must make myself remember to have fun.

There is a scene in the movie Dave where Kevin Kline, impersonating the president, is about to confront Congress at a personally perilous time. He sees that his adviser looks stricken with worry, and he stops to tell the man to “enjoy the moment.” That’s what I must do to be effective in trial. It is a game to me, and I am at my best when I am enjoying that game and playing it loosely and confidently.

As Tara and I are heading back, a car drives down the street toward us. Suddenly, there is a crashing noise, and I see that a liquor bottle, obviously thrown from the car, has landed less than a foot from Tara’s head. “You’re going down, asshole!” is the yell that comes from the idiot in the passenger seat as the car roars away.

I reach down and pet Tara everywhere, making sure she hasn’t been cut by the shattered glass. She seems okay, but shaken by the scare, as I am.

So far I’m not having much fun.

• • • • •

“NOT TOO MANY weeks ago, we were all afraid” is the way Tucker begins his opening argument. “People were dying, our neighbors were being mutilated and murdered. We worried for our wives, for our mothers and grandmothers, for our daughters. Because there was a monster out there targeting women, unsuspecting women who were going about their lives, until one day they didn’t have those lives anymore.”

Tucker is very well aware of the public sentiment regarding this case, since to be unaware would have required spending the last few months on the planet Comatose. He wants to put the jury in the frame of mind where not convicting Daniel would be threatening the safety of their friends and relatives.

“The police have done an extraordinary job investigating this case. They have gathered facts, not theories or suppositions. They have discovered items in Daniel Cummings’s possession that absolutely prove he murdered these people. As a prosecutor, I am grateful for that. As a member of this community, I am very grateful for that. They’ve done the hard work; my job is the easy one. I merely have to lay out those facts for you, so you can make your own decision.

“This defendant taunted you, and taunted the police, even as he killed. Mr. Cummings pretended to be the one person that the murderer contacted, the one person that he trusted to speak to the world on his behalf. That is how he stayed in the spotlight, even as he lurked and slaughtered in the shadows.

“The judge will guide you throughout this trial. One of the things he will tell you, which I will also tell you now, is that the state does not have to prove motive. I can only guess as to why Daniel Cummings went on this murdering spree. The true answer lies somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind.

“But not only don’t I have to prove what his motive was, I don’t really care. Because it simply doesn’t matter; what’s done is done, and it can never be set right. It may sound harsh, but this trial is not about compassion, it’s not about understanding, and it’s not about rehabilitation. This trial is about protection. It’s about you, as representatives of this community, saying something very simple.”

He turns and points at Daniel. “It’s about saying that you, Daniel Cummings, are finished murdering. Now it’s your turn to be afraid.”

He turns back to the jury. “Thank you for listening.”

Tucker has done a masterful job; even I gagged only once or twice. There is no way I can effectively counter it, not at this stage. All I can do is make our presence felt, by making it clear to the jury that we are not going to roll over and die.

I stand. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that was a beautiful speech, wasn’t it? I don’t know about you, but I was hanging on Mr. Zachry’s every word. Of course, my reason for listening so intently was a bit different than yours. I was waiting to hear something that was true. I’m still waiting.

“Mr. Zachry did not offer you the specific facts of the case, so I won’t respond to them. He’ll have plenty of time to present his side, and so will I. Of course, he said that Daniel Cummings was a murderer, and he is simply wrong about that. But that argument also is for a later date.

“One thing Mr. Zachry did say was that certain incriminating items were found, not on Mr. Cummings personally, but in his car and apartment. This he says constitutes possession, and possession he considers evidence of guilt.”

I reach back with my hands and place them behind my hips, then look puzzled. Not feeling my wallet, I start to pat my right back pocket. “Excuse me . . . I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”

I go back to the defense table, quickly looking through my personal papers and briefcase. I glance at Kevin, who holds up his hands in a gesture indicating that he has no idea where the wallet could be.

I then walk over behind the prosecution table, look around for a moment, and reach under Tucker’s chair. There, where I taped it to the leg, is my wallet. I rip it off the leg of the chair, hold it aloft, and feign astonishment. “Mr. Zachry, how could you?” Then, “Bailiff, arrest this man!”

The jury, not exactly the best and brightest, finally understands and roars with laughter. Tucker goes ballistic, screaming his objections. Calvin, though I think he’s secretly amused, comes down hard on me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I am not going to turn his courtroom into a circus. Business as usual.

I resume my opening as if nothing happened. “What disturbed me the most about what Mr. Zachry had to say was his characterization of you as society’s protectors. You could read every lawbook ever written, and sometimes I feel like I have, and never find that. Not anywhere. Not once. You are the trier of fact. You decide who is guilty and who isn’t. That’s all. If the result of that decision is that society is protected, that’s great. But your role is simply to make the correct decision about guilt or innocence. Believe me, that’s enough to have on your plate.

“Wherever we go, whatever we do, we bring the person that we are with us. None of us has been dropped from another planet, with no life history and all empty pages. We act reasonably consistent with our past actions.

“Yet Mr. Zachry would have you believe that Mr. Cummings, with no criminal history, acted horribly criminal. With no violent history, acted horribly violent. With obvious intelligence, acted horribly stupid.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t fly. He’s asking you to make sense out of something that makes no sense at all.

“Lastly, I want to talk to you about something that must be on your minds. Since Mr. Cummings’s arrest, these horrible murders have stopped. You may be thinking that this fact in and of itself is evidence of his guilt. It is not.

“Daniel Cummings is not here today by chance. His presence as the defendant was planned and perfectly orchestrated by the actual killer. For that person to have committed additional crimes while Mr. Cummings was in custody would have been to defeat his own plan. It would have been foolish for the killer to elaborately frame Mr. Cummings and then commit an act that would prove his innocence.

“Daniel Cummings has hurt no one. And you protect no one by taking his life away.

“Thank you.”

I go back to the defense table, satisfied that I made the points I wanted to make. Kevin nods his approval and Daniel looks pleased, while trying to maintain the impassive exterior that I instructed him to maintain. I notice him making eye contact with a group of seven people, all from Cleveland, who have made the trek here to show support. Two of them are giving him the thumbs-up, which I will instruct them never to do again.

What they and Daniel don’t seem to realize is that this was easy, and these were just words. Starting tomorrow, we have to deal with the evidence and the facts.

There is no such thing as a normal workday during a murder trial. You work as hard as you can until the hours run out, and then you start again the next day. Court lets out at four, and my standard procedure is to convene a meeting of the team at my house at five-thirty. We order in dinner and spend the night preparing for the next day’s witnesses, as well as looking at the “big picture.”

I get home and walk Tara, then rush back to order dinner. I want to make sure I do the ordering rather than Laurie, since if left in her hands, Kevin and I will be stuck eating healthful food all night.

Preparation for tomorrow’s court day goes relatively quickly, as Tucker will be putting on mostly foundation witnesses, slowly building his case. It gives us time to think about our own defense, pathetic though it currently is.

We have been totally unable to make any connection between the victims, and I think it’s safe to say that there is none. Linda Padilla remains our focus; Sam has not found any significant information, financial or otherwise, on the other victims. We have two possible theories, equally unlikely and difficult to prove. One is that Padilla was the main target and the others were killed to obscure that fact. The other is that all the victims were chosen randomly, by a killer whose only goal was to frame Daniel.

Kevin goes over the list of people and companies that Padilla caused varying degrees of trouble for with her whistle-blowing. Unfortunately for us, the very prominence of her “victims” works against us. Corporate criminals can be as low as their less upscale brethren, but it’s hard to picture most of them strangling women and cutting off their hands.

Nevertheless, our situation is bleak enough that we have to pursue everything. Laurie and Kevin divvy up the list to check them out, putting some aside for Marcus as well. Complicating matters is that many of them are spread out around the country; Padilla by no means limited herself to local wrongdoers.

Particularly annoying, and reflective of our lack of cohesion, is the fact that one of the companies is in Cleveland. Had I known, I could have had Marcus check it out while he was there. The subject is an enormous corporation called Castle Industries, named after its founder, Walter Castle. It was found polluting the water in a Cleveland suburb, and a leukemia cluster emerged. Padilla’s actions cost the company a hundred million dollars, more than my fortune but probably not that big a deal to Walter Castle. And somehow I don’t see a sixty-year-old billionaire running around cutting off naked women’s hands in protest.

There are a few other entities that seem slightly more credible as potential revenge-seekers. I’m just guessing, of course, but my first choice would be a clothing company called Lancer. Padilla revealed them operating sweatshops, which is a major public relations negative if you do it in a place like Thailand. The problem is that they did it in Alabama, and Padilla caught them in the act. It devastated them; they were a quarter-of-a-billion-dollar company one day, bankrupt the next. The owner of the company, one Rudolph Faulk, was particularly embittered, claiming that Padilla set him up.

Kevin and Laurie have their own personal favorites. We discuss them for a while, but I can’t say that I’m remotely optimistic we’re going to turn up a serial killer in their midst. If one of these people wanted Padilla dead, they might kill her, but would likely not preface their actions with murders of random, innocent women.

What we have in our favor is that we don’t have to prove anyone’s guilt. What we have to do is come up with a credible alternative killer for the jury to consider, a daunting enough task in itself.

Kevin is about to leave when the phone rings. I answer it, an act I regret immediately, since it’s Marcus calling. It’s impossible for me to understand a word that he says over the phone; I find myself yearning for subtitles on the bottom of the screen.

I put Laurie on the phone, and she seems to have no problem deciphering his words. She even takes notes, and after a minute or so hangs up.

“Marcus wants you to meet him at this address,” she says.

I look at what she’s written; the location is a particularly run-down industrial area just north of Paterson. “Did he say why?” I ask.

“No, but if Marcus made the call, you can be sure he thinks it’s important.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kevin says.

I offer a simultaneous sigh and nod; I’m not pleased to be spending the next hour or so with Marcus when I could have been in bed with Laurie. “Are you going?” I ask her.

“No, he said I couldn’t. Said it was okay if Kevin went, but that I definitely should stay here.”

“That make any sense to anybody on this planet?” I ask.

Kevin shrugs. “Probably to Marcus.”

• • • • •

KEVIN IS EVEN LESS pleased than I am when we arrive at the location Marcus has given us. It’s on Bergen Street near the river, an old abandoned junkyard that the faded sign indicates was once aptly called “Paterson Waste Material.” Two rats scurry away as we open the door; they’re probably ashamed to be caught living here.

“This place is awful,” understates Kevin.

Through the darkness I see a faint light coming from under a door, so I point it out to Kevin, and we walk toward it. I call out, “Marcus?”

“Yunh,” is the return grunt that I get, and since it seems to be coming from behind the same door, I open it.

The room is surprisingly bright, causing me to adjust my eyes so that I can see. Once I’m able to see, I regret making the adjustment.

Except for some strewn garbage, some of which seems to be smoldering in the far corner, the only objects in the room are a wooden table and chair. On the otherwise empty tabletop is a knife, about the size you would expect Crocodile Dundee to carry. Its point is sticking into the table, and the handle of the knife is pointing straight upward.

Marcus stands near the table, and another man, whom I don’t recognize, sits in the chair. The man is maybe forty-five years old, five ten, a hundred sixty pounds, balding slightly, and naked.

“He’s naked,” says Kevin.

“You don’t miss a thing,” I say. The situation is surreal, and made more so by my realization that Marcus was demonstrating a prudish streak by telling Laurie not to come down here. He didn’t want to embarrass her or himself by having her see this naked guy. The naked guy, for his part, doesn’t seem embarrassed at all. His dominant facial expression is fear, with perhaps a little anger thrown in.

“Uhhh . . . Marcus. Who is this guy and why is he naked?”

“Jimmy,” Marcus says, then points to the corner. “I burned his clothes.”

The mystery of the smoldering garbage has been solved; now we’re getting somewhere. “Why exactly are we here to meet Jimmy?” I ask.

Marcus doesn’t answer me directly, instead issuing instructions to Jimmy. “Tell him.”

“Come on, man,” moans Jimmy. “I told you what can happen if I . . .”

Marcus just looks at him, then looks at the knife. Jimmy looks at Marcus, then at the knife. Kevin and I look at each other, then at the floor. I’m sure I’ve had more uncomfortable moments, but it would take a while to think of one.

“I was in the prison when they killed your friend,” Jimmy says, no doubt referring to Randy Clemens and completely getting my attention. “I was one of the guys arguing in the hall, to get the guards looking at us. But I didn’t kill him; I didn’t even know what they were doing until after it was over.”

“Why did they do it?”

He summons up the dignity to laugh a short, derisive laugh at my expense. “What do you think? He stole their crayons?” He shakes his head at the stupidity of my question.

Marcus takes a step toward Jimmy, which serves as a dignity-remover. Jimmy continues. “To shut him up. He overheard some things, and he wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet about it. When he called you, they put him away.”

“What did he overhear?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “I don’t know, but it had something to do with those murders.”

“Was Dominic Petrone involved?”

Jimmy flinches noticeably, then seems to pause, as if considering his position. The survival rate for people who squeal on Dominic Petrone isn’t too high. On the other hand, Jimmy is naked in a room with Marcus and a knife. Talk about your “six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

He probably makes the decision that Marcus and the knife represent a more immediate threat, so he starts talking again. “I don’t know for sure, but it’s a pretty good bet. The guy who arranged the prison hit was Tommy Lassiter, but I doubt he’d be doing it without Petrone setting it up.”

“Who is Tommy Lassiter?”

Jimmy almost does a double take at my question, then looks over at Marcus. “Come on, man . . .” is his way of telling Marcus he shouldn’t have to explain this to me, an obvious idiot.

“Tell him,” Marcus says.

Jimmy does as he is told. “Lassiter is a button man, the best there is. He’s a psycho, but if Lassiter wants you dead, you are dead. That’s it.”

“Does he work for Petrone?” I ask.

“Among others. He works for money. Sometimes it’s Petrone puttin’ up the money, sometimes it’s someone else. This time, I don’t know for sure . . . I swear. But Petrone is the best bet.”

There isn’t much more for us to get out of Jimmy, and the rest of the conversation centers around him getting us to collectively swear that we won’t reveal he talked to us. I agree and ask him to keep the secret as well, but even Marcus moans at the request. If Jimmy were to tell anyone he was here, he would effectively be committing suicide.

I take Kevin back to my house so he can get his car. On the way there, he says, “What do you think Marcus would have done?”

“You mean if Jimmy didn’t talk?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I think he would have done whatever he had to. I think if they played a game of chicken a thousand times, Marcus would win every time.”

This answer doesn’t please Kevin very much. Kevin would prefer that trials and investigations play out the way they were drawn up in law school. The problem is, I don’t believe Marcus went to law school.

“But Marcus is on our side? He’s one of the good guys?” Kevin asks.

I shake my head. “We don’t find out who the good guys are until the jury tells us.”

“I think by then it’s too late,” he says. “Way too late.”

• • • • •

THE FIRST WITNESS Tucker calls is Officer Gary Hobart, the first policeman to arrive at the site of the Padilla murder. Usually, the initial patrolman is not a significant witness, as his function is mainly to secure the scene and wait for the detectives. In this case, Hobart is far more important because Daniel was on the scene when he got there.

“What was the defendant doing when you arrived?” Tucker asks.

“He was lying down on the stairs leading up to the pavilion. About two steps from the top.”

“Was he conscious?”

“Yes,” says Hobart. “He spoke to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That the killer called him . . . told him to come to the park.”

“Did he say anything about a murder that might have taken place there?” Tucker asks.

“No. He said he did not know what might be in the pavilion, that he was attacked on the steps. He thought he had lost consciousness.”

Hobart goes on to testify how he entered the pavilion, saw Linda Padilla’s body, and immediately secured the scene. He questioned Daniel briefly, before the detectives arrived and took over.

Tucker turns the witness over to me. There’s not much for me to go after, but I want to at least make our presence felt to the jury.

“Officer Hobart, how did you come to be in the park that night?” I ask.

“The dispatcher sent me there. They received a 911 call.”

“Who made that call? If you know.”

“I don’t believe the caller gave his name.”

“Was the caller there when you arrived?” I ask.

“No.”

“But this anonymous caller was on the scene that night? And saw what happened?”

He shrugs. “I really don’t know what they saw, or if they even saw anything.”

I nod. “Right. Maybe they didn’t see anything. Maybe they called 911 to report that nothing was happening at the pavilion in the park at one o’clock in the morning. And maybe your dispatcher sent you out to confirm that nothing was happening. Is that how you figure it?”

Tucker objects that I’m being argumentative, and Calvin sustains. Hobart switches tactics and talks about the vagrants in the park and how they would not want to give their names, for fear of getting involved. I’ve made my point, that there was someone else on the scene, so I move on. I bring out the fact that Hobart saw the wound on Daniel’s head and that there was significant bleeding.

“What is your responsibility once the detectives arrive?” I ask.

“To make sure the area remains secure,” he says.

“Do you brief the detectives on what you’ve learned at the scene?”

He nods. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“And you offer your impressions as well? If you think they are significant?”

“Yes.”

“You’re trained in these types of things?”

“Well . . . sure.”

“And whatever you tell them, you later put in a report?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I get a copy from Kevin, then hand it to Hobart and get him to confirm that it is in fact the report he submitted. “Please show me where in the report you voiced suspicions about Mr. Cummings.”

“There’s nothing like that in there.”

“So everything seemed normal to you? You didn’t suspect Mr. Cummings hit himself in the head?” I ask.

“No . . . not really. But I had other things to pay attention to.”

“And you left Mr. Cummings alone while you looked around?” I ask, the clear implication being that if he suspected Daniel of anything, he wouldn’t have left him unguarded.

“Yes.”

“No further questions.” I haven’t done that much with Hobart, but that’s okay, since there was little damage to repair. That will come later, when Tucker trots out his big guns. We had better be ready.

I head back to the office after the court day ends. Our team meeting isn’t until six at my house, and I’ve agreed to meet with some of Daniel’s supporters from Cleveland. They asked for twenty minutes of my time, but I’m hoping to wrap it up in ten.

When I arrive at the office, three of the seven people in the courtroom today are already there waiting for me. Edna has one of them engaged in a conversation about investments and finance. She introduces him as Eliot Kendall, who I know from reputation is the son of Byron Kendall, founder and chairman of Kendall Industries, an enormous trucking company headquartered in Cleveland. As the president of the company and future heir, Eliot must be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, yet he patiently listens as Edna tries to get him to transfer his investments to her cousin Fred.

The other two visitors are Lenny Morris, a fellow reporter of Daniel’s at the Cleveland newspaper, and Janice Margolin, the director of a local Cleveland charity which Daniel actively supported.

Eliot Kendall is no more than thirty, and though Lenny and Janice are at least twenty-five years his senior, Eliot seems the natural spokesman for the trio. He explains that the others in court today had to go back to Cleveland, but that the three of them “are here for the duration.”

“So how can I help you?” I ask, trying to move this along.

Eliot smiles. “That’s what we’re here to ask you. We’re here to support Daniel, which means we will support you in any way we can.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But I think we’re covered.”

“I’m sure you are. But if at any point you need some extra pairs of hands, no job is too small.” The others nod enthusiastically in agreement. “And while I doubt money is an issue for Daniel, if it becomes one, I’m available to help. You tell us your problems, we’ll help solve them.”

This is an impressive display of support from some pretty substantial people. It pleases me that my client is so well liked and respected by them. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, keeping things as bland as I can. Despite their offer to hear our “problems,” I’m not going to get into any specifics of the case with these people.

“There’s also something you should know,” Eliot says. “We’ve hired a private investigator to look into things. Not to get in your way . . . just a fresh pair of professional eyes. If we uncover anything helpful, it’s yours to use as you see fit.”

My initial reaction to this news is negative; it feels like an invasion of my turf and a potential annoyance. On the other hand, maybe it will turn up something. Besides, they aren’t asking for my approval.

“As long as your investigators do not claim to be representing the defense.”

Eliot nods agreeably. “Absolutely. No problem.”

“Daniel is lucky to have such good friends,” I say.

Eliot smiles a slightly condescending smile. “Let me tell you a brief story, Mr. Carpenter. My younger sister ran away from home when she was fourteen . . . left a note saying she couldn’t deal with her problems anymore. My family kept things very quiet, foolishly not wanting to confront the embarrassment. Finally, my father decided that the media could help spread the word, perhaps help find her. We didn’t know Daniel, but we knew of his reputation, so we gave him the story.”

I search my mind for a memory of this story but can’t come up with one. “Did you find her?”

His shake of the head is a sad one, as the remembered pain seems to hit him head-on. “No, but not for lack of effort on Daniel’s part. He made finding her his personal crusade, but that’s not why I remain grateful to this day. He treated the story, my sister, and our family with incredible compassion and sensitivity. No sensationalism, no grandstanding . . . just outstanding reporting by an outstanding human being. He’s been my friend ever since.”

It seems a sincere tribute and is echoed by less dramatic stories from Janice and Lenny. I finally extricate myself from the meeting by promising to keep in touch should I need their help in any way. What I don’t tell them is that their stories would qualify them as excellent character witnesses for the penalty phase of the trial. That will only come if we lose the case and are trying to avoid a death sentence.

I’m finally able to get them out the door, and I head for the meeting at my house. Laurie and Kevin are there when I arrive, and I can tell from the pained expression on Kevin’s face that Laurie’s already ordered dinner. Since we are real men who cannot survive on tofu and veggie burgers, I break out the potato chips and pretzels, and Kevin dives for them like they are life preservers floating in the ocean.

My overriding concern with this case is that it is going along too predictably, too comfortably, and that we are gliding down the path to defeat. “I’ve got to shake things up,” I say.

Kevin nods; he knows what I’m getting at and agrees. Kevin is much more conservative than I am, so if he believes that I need to shake things up, I probably should have done so already.

“What do you mean?” Laurie asks.

“It’s like when you blitz in football,” I say, and Laurie moans. “Sometimes a defense is overmatched, and it’s not the best strategy, but a blitz rattles the offense’s cage and puts a lot of pressure on. Hopefully, something good will come from that pressure. Either way, it’s better than just sitting back and letting Tucker drive down the field.”

“Exactly,” Kevin says.

“I’ve got an idea,” Laurie says. “Can we try and get through one five-minute period without you making a football reference? Can we try and intellectually elevate things a bit?”

I look at Kevin, who seems agreeable. “Sure,” I say. “Think of it in ballet terms. If everybody comes out in tutus, the audience just sits there. It’s no big deal, ’cause that’s what they expect. But dress the dancers in leather garter belts and Mickey Mouse ears, and the audience is on their toes, wondering what the hell is going on. It shakes them up.”

Kevin nods. “Or in opera, if you start off with the fat lady singing, the audience doesn’t know what to think. Is it over? The fat lady has already sung, right?”

Laurie smiles. “See? Isn’t that better? We’re on a much higher plane now.”

We adjourn early, partly because I have to think things through on my own and partly so Kevin and I can avoid whatever it is Laurie has planned for dessert. I’m not sure my stomach could handle tofu jubilee or broccoli brûlée.

Willie comes over, bringing with him some paperwork that we have received from the city Animal Services department. He also brings along Sondra-in fact, they are holding hands. Since there is no automobile traffic in my living room, I have to assume he’s not helping her cross the street and that their relationship has quickly graduated from employer-employee.

Further circumstantial evidence of their romantic involvement is the fact that she is wearing an expensive watch and very expensive locket, with a large blue stone that I believe is alexandrite. I’m far from an expert on jewelry, but I once represented a client accused of stealing some uncut alexandrites, and I know how valuable they are.

Sondra has never worn the watch or locket the other times I’ve seen her. Since we’re not paying that much in salary for her work at the foundation, Willie has apparently taken some of his coffee earnings and bought her the jewelry.

“How’s the trial going?” Sondra asks.

I shrug. “Okay. Could be better.”

“You gonna win?”

Willie interrupts. “Of course, he’s gonna win. I’m standing here, aren’t I? This guy doesn’t lose.”

Sondra doesn’t look that pleased with Willie’s assessment. She and I have talked about this; she wishes me the best, but if Daniel is responsible for killing Rosalie, she wants him strapped to a table with a needle in his arm.

Willie and Sondra invite Laurie and me out with them; they’re going dancing at a club. The idea has absolutely no appeal to me, but I appreciate the invitation, so I look at my watch for an excuse. “It’s almost nine-thirty,” I say. “I need to get some sleep.”

Willie nods. “So grab a couple of hours. We’re not going out until midnight.”

I express my amazement at this, and Willie and Sondra proceed to tell me about this other world that exists out there, a world where people go out and have what they consider fun while I am in bed doing what I consider sleeping. These people seem to exist on another plane, using the resources of our planet while “normal” people like Laurie and me are tucked away with no need for them. Willie and Sondra are in the unique position of straddling both worlds, and I’m sure there is much to learn from them. Just not tonight, because I’m tired.

• • • • •

DONALD PRESCOTT SPENDS all day, every day, looking at fibers. He does this for the New Jersey State Police, and if you possess both a desire to be a cop and a self-preservation instinct, it’s a good job to have. There is even less chance that Prescott will get shot at than the guy who draws the chalk outlines around bodies.

Tucker has called Prescott to testify to his analysis of the fibers on the scarf used to strangle Linda Padilla, which was found with her severed hands in the trunk of Daniel’s car. The police have even located a sales receipt from a store which shows that Daniel bought that exact scarf, or one just like it.

Tucker holds up the scarf, which has been submitted into evidence. “Are these fibers distinctive?” Tucker asks.

“I’m not sure how you define ‘distinctive,’” Prescott answers. “But they’re not very common. The scarf is expensive, and as you can see, the color is rather unique.”

Tucker looks really interested, as if he’s hanging on every word Prescott says. The uninformed, a group that no doubt includes the jury, might not realize that they’ve rehearsed this testimony at least three times.

“Did you have occasion to examine any clothing belonging to the defendant?“ Tucker asks.

“Yes. I was sent the clothing he was wearing the night of the murder.”

“Did it contain any fibers?” Tucker asks.

Prescott smiles slightly at the imprecise question. “Many. Fibers are everywhere, on virtually everything. If you’re asking if fibers consistent with the scarf were on his clothing, the answer is yes.”

Tucker smiles. “Thank you, that’s exactly what I was asking. Were there many such fibers consistent with the scarf or just a few?”

“Many,” Prescott says. “He had recently handled that scarf, or a garment just like it. But most likely that one.”

“Why do you say that?” Tucker asks.

“Because the fibers on his clothing had blood on them. Linda Padilla’s blood.”

Tucker turns the witness over to me, and every head in the courtroom swivels toward me, challenging me to deal with this disaster.

“Detective Prescott, was my client standing, sitting, or lying down when he touched this scarf?”

“I have no way of knowing that,” he answers truthfully.

“Was he conscious or unconscious?”

“Again, I can’t really answer that.”

I nod. “Could Ms. Padilla have already been dead when he touched it?”

“I suppose it’s possible. It’s not within the scope of my examination,” he concedes.

“Does the scope of your examination allow you to tell whether anyone else besides my client and the victim touched the scarf on the day of the murder?”

“No, it does not,” he answers.

“So if I can present a hypothetical, based on the scope of your examination and your testimony here today, it’s possible that Mr. Cummings was lying down, unconscious, with Ms. Padilla already dead, when a third party rubbed the scarf on him?”

Prescott’s expression is pained; he knows that Tucker will have him for lunch if he agrees to this. “I have seen nothing to substantiate that. Absolutely nothing.”

“Do you have anything that would eliminate it as a possibility?”

“Logic,” he says, a comeback so good I would like to wrap the scarf around his neck.

“Detective Prescott, I based the hypothetical on your testimony. Would you like to go back over that testimony so you can adjust your answers? Or were you testifying accurately and truthfully the first time?”

He looks at me with undisguised disdain, but when he speaks, his voice is quiet and controlled. “Scientifically, the hypothetical you present is possible. Not in any way likely, but possible.”

“Thank you,” I say with a small sigh, conveying to the jury that it took a lot of effort, but the truth finally came out. “Detective Prescott,” I say, “are you familiar with the name Dominic Petrone?”

The mere mention of Petrone’s name sends a shock wave through the gallery, and that jolt sends Tucker leaping out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor! This is cross-examination, and the subject of Mr. Petrone never came up in direct.”

Tucker is right, of course, and Calvin sustains the objection. It’s just as well, since I really didn’t have a question to ask about Petrone. I simply wanted to introduce his name as a way to shake things up. Judging by the buzz in the gallery and the suddenly alert faces on the jury, I seem to have accomplished that quite well.

I let Prescott off the stand, and Calvin adjourns court for the day in deference to a juror’s doctor appointment. I briefly have a flash of hope that the doctor will determine the juror cannot continue in his role, thereby forcing a mistrial. Unfortunately, there are six alternate jurors waiting to take his place. If I’m going to get help from the world of medicine, it’s going to take something on the order of bubonic plague.

Because of the early adjournment, we’re able to move our team evening meeting to late afternoon. It’s short and uneventful, and the progress report is especially brief, mainly because we’re not making any. We’re taking Tucker’s roundhouse punches and responding with light jabs, not a recipe for judicial success.

Kevin leaves at about seven o’clock, and Laurie and I decide to go to Charlie’s for dinner. Before we leave, I take Tara for a walk, since she hasn’t been out for quite a while.

We’re about a block from the house when Tara pulls me over toward the grass next to the curb, where a car is parked. It’s dark out, so I can’t see what it is she’s moving toward.

I lean down to get a closer look when suddenly the rear passenger door to the car opens. Something gets out of the car, either an enormous man or an average-sized gorilla, and grabs my arm. Almost simultaneous with that, Tara snarls and lunges for the gorilla’s leg.

Gorilla yells in pain and pulls his leg away from Tara. As he does so, a blur flashes across my eyes, and the next thing I know Gorilla is thrown-actually, it’s more like launched-over the car, bouncing off the trunk and landing with a thud on the ground.

I’m still frozen in the same spot, displaying my characteristic inability to react physically to an emergency. My eyes are functioning, though, and in another brief instant they are watching Marcus as he holds a gun on Gorilla, who is trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. The gun is dark, shiny, and rock-hard, just like Marcus, and it looks as if he has merely grown an extension on his hand, in the shape of a gun.

The driver of the car gets out, also holding a gun, which he points in the direction of Marcus, Tara, and me. Gorilla, less groggy now, takes out his own gun and joins the pointing club. Tara and I are the only ones without guns, though her teeth are bared and seem just as threatening as their weapons.

The driver speaks first, in a surprisingly calm voice. “There’s two of us, friend.” He’s talking to Marcus, and the implication is that there are two of them in the fight, but only Marcus on the other side. It’s demeaning to me, though true enough.

“Yuh,” says Marcus, seemingly unperturbed by the imbalance.

“So drop the gun, friend,” says Driver.

“Nuh,” says Marcus.

“He bit my fucking leg,” says Gorilla, misstating Tara’s gender but making his point.

“Nobody has to get hurt,” Driver says. “Mr. Petrone just wants to talk to the lawyer.”

He means me, so I force my mouth to speak. “In my country, we have friendlier ways to arrange conversations.”

Driver smiles. “He thought you might not respond to an invitation. Hey, if he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. We would have driven by, and you’d be lying on the cement, with your brains all over the grass.”

I look at Marcus and he nods slightly, which I take as a sign that he agrees with Driver. “Where is he?” I ask.

“Get in and find out.”

Marcus nods again. “Okay,” I say. “But Marcus and his gun go with us.” I turn to Marcus. “If you’re willing.” He grunts, but his head moves slightly up and down in midgrunt, so I take that as a yes.

I tell them to wait for me, and I walk Tara home. When I enter the house, Laurie sees the look on my face. “What’s the matter?” she asks.

I quickly relate what’s happened, and she asks a bunch of questions. I notice that the one question she doesn’t ask is the one I’ve had in my mind all along, which is, “What the hell was Marcus doing there?”

“You don’t seem surprised that Marcus was there,” I say.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve had him watching out for you. You’ve been annoying some dangerous people.”

“You should have told me,” I say.

“Then you would have stopped it, and Marcus wouldn’t have been there to save your ass tonight,” she responds.

Laurie isn’t happy that I’m going to meet Petrone, and less happy when I refuse her request to go along. “This is real man’s work,” I joke as I walk out the door. She doesn’t think it’s that funny, and neither do I.

The truth is, I’m scared shitless.

• • • • •

THERE’S NOT TOO MUCH chitchat in the car on the way to Dominic Petrone’s. In fact, the only thing that is said is when I apologize for being late. I explain without much subtlety that, while I was at home, “I called my friend Pete Stanton of the Paterson police and told him where I was going. Just in case we have an accident.”

No one seems impressed by this maneuver, or if they are, they neglect to mention it. Marcus and Gorilla share the backseat, and I’m in the front with Driver. All the guns have been put away, which has a calming effect on everybody but me. I’m a nervous wreck.

Intellectually, I know there’s not much to worry about, at least for tonight, but the prospect of being summoned by Petrone is more than a little intimidating. My fear is that he’s going to make me an offer I can’t refuse, and I’m going to refuse it.

Driver drives us to a quiet West Paterson neighborhood, known by everyone, even me, to be the area in which the biggies in the mob reside. Rumor has it that there hasn’t been a robbery in this neighborhood since Calvin Coolidge was president.

Petrone’s house, at least from the outside, is modest. It’s a traditional colonial, two stories, and the property is both well kept and well defended. An ornate but imposing iron fence surrounds the grounds, and we drive up to a gate with three security men, all about the size of Gorilla.

They wave us in, not taking their eyes off Marcus as we go by. We enter the house through the front door, and I am immediately struck by the fact that the inside seems like a normal home. Two teenagers are playing video games in the den as we pass by, I can hear the Knicks game on a television coming from the upstairs, and the kitchen has some dirty plates in the sink. Maybe Clemenza has made some pasta sauce.

We are brought to an office in the back of the house and led in to see Dominic Petrone. I’ve met him at a couple of local charity dinners; Petrone is very willing to be seen in public. He’s like any other successful businessman, except for the part where he has button men on the street.

Petrone is sitting behind his desk watching the Knicks. He smiles when we come in and then makes brief eye contact with Driver, who picks up the remote control and shuts off the game. It’s impressive, but although I could afford it, I wouldn’t want someone to operate my remote control for me. A real man does his own clicking.

Gorilla takes a seat on one side of the room, and Marcus sits on the other. Petrone stands up and greets me with a smile. “Andy, good to see you,” he says. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Thanks, Dominic,” I say. “I was in the neighborhood, so I figured maybe I’ll stop in and see my friend Dominic Petrone.”

He nods. “Glad you did. Glad you did. Have a seat.”

He motions me to a chair in front of his desk and walks back behind that desk and sits back down. “So I was watching the news, and all they’re talking about is how you mentioned my name in court today.”

“Think of it as free publicity.”

“Or I can think of it as very annoying.”

“Or here’s a third possibility,” I offer. “You can think of it as me defending my client.”

He considers this for a while, and the silence in the room is stifling. Finally, he says, “I don’t like too many people in this world. Maybe ten, outside of my family. Most people, I don’t care about them one way or the other.”

He pauses, and I can’t think of anything to say, so I don’t.

He continues. “But on that short list of people that I like, right near the top, was Linda Padilla. I would never have hurt her, ever. And I don’t want it suggested in public that I would.”

The arrogance of the man is mind-boggling. He actually seems to think that I will stop mentioning him in court simply because he’s announced that he finds it annoying. It is the insufferable attitude of a man who considers himself all-powerful. On the other hand, he could have me killed simply by making some more eye contact with Driver.

I decide to surprise him with my vast knowledge. “Are you saying you didn’t hire Tommy Lassiter?”

A flicker of surprise flashes across Petrone’s face, and I sense a slight reaction from Driver behind me. “Impressive,” says Dominic.

“Stop. You’ll make me blush. Did you hire him?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?” I ask.

“You become less impressive as you go along. If I knew where he was, we would be speaking of him in the past tense.”

“Do you know why he would have killed Linda Padilla?”

Dominic nods. “For money. Or to get back at me. Or both.”

“Why would Lassiter want to get back at you?”

“Suffice it to say we are not the best of friends. The ‘why’ is none of your business. And I am getting tired of your questions.”

“One more. Why would he kill the others as well?”

“Mr. Carpenter, I brought you here to tell you that I had nothing to do with these murders and that I insist you stop implying that I did. Once you do, I will help you in your efforts.”

This is a surprise, and too tempting to let go unexplained. “How will you do that?”

“That remains to be seen. I have the ability to influence events, which is all I will say about it.”

If he’s not going to be specific, I won’t either. “I can’t promise anything. My client’s life is at stake.”

He nods. “As is your own.” And just in case that was too subtle, he points to Marcus. “Even a man as imposing as this cannot protect you forever.”

Dominic leaves the room, effectively ending the meeting. Driver and Gorilla drive Marcus and me back to my house, leaving us without so much as a word about what a fun evening they had.

I see Laurie looking out at us through the front window. I immediately decide I would rather be in there with her than out here on the street with Marcus. But this guy may have saved my life, so I feel like I owe him something.

“Thanks,” I say to Marcus. “I really appreciate what you did tonight.”

He shrugs. “Yunh.”

“You want to come in? Have a drink or something?”

“Nunh,” he says, and walks away. I walk toward my house and Laurie, thinking that “nunh” is the most beautiful word in the English language.

• • • • •

LAURIE AND I STAY UP most of the night talking about my meeting with Petrone and whether it should or will have any impact on the trial. I ask her what she thinks he will actually do if I continue to point the finger at him.

“If he’s smart, he’ll wait a year or two and make your death look like an accident,” she says.

“And if he’s not smart?”

“He’ll have your brains blown out a few weeks after the trial.”

“He seems pretty smart,” I offer hopefully.

She nods. “Good. It gives you time to get your affairs in order.”

She’s kidding-at least I hope she is-and I move the conversation toward Petrone’s impact on the trial. I have a very real dilemma in that at the end of the day I believe Petrone. His fond feelings for Linda Padilla seem genuine and tie in directly with what her boyfriend, Alan Corbin, told me. I’ve never had any strong reasons to believe Petrone is involved in this, so I have some ethical problems with continuing to insist that he is, misleading the jury in the process.

I could switch my focus to Tommy Lassiter, but his name is not publicly known, and it will have far less psychological impact than Petrone’s. It would also have the secondary result of pissing off a crazed hit man, something my parents specifically warned me against as a youth. While the other kids were always being admonished to “be careful crossing the street” and “be home early,” my mom and dad would throw in, “and don’t go pissing off any crazed hit men.”

The real question is how much I should let my personal physical jeopardy get in the way of my client’s representation. Should I report what has gone on to Calvin? I don’t think so; I’m not sure that there’s anything he could do, and his knowledge would possibly inhibit my actions.

Our staying up so late talking leaves me a little bleary-eyed when I get to court in the morning. Tucker looks typically fresh and confident, easy to accomplish in light of his having an entire state full of lawyers to do his legwork, and a powerful case to present to the jury.

“Rough night, Andy?” he asks with a smile before Calvin enters the courtroom. For a moment I consider the possibility that Tucker knows about my session with Petrone, that perhaps he is having me followed. It’s unlikely; the more plausible explanation for his comment is that I look like shit.

I look around the courtroom and notice that Vince is in his place, as is the Cleveland contingent, minus Eliot Kendall. It’s the first day that Kendall has missed, though I doubt that it represents a crack in his support for Daniel.

Tucker’s first witness is Neal Winslow, the chief engineer for the cell phone company that Daniel uses. His appearance is to demonstrate that Daniel was lying when he said he was fifteen minutes away from Eastside Park when he received what he claimed was the phone call from the killer.

Tucker and Winslow have rehearsed this testimony well, and Winslow describes the process by which towers cover certain areas, and that a cell phone’s general location can be determined by the tower that “handled” the call. His presentation is clear and concise, and such that even a technological moron can understand it. I know this because I happen to be one.

Daniel’s apparent lie has two negative consequences, one of which has already taken place. It served as the impetus for the police to get a search warrant, which led to all the real evidence subsequently discovered.

The other consequence, almost as serious, will set in if I can’t shake Winslow’s testimony. The jury will ask themselves why Daniel would have lied about something like this, and their answer will be that it was to cover his guilt. It is something that I have grappled with since that night, and Daniel has never come up with a satisfactory explanation.

“Mr. Winslow,” I begin, “why is it that sometimes I can receive a clear cell phone call, but at other times I have no service in the same location?”

“There could be a number of factors. Weather . . . heavy usage periods . . . they would be the most likely reasons.”

“So weather and heavy usage can impact service?”

He nods. “Definitely.”

That gives me a little progress in casting doubt on the science, but it’s a small victory.

“Now, you told Mr. Zachry that the cell tower has a radius of about four miles.”

“Right,” he says in answer to a question I didn’t ask.

“So if the tower were in the middle of Times Square, it would route calls to my cell phone if I were on the corner of Madison and Eighty-fifth, three miles away?”

He shakes his head. “No, in Manhattan the towers would have a much smaller radius.”

I look surprised, though I’m not. “Really? Is it a different type of tower?”

“No, but-”

I interrupt. “Then why is the range different?”

“Because of the many tall buildings. We refer to it as the terrain.”

“So terrain can make a difference also? Just like weather and heavy usage and who knows what else?”

Tucker objects to my characterization, and Calvin sustains. I withdraw the question and move on. “Mr. Winslow, assuming perfect weather, normal usage, and average terrain, the radius is four miles. Correct?”

“Approximately.”

I smile at the increasing inexactness of this science. “Yes, approximately four miles. Right?”

“Yes.”

“So it covers a total diameter of eight miles? In such a perfect world?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Zachry read Mr. Cummings’s statement from that night into the record, where he said he drove fifteen minutes after getting the call. Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anywhere in that statement that he drove fast, or even in a straight line?”

Tucker objects. “Your Honor, this is not within the witness’s area of expertise.”

I shake my head. “I am simply asking his recollections based on what he heard Mr. Zachry read. I can give him a copy of the statement, and then his recollections will be perfect.”

Calvin overrules Tucker, and Winslow answers. “I didn’t hear him read that he drove fast or in a straight line, no.”

“Do you ever drive in North Jersey, Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes. Every day.”

“Do you find that the speed with which you drive depends on things like weather and heavy usage and terrain?”

The jury and gallery laugh and Winslow can’t suppress a smile. “I do,” he says.

“Traffic is an inexact science, isn’t it, Mr. Winslow?”

Tucker objects and I withdraw the question. I let Winslow off the stand and sit down next to Daniel, who, despite my admonitions, looks positively euphoric.

• • • • •

LESS THAN THREE HOURS after court is adjourned, my shuttle flight is landing at Logan Airport in Boston. I haven’t been here in almost twenty years, but the drive into the city brings home the memories as if they were yesterday.

As a teenager, I was a huge Larry Bird fan, which caused me some uncomfortable moments living in the New York area. But I took the abuse from my friends, and while Bird was in the league I was a traitor to my beloved Knicks. I was, heaven help me, a Celtics fan.

My father handled the situation well, and didn’t do what other Knicks-loving fathers would do. He didn’t beat, starve, or humiliate me, though in retrospect I deserved it all. Instead, he tolerated my treasonous impulses, in fact did more than that. He would take me up to Boston to watch play-off games in Boston Garden. Fortunately for me, the Knicks were terrible in those years and never made it to the play-offs themselves.

Boston Garden was an amazing place, a true shrine to basketball as it should be played, and attending a game there was unlike attending a sports event any place else in the world. The Celtics were blessed with talent, smarts, and a relentless will to win, a team worthy of their home, and I’m glad to have witnessed them in action. But today Larry Bird is retired, the old Boston Garden is no more, and I am securely back in the Knicks fold.

I arrive at Carmine’s, a small downtown restaurant, at seven-thirty, and Cindy is already there, waiting for me at the bar. She is a very attractive brunet, looking even better than the last time I saw her, which was almost six months ago. The guy on the next stool over is futilely attempting to hit on her, and if you gave him three hundred guesses, he couldn’t come up with her occupation. She is Cindy Spodek, FBI special agent, Organized Crime Division.

I met Cindy last year when she testified at Laurie’s trial. Cindy had become aware that her boss at the Bureau, until then considered an American hero, had in fact been running massive, illegal operations that extended to murder. Her turning on him was an act of real courage, and she did so at great jeopardy to her career.

In the months that have passed, she’s been reassigned to the Bureau’s Boston office, but has survived the expected backlash from her colleagues. I last spoke to her a couple of months ago, and she seemed fairly happy. Her career was back on a decent track, and she had met a guy that she felt just might be the one.

Cindy brightens when she sees me, and gives me a warm hug and kiss. It’s enough to send Mr. Barstool on to more receptive pastures, and he makes his way down the bar. Cindy and I head to our table in a quiet corner of the restaurant.

We exchange pleasantries, including pictures of our dogs. Cindy has a two-year-old golden named Sierra that I rescued and gave to her. She thinks Sierra is the best dog in North America, an impossibility unless Tara and New Jersey have relocated below the equator without my knowing it. But I tolerate this nonsense because I’m here on a mission.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.

She frowns. “Yeah, right. You reeled me in like a fish.”

I called Cindy yesterday and left a message saying that I needed to talk to her about Tommy Lassiter. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist that, and I further knew that she’d learn everything about Lassiter that she could before we met.

“So what do you know about Lassiter?” I ask.

She smiles the smile of someone barely tolerating an idiot. “To save time, I decided on the rules for this conversation on the way over here,” she says. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You tell me why you’re asking and what you already know, and then I’ll decide if I’ll say anything or just leave you with the check.”

I grin. “Sounds fair to me,” I say, and lay out the particulars of Daniel’s case and what I know about Lassiter’s involvement in it. She listens intently and doesn’t ask any questions until I’ve finished.

“How do you know Lassiter is involved?”

“Marcus got one of the prisoners involved in Randy’s murder to talk.”

She frowns, mainly because she knows Marcus. “Marcus reasoned with him?” she asks.

“Yes. He can be very reasonable when he wants to be. I believe it’s your turn to speak.”

She considers this for a moment, then nods. “Tommy Lassiter is an extraordinarily talented and cold-blooded murderer. He is also a maniac. The Bureau wants him very badly.”

“Does the Bureau have any information connecting him to my case?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“There are a lot of murderers in this country; what makes him special enough to be on your radar?”

She hesitates before answering, as if deciding whether or not she should confide in me. I’m sure she thought this out before coming here, so it must be significant enough that she’s having second thoughts. “Because he’s added a new wrinkle to the process. His fee is twice as high as anyone else’s because he does more than just murder.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

She looks at me intently. “This is just between you and me. That’s it. Agreed?”

I nod. “I’ll tell only Laurie and Kevin.”

She continues, since she knows they can be trusted. “He also provides a guilty party, to throw suspicion away from himself and the people who hire him. He frames someone; it’s part of his full-service operation. And he’s good at it.”

This piece of news hits me right between the eyes. For the first time I truly believe, I truly know, that Daniel is innocent of these murders. It is simultaneously a huge weight lifted from my shoulders and an incredible pressure added to those same shoulders. It is now far more important that I get him off.

“Will you testify to this?” I ask.

She laughs a short laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Of course not.”

“An innocent man is on trial for his life.”

“Maybe, or maybe Lassiter had nothing to do with it. And with no other evidence, you couldn’t even get my testimony admitted if I were willing to give it, which I’m not.”

“Let me worry about getting it admitted,” I say.

“Andy, think this through. If word of this got out, every murderer in every prison in the country would be filing appeals saying that Lassiter was the real murderer and that he planted all the conclusive evidence their prosecutors used.”

I understand her point, and I don’t try to refute it, at least for now. The fact is that her testimony would not be admissible at this stage anyhow. I would first need to independently tie Lassiter into Daniel’s case, and neither Marcus’s informant nor Dominic Petrone is about to raise his right hand and tell it to the jury.

She adds, “Be careful with this, Andy. Lassiter is more than a tad insane.”

I nod, change the subject, and we have a thoroughly pleasant dinner, absent talk of serial killers and severed hands. She waits until we’re having coffee to smile and make her announcement. “Todd and I are getting married.”

“Congratulations. Who the hell is Todd?”

“I told you about him. He’s a Boston cop. A captain.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Three months,” she says. “But I would have said yes after three weeks. When you know, you know.”

I nod, silently wondering why, if Todd and Cindy and I all seem to “know,” Laurie remains in the dark.

“Things still well with you and Laurie?” Cindy asks.

She seems to have read my mind, so I get a little defensive. “Yes, well . . . very well . . . totally well . . .”

She smiles. “Sounds like you’ve reached new levels of wellness.”

“We have.”

“So when are you getting married?” she asks.

“Married? Me? No, thank you. I’m a free spirit . . . an eagle. No woman can clip my wings. I’ve got women all over the world. Paterson, Passaic, Trenton . . . you name it.”

“So Laurie doesn’t want to get married?”

I shrug. “Not so far.”

On the flight home I try to figure out what I’ve learned and what I still have to learn. I now completely believe that Tommy Lassiter killed Linda Padilla, though demonstrating that to a jury is very much another matter. What I don’t know is who, if anyone, hired him, or why he needed to kill three other women in the process.

Also puzzling to me is why he chose Daniel to frame. There are much less visible people, with far fewer resources, that he could have more easily pinned it on. He chose Daniel in such a way that the entire series of murders played out as a public spectacle, yet Lassiter’s previous history was always to lurk in the shadows.

He could have planted the incriminating evidence on virtually anyone, yet he chose Daniel. Daniel must have made himself an inviting target, or perhaps he had a previous connection to Lassiter that he hasn’t shared with me.

It’s time to talk to my client.

• • • • •

“HE TOLD ME HE KILLED my wife.” Daniel says this after considerable prodding, actually berating, on my part. He says it after I told him that he was going to lose this case unless I knew all the facts, every single one of them. And he says it with a shaky voice, the emotion of that night and the night his wife died coming back to him in torrents.

He seems so upset that I restrain my very real desire to strangle him with his handcuffs. This represents something that was critical for me to have known at the very beginning, not now, at the beginning of the end.

“When did he tell you that?” I ask, maintaining a calm demeanor.

“The night he killed Linda Padilla. That’s what he said when he first called me.”

“What else did he say?”

“That he would meet me in the park. That he would tell me who paid him to kill my wife . . . to kill Margaret.”

“And you believed that he killed her?”

He nods. “He was telling the truth. Absolutely.”

“How do you know that?”

“He knew what she was wearing . . . a bracelet I had given her for her anniversary. He said he took it . . . he described it.” He nods vigorously to punctuate his point. “There’s no doubt, Andy. He killed her.”

“Okay. So you got to the park . . . and then what?”

“I went to the place we were supposed to meet, the steps near the pavilion. He must have come up on me from behind, because the next thing I remember I was lying on the steps and talking to the cop.”

“Why didn’t you call the police in the first place?”

“He said if I did, or said anything to them, I’d never find out who ordered Margaret’s death. I needed to know that . . . I still do.”

“Is that all?”

He shakes his head but is silent for a few moments, apparently weighing his words. “No . . . he said he had the power to frame anybody he wanted for Margaret’s death,” he says, then more quietly, “He said he could make me appear guilty.”

“So that’s why you never told this to the police?”

“Partly, I guess. But mainly, it was because I didn’t want to lose contact with this guy. You’ve got to understand, I never dreamed they would charge me with Padilla’s murder. Hell, when I first spoke to the cop, I didn’t even know she was murdered. When they arrested me, I felt like I couldn’t change my story.”

I’m trying to process all this new information but having a difficult time. Right now all I can think about is what a selfdestructive asshole my client has been. It would make me feel better to tell him so, but I’m not sure his psyche could handle it.

“You’ve been a selfdestructive asshole,” I blurt out, choosing my feelings over his psyche.

“I know,” he moans, making me sorry I said it. “Is all this too late to help?”

“I don’t know,” is my honest reply. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“That’s it. I swear.”

“Do you believe that someone paid to have your wife killed?”

He thinks this through for a few moments. “I know he killed her, and I doubt very much that Margaret knew him. So I have no reason to doubt that he was paid for it.”

I head back to the office to brief Laurie and Kevin on what I’ve just learned. We talk about the possible ways we can get this information to the jury, but it’s a short conversation because at this point there is just one possible way, and that is to have Daniel testify. It is not something I’m inclined to do, but fortunately, it’s not a decision I have to make right now.

I call Pete Stanton at the precinct, but I’m told that he has the day off. I try his cell phone number, and he answers on the first ring. I tell him that I need to discuss something with him, and I can actually hear his ears perk up through the phone, as his mind races to figure out how he can cost me money. Pete has never really handled my wealth very well, so he tries to reduce that wealth in any way that he can.

“Maybe we can talk after the Knicks game,” he says.

The Knicks are playing the Lakers tonight, and I was thinking of going over to Charlie’s to watch it, so Pete’s request is surprisingly painless. “You want to meet at Charlie’s?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. I’m getting tired of that place.”

“So where do you want to watch the game?”

“Courtside.”

The game is starting in four hours, is completely sold out, and Pete is expecting me to get tickets. He knows that the only possible way I could do that would be to call a scalper and pay a small fortune.

“You know,” I say, “you’re a greedy lowlife who has no understanding of the meaning of friendship.” I didn’t want to have to come down on him so hard, but he needs to understand that I feel strongly about this.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” he counters. “Pick me up at the airfield at six.”

“You’re still doing that?” I ask.

“It’s more fun than sex,” he answers.

There’s no logical response for that, so I don’t offer one. Pete earns extra money at Teterboro Airport by taking pictures of people while they are skydiving and selling them the pictures if they make it to the ground alive. They are mostly beginners, out for a fun time, and Pete has been skydiving for many years.

I understand skydiving about as well as I understand Swahili and women, which is to say not at all. People jump out of planes so that they can get to the same ground they were safely on before they boarded the plane in the first place. Why is that exactly?

Of course, they are given equipment that guarantees their safety. Specifically, that equipment consists of a pack of nylon that they open up while hurtling toward the ground at about twelve million miles an hour. Now, I had never realized what an incredibly powerful substance nylon is. For instance, I’ve never heard of prisoners in maximum security prisons trying to cut through their nylon bars in a futile attempt at escape. Nor have I overheard a father at the lions’ exhibit at the zoo telling his frightened son not to worry because the nylon cage provides all the protection they could ever need.

Of course, the nylon is not the last resort. Sky divers also wear a little helmet for protection. Since they don’t wear body armor, if the nylon doesn’t open or hold up, are they supposed to try to land on their heads?

Death-defying acts like this are to me nonsensical. Why would I do them? What is the upside if everything goes perfectly? That I live? I can do that at home on the couch.

I arrive at the airfield just as Pete floats down. He sells his pictures and is in my car by six-fifteen. We’re at Madison Square Garden in less than an hour, first stopping at the will-call window so I can pick up the eight-hundred-dollar courtside tickets left by the good people at Irwin’s Ticket World. We then head for the seats, stopping only so that I can buy Pete a pair of thirty-six-ounce beers, one for each hand.

The first half is a disaster. The Knicks commit fourteen turnovers, are outrebounded on both ends of the floor, and head to the locker room down by sixteen, which represents one point for every hundred dollars I spent on the tickets.

The arena is understandably quiet during halftime, so I try to address the reason I’m here in the first place. “So let’s talk,” I say.

“Now? In the middle of Madison Square Garden? Come on, man, let me enjoy the game. We can go to Charlie’s afterwards and talk all you want.”

“I thought you were tired of Charlie’s.”

He nods. “I was, but I’m over that now.”

The Knicks are down by twenty-seven at the end of the third quarter, which is also when they stop selling beer, so I’m able to get Pete to leave. I start our talk on the way, since I’d just as soon this date not turn into an all-nighter.

“Do you know anything about Tommy Lassiter?” I ask.

He becomes instantly alert, no small feat considering he’s carrying around a bathtub full of beer in his gut. “What have you got to do with him?”

“He murdered Linda Padilla.”

He shakes his head. “He’s a contract killer; the best there is. But he’s not a serial killer.”

“I’m not speculating, Pete. I’m positive.”

“So take the proof that makes you so positive, show it to the judge, and get your case dismissed.”

“I have nothing to show the judge. But there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Tell me how you know,” he says.

“We got one of the prisoners at County to talk. He said Lassiter arranged Randy Clemens’s murder.”

“You got someone to turn on Lassiter?” he asks, not concealing his incredulity.

I nod. “Marcus was persuasive with someone.”

He knows Marcus, so no further explanation is necessary. “So what are you asking me?”

“To help me catch him.”

Pete laughs, not the reaction I was hoping for. “Okay,” he says, “park over there and wait, and I’ll chase him toward you.”

“I’m serious, Pete. This guy keeps killing people; now might be a good time to get him off the streets.”

He’s now controlled himself to just a few chuckles. “Is he currently in the area?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling he might be. I know he was here the nights those people died.”

“Andy, you don’t know if he’s within a thousand miles of here. You have no evidence that he killed those people. What the hell do you want me to do, close the state borders?”

“Isn’t Lassiter already wanted for murder?” I ask.

“Of course. He was born wanted for murder.”

“So I’m a credible source telling you that I have information that he was recently in this area. Isn’t that enough for you to put out an APB or whatever the hell you guys put out?”

“You want me to go to my captain with this?”

I nod. “And tell him that somebody you trust, a goddamned officer of the court, came to you with this. Get him to send his picture out to every cop in the state. And get me a copy of his picture as well.”

“Come on, Andy . . .”

“What’s the downside, Pete? That he’s gone and we don’t find him?”

He nods. “Okay.”

Satisfied with this concession, I bail out of the trip to Charlie’s and drop him off at his house. When I get to my house, it’s almost midnight and Laurie is already in bed.

“Hi,” she says sleepily. “How did it go?”

“He said he’ll do the best he can.”

She smiles. “Good. Come to bed.”

I start to get undressed. “I forgot to tell you. Cindy’s getting married.”

“That’s nice,” she says, though I think she’s more intent on falling back to sleep than hearing what I’m saying.

“She says that when you know, you know.”

“Mmmm” is all she can muster, now almost completely out of it.

“I think she’s right about that. Don’t you?”

“Mmmm.”

I’ll take that as a yes.

• • • • •

CAPTAIN TERRY MILLEN is Tucker’s final witness and the one that ties his case up quite nicely. Millen was in charge of the murder investigation from the early point in which the state police were called in, and he had the most connection to Daniel of anyone in law enforcement.

The physical evidence has already been powerfully introduced, so Tucker will undoubtedly let Millen’s testimony focus on Daniel’s unique knowledge of the murders. His contention is that Daniel knew these things only because he was the killer, while our defense is that the killer was simply communicating the information to Daniel.

Before Millen takes the stand, I lose a heated argument during which I again oppose the introduction of testimony concerning the three other victims and especially photographs of them. This defeat makes it official: We have received no benefit at all from Tucker’s decision to limit the charges to the Padilla murder.

Tucker starts off Millen’s testimony by showing all of those photographs and letting the full impact of their gruesomeness inflame the jury. Daniel tries to obey my instructions to remain as impassive as possible, but I can tell from the look on his face that he is having an emotional reaction to them. I’m sure part of that reaction must be that he is aware the world thinks he is responsible for this carnage.

During a break, Daniel leans over to me. “Can I have copies of your files on the other victims besides Padilla?”

Until now, Daniel has been studying up on the Padilla murder but hasn’t come up with any helpful insights. He hasn’t looked at the other files because he hasn’t been charged with those murders. “Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know, maybe it will jog something in my mind. Some way to prove I couldn’t have been at one of the murders.” He shakes his head. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of other things to do, you know?”

I agree to get him the copies, though I have little hope he’ll come up with anything at this late date.

The break ends, and Tucker again starts to question Millen. “When did you become involved in this case, Captain?”

“After the second murder, Mrs. Simonson. We were called in to consult. It was after the third murder-all we have for her name is Rosalie-that we took over, and I was officially placed in charge.”

“What did the defendant tell you about that murder?”

“He told us that she was murdered in her own apartment, that her hands were cut off, and that her body was left behind a particular Dumpster,” Millen says.

“Did the defendant say how he knew all of this?”

Millen nods. “Yes, he said that the killer phoned him and bragged about it.”

“Did the information turn out to be correct?”

Again Millen nods. “Every word of it.”

“By the way,” Tucker asks, “have there been any more murders of this exact type since the defendant’s arrest?”

“No.”

Tucker takes the next three hours getting Millen to recount every communication he had with Daniel, emphasizing the many facts that Daniel knew about the murders that turned out to be true. By the time he turns Millen over to me, the words “the defendant” and “the killer” seem to be interchangeable.

“Captain Millen,” I begin, “during all these conversations with Mr. Cummings, when he was giving you all this information, did you believe he was communicating with the killer?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “I had my doubts.”

“When you say you had your doubts, do you mean you thought he might have been lying?”

“It certainly crossed my mind.”

“And if you thought he might be lying, but he had all this accurate information, then you must have thought he might have been the killer?”

“That’s correct.”

“Maybe you can help me, Captain. The prosecution turned over copies of their evidence in discovery, but they seem to have left out the surveillance report. Do you have a copy?”

He looks puzzled. “What surveillance is that?”

“The surveillance on Mr. Cummings.”

“To my knowledge, he was not placed under surveillance.”

“I see. So you believed Mr. Cummings was very possibly lying, which means you believed he was very possibly the killer, but you did not have him watched? You had no fear he would murder again?”

Millen is in a box. My guess is, he did not suspect Daniel until the cell phone story proved a lie, and therefore had no reason to have him followed. Claiming now that he doubted Daniel’s story all along makes him look partly responsible for Linda Padilla’s death.

“He was not followed,” Millen says, tight-lipped.

“Why not?” I ask. “You didn’t consider him a potential danger to the public?”

“It’s very easy to look back and judge decisions; hindsight is twenty-twenty. But we were in the middle of an intense investigation . . .”

“So you thought he might be the murderer, but you didn’t have him followed because the investigation was too intense? You operate more efficiently in mellow investigations?”

He doesn’t have a good answer for this, so I ask basically the same question another half dozen times until Tucker objects and Calvin orders me to move on.

“In your dealings with Mr. Cummings, did he seem like an intelligent man?”

“I suppose so,” he says grudgingly.

“Were you familiar with his work as a crime reporter?”

“Somewhat.”

“When you searched his car and apartment, were you surprised that the evidence was right there for you to find it?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore. If the world operated solely by logic, these people wouldn’t have been killed in the first place.”

“So you admit it would be illogical for Mr. Cummings, or any guilty person, to keep the evidence in his apartment like that?”

“Serial killers are not logical people.”

“Are they self-destructive?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do they want to be caught?”

“Often they do.”

“Captain, do you believe my client hit himself in the head in Eastside Park that night?”

“I do.”

“With what?”

Millen reacts, though he certainly had to know this was coming. The police never found anything that could be shown to have hit Daniel’s head.

“I don’t know. He must have gotten rid of it.”

“Where?”

“I can’t be sure,” he says. “We couldn’t test every piece of wood in the entire park.”

“But you tested everything within five hundred yards of the pavilion?”

“We tried to.”

“You tried to?” I say with mocking disbelief. “Any chance you succeeded?”

He stares a dagger at me, but his voice is controlled. “I believe we did.”

“No DNA evidence tying anything to Mr. Cummings?”

“No.”

“So you believe that Mr. Cummings was self-protective enough to hide the incriminating weapon he used to hit himself, but self-destructive enough to leave the severed hands in his car?”

I’ve trapped him in a small corner, and he looks worried. He finally comes up with, “As I said, serial killers are rarely logical. It would be nice if what they did made sense, but it often doesn’t.”

“It would also be nice if your testimony made sense. No further questions.”

My eye contact with Kevin as I head back to the defense table confirms my fears. I made headway, but not nearly enough.

Since this is Tucker’s last witness, Calvin adjourns for the day, giving me until Monday morning to come up with some kind of defense case. As I leave the courtroom, I find myself alongside Eliot Kendall. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in almost a week; I had assumed that his business interests had called him back to Cleveland.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I lie. I’d rather be alone to rehash today’s testimony in my mind, but he asked nicely and I don’t feel like insulting him.

We go down the courtroom steps and start heading toward the parking lot. “I haven’t seen you around for a while,” I say.

He nods. “I was back home. My father died.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Eliot’s father was Byron Kendall, an enormously powerful trucking magnate, possibly a billionaire. If I weren’t so consumed with the trial and oblivious to the world, I probably would have learned about his death from the media.

He nods sadly. “Thank you. He was eighty-four and very sick for years, but it still comes as a shock.”

“Is your mother alive?” I ask.

Another sad shake. “No, she died almost fifteen years ago. What about you? Parents alive?”

“No. My mother died four years ago, my father last year,” I say. “Being an orphan, even a middle-aged one, takes some getting used to.”

He nods, and we don’t say anything for a while, each reflecting on what we have lost. He breaks the silence. “How’s the case going?”

I want to tell him the truth, that his friend is in deep, deep shit, but I don’t. “We’re plugging along,” I say. “It’s a struggle.”

“My investigators have drawn a blank,” he says. “I probably should have hired local rather than bringing guys in from Cleveland.” He grins a wry grin. “We don’t have the home-field advantage here.”

A good idea hits me, a rarity these days. Eliot has been offering his help all along, and I’ve been fending him off, but that’s about to change. “Can you come back to my office?” I ask. “There might be a way you can help after all.”

He practically salivates at the opportunity, and ten minutes later we’re back at my office. I get right to the point. “Have you ever heard the name Tommy Lassiter?”

His expression is blank. “No. Who is he?”

“He’s a professional murderer, a hit man. I have reason to believe that he murdered Linda Padilla and the other women.”

“You know that for sure?”

I nod. “Pretty much.”

“This is great. You want me to have my investigators look for him?”

“No, I’m about to let the media do that. Did you know Daniel’s wife?”

“Margaret? I knew her . . . I mean, not very well . . . but I went out to dinner with her and Daniel a few times.” He looks confused. “Why? What does she have to do with this?”

“It’s important that you keep this in confidence,” I say.

“Of course. Sure.”

“I also have reason to believe that Lassiter murdered Margaret.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“That’s where you come in. Lassiter works for money; if he killed Margaret, he was hired to do it. What I need to know is who might have done the hiring. Who would have wanted her dead and had the money to make it happen.”

Eliot sits down, lost in thought. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think of anybody that might have done that. I’ve always assumed it was a random murder . . . some psychopath.”

“It’s something you could look into, if you’re so inclined. Since it’s on your turf, you’d have home-field advantage.”

He promises to do so and expresses his appreciation for the opportunity. I lead him into the outer office, where Willie and Sondra are waiting for me. Sondra looks gorgeous and is decked out in even more jewelry than the last time I saw her, having added a ruby bracelet to the gold watch and alexandrite locket. I make a mental note to gently suggest to Willie that he slow down on the expensive gifts, though it is certainly none of my business.

I introduce Willie and Sondra to Eliot, who seems to be more interested in staring at Sondra than Willie. I briefly wonder if Eliot would be more or less interested in Sondra if he knew her employment history, then I wonder if Willie is noticing Eliot staring at her. Because if he is, Eliot could soon be skydiving out the window without a helmet or Pete to take his picture.

Just in case, I rush Eliot out the door, then return to them.

“You see that guy staring at Sondra?” Willie asks me.

“Come on, Willie,” Sondra says. “You think everybody is staring at me.”

“Damn right,” he says.

Willie goes on to say that they stopped by to tell me the foundation was going to be closed on Monday and Tuesday, that they were going to head down to Atlantic City for a couple of days of gambling and relaxation.

I’m hit with a sudden wave of envy. I would like to forget Daniel and Tucker and Calvin and Dominic Petrone and especially Lassiter by planting myself at a blackjack table. Nobody’s life would be at stake, and my toughest decision would be whether to stand, draw, or double down.

But I’m not going to go. I’m going to stay here and be miserable. It’s what I do for a living.

But first I’m going to go on television.

• • • • •

THE MEDIA HAVE CALMED down lately, which has resulted in my receiving fewer death threats and crank calls. Unfortunately, the reason that the furor around the case has lessened is that things have been going so well for the prosecution. The public feels secure that Daniel is going to be convicted and put to death, so there’s much less for them to be upset about.

My plan this evening is to shake things up in media land, and I’ve scheduled an interview on CNN. To do so, I simply had to tell them that I was going to be making news, not simply rehashing my view that my client is innocent.

Laurie accompanies me into the city, and we park at a lot near Penn Plaza. The attendant comes over and says, “Forty-one dollars.” I assume he’s making me an offer for the car, but it turns out that’s the flat rate to park for the evening. New York parking lots are a better investment than coffee.

We leave the lot and start walking toward the CNN offices. It’s a typical early evening in Manhattan, with wall-to-wall people on the streets. I’m about half a block from the building when I look slightly toward the right and see something that jolts me.

Tommy Lassiter.

He’s staring at me, smiling, and then suddenly he’s not there, having melted into the crowds.

“Jesus . . . ,” I say, and take a few steps toward where he was standing. A few steps is all I can take because of the masses of people.

“What’s the matter?” Laurie asks.

“I’d swear I just saw Tommy Lassiter.”

“Where?”

I point in the direction, but of course he’s nowhere to be seen. “He just looked at me and smiled and then disappeared.”

“Are you sure it was him?” she asks.

I was sure in the moment, but I’ve never been one to recognize faces, and I’ve never seen Lassiter in person. “I think so. Especially because of the way he looked at me. Like he was taunting me.”

“You’re under a lot of stress, Andy. It may not have been him. What would he have to gain from following you?”

“Maybe to stop my going public with his name. To scare me off. Which would not be that tough to do.”

She shakes her head. “He’s got more effective ways to scare you than smiling.”

She’s right about that, so I try to forget the encounter and we go into the building. About an hour goes by before they are ready for me, and I’m brought into the studio, hooked up with a microphone through my shirt, and we’re ready to go.

The interviewer is Aaron Brown, an intelligent, soft-spoken man who seems to have thrived in cable news despite those qualities. I’ve chosen him because I want my news to be taken seriously, not dismissed as the sensational ramblings of a desperate defense attorney. Even though that’s what it is.

Two minutes into the interview, he comes straight to the point. “I understand that you have something new to reveal tonight.”

I nod. “Yes. I know the identity of the real killer of Linda Padilla, as well as the others.”

He takes this revelation in stride. “And who might that be?”

I reach under the table and get the picture of Lassiter that Pete provided me. I hold it up for the camera. “His name is Tommy Lassiter. He’s a contract killer, a hit man. A very successful one.”

“What do you base this accusation on?”

“A number of sources, some of whom I cannot mention tonight. But one of those sources was Randy Clemens, a former client of mine who was recently killed in prison.” I go on to detail the conversation I had with Randy prior to his death, and the details of that death.

Brown asks me why I am going public with this news, rather than bringing it before the judge and jury.

“Because the people that have confirmed this information to me are afraid to testify. Without any direct evidence, none of this would be admissible. But that is why I am here, to reveal Lassiter’s identity and show his photograph, in the hope that others with information will come forward.”

The interview continues for another ten minutes, and by the time I get outside, other members of the media have created a mob scene in front of the studio. I hold an impromptu press conference, during which I make my pitch again. In answer to a question, I deny that one of my reasons for going public is to have the accusation reach the unsequestered jury. I deny this even though it’s true.

As Laurie and I leave the studio, I’m feeling pretty good about the session and what it accomplished. We walk down Seventh Avenue and then turn onto Thirty-fourth Street toward the parking lot. The streets are far less crowded than they were before, since rush hour is essentially over, but I find myself still looking around warily for another sighting of Tommy Lassiter.

A few steps after making the turn, I hear a slight popping sound and feel an impact in my chest. I hear Laurie give out a short scream, and as I reach for the point of impact, I feel a sticky liquid on my hand. I look down and see that my shirt and hand are a bright red.

I’m not in pain, but rather stunned, and it is this plus dawning fear that sends me to my knees. I can hear the crowd around me on the street yelling, and some people are running for cover. Laurie comes to me to hold me on the ground, and I am literally shaking in fear.

I let her lower me farther to the ground, but I am slowly realizing that I am not hurt. “Oh, my God, Andy. It’s paint,” she says. “It’s paint.” She’s half laughing, half crying. “It’s paint.”

It takes me a moment to realize that my lifeblood is not literally draining from me onto the street. Once I do, I instantly know what has happened. Lassiter has given me a demonstration of his power; obviously, this could have been a bullet, and I would be dead.

“Where is he?” I say, but I know that he is nowhere to be found.

Laurie, no longer worried about me, jumps up and scours the crowd, but Lassiter has melted away. I stand up, feeling some embarrassment, and we don’t wait for the police. We rush to the parking lot, get our car, and head home.

Laurie drives, and I spend the ride trying to reduce my anxiety level. Lassiter was trying to scare me, and on that he more than succeeded. But he was not trying to kill me, merely to demonstrate that he could do so. And his primary goal, I believe, was to have fun, to receive a bizarre diabolical pleasure. Cindy Spodek was right when she said he was insane.

When I get home, I get in the shower and scrub off the paint that has penetrated to my skin. Once I’ve done so, Laurie, Tara, and I watch the reaction to my interview on television. It is all that anyone is talking about, and Lassiter’s picture is everywhere. To my surprise, most of the pundits are not dismissing this as a desperation ploy, but rather taking it seriously. The scene on the street goes unmentioned, as if it never happened.

I slowly start to feel like myself again. I have to admit that I’m enjoying the coverage and feeling pleased at my ability to dominate the news. Laurie seems to tire of it more quickly than I do. “Feel like watching a movie?” she asks at about ten o’clock.

“A movie? You want to watch a movie? We’re watching real life, and you’re sitting here with a real star!”

She nods. “And it’s thrilling, just thrilling. But just for a brief break from all this exciting reality, let’s watch some fake life, with a fake star. Shall we?”

Not waiting for an answer, she searches through the movie channels and settles on Witness, with Harrison Ford. “This should do it,” she says. Tara barks her agreement, and I am officially no longer a part of the evening’s entertainment. And though it’s a great movie, and I watch it with them until the end, Ford cannot begin to match my screen presence.

I wake up at seven in the morning to take Tara for a walk. Laurie stays in bed, and my plan is to join her again when we get back. I negotiate with Tara, and she agrees to cut the walk down to a half hour, providing I buy her a bagel. Little does she know that I was going to buy her one anyway. Chalk one up for human shrewdness.

I try to accomplish all this without fully waking up, and I’m doing pretty well until we approach the house. I am horrified to see Vince Sanders pulling up in front. I briefly consider sneaking in the back and then not answering the doorbell, but if Vince is up this early in the morning, he’s not going to give up that easily.

“Vince, what a pleasant surprise,” I lie.

“You got coffee?”

I nod. “In the house. But I’m not drinking it until after the Olympics.”

He holds up a bag. “Good. I got donuts. And wait’ll you see what else I got.”

I let him in the house. “Laurie here?” he asks.

“Upstairs,” I say. “In bed. Which is exactly where I was going to go.”

“You trying to make me feel bad?”

“Yes.”

He considers this for a moment. “It ain’t working. You know I’ve been doing a lot of research on this. Well, guess what? Walter Castle hated Margaret Cummings.”

It could be because I’m still half-asleep, but it takes me a while to mentally process this information and identify Walter Castle. He is the Cleveland billionaire whose company lost over a hundred million dollars when Linda Padilla identified it as having caused a leukemia cluster. It is the connection I wished I would have had Marcus check out while he was in Cleveland. We have since gone over all of Padilla’s possible enemies, but none, including Castle, jumped out at us.

The fact that he even knew, no less hated, Daniel’s wife is a significant piece of news. “Why did he hate her?” I ask.

Now Vince gets smug, knowing his statement has jolted me from wanting him out of my house to anxiously waiting to hear more. “What happened to that coffee?”

I get Vince the coffee and wait while he downs a donut, not too long a wait, since he does so in one bite. “Margaret had a lot of time on her hands, and she tried to put it to good use. So she was active in a lot of causes, the environment, public health, that kind of thing.”

He inhales another donut, taking his time and relishing the fact that he has the floor. “She was the first one to raise the possibility of a leukemia cluster, and she wouldn’t let go of it. Padilla didn’t get in until much later, which made the story go national. And get this: Daniel wrote a story about it.”

He hands me the story and I skim through it. It’s really just a few paragraphs, obviously early on in the health controversy, recommending that it be thoroughly looked into.

“There’s not that much here,” I say.

“Right. But it was Margaret he hated. Daniel was just backing her up. The whole episode destroyed Walter Castle’s reputation . . . his legacy. So he has Margaret killed and then ruins Daniel. The perfect revenge.”

I’m not nearly as confident as Vince that this is the break we need, but it’s certainly an interesting development requiring and deserving much more investigation.

Laurie comes into the room, still in a bathrobe. “Good morning, Vince, want some granola?”

“Are you crazy? That stuff’ll burn a hole in your stomach.”

She goes into the kitchen and comes out a few moments later with a tasty bowl of granola and skim milk. Vince tells her about the Walter Castle connection, and she thinks it’s worth Marcus going back there to check. I agree, and also think I will put Eliot Kendall’s people on it, since it’s on their turf. I call Eliot on his cell phone, and he is excited about the news. He’s on the way to visit Daniel in the jail, and I give him permission to update Daniel on the developments.

For the next hour and a half, Vince peppers me with questions about Lassiter and whether I’ll be able to get my suspicions about him before a jury. He’s pleased, as I am, about the press coverage my interview has gotten. “You were the only thing on television last night,” he says.

“Not in this house. Laurie and Tara watched Harrison Ford.”

Vince puts his finger down his throat in a gagging gesture, which sends Laurie upstairs to put on a sweat suit for her morning jog. I use this opportunity to get Vince out of the house so I can spend the rest of the day preparing for court on Monday. I have a tradition, which is even more important during football season, to rest the day before I open my case, which is why I want to be free to spend Sunday in front of the television.

• • • • •

IF GOD HAD WANTED humans to communicate, he wouldn’t have invented caller ID. But I’m glad that somebody did, because I love it. It’s not the greatest invention of all time, which is to say it’s not quite up there with the point spread and the remote control, but it’s in that still-wonderful second tier, right alongside the cash machine, satellite TV, and light beer.

Combined with the answering machine, caller ID enables me to permanently avoid anyone I don’t want to talk to on the phone, which is most of the world’s population.

The Giants are playing the Dallas Cowboys today, and nothing short of an earthquake above 7.0 is going to get me off the couch. Certainly, a ringing phone won’t do it, though the phone rings repeatedly during the game. One of those times is when I’m making a hurried trip to the bathroom, and I glance at the caller ID. It’s my office number-no doubt Kevin is spending Sunday working-but I don’t pick it up. If it were President Heather Locklear calling from the White House, I wouldn’t pick it up.

The game is a magnificent rarity: an offensive explosion by the Giants that results in a thirty-point victory. As the fourth quarter begins, the camera starts focusing on an obviously upset Jerry Jones, the Cowboys’ owner, fuming on the sidelines. It’s poetry; I’ve hated Jerry Jones ever since he bought the team and fired longtime coach Tom Landry, though I hated Landry as well. I especially hated Jerry because he brought in Jimmy Johnson and immediately started beating the Giants and winning Super Bowls. Today is sweet revenge, and it tastes best hot.

There are two minutes left in the game, and the Giants are running out the clock, despite my screaming admonitions for them to run up the score even more.

The door opens and Laurie comes in. She doesn’t say anything, simply walks to the TV and turns it off.

I’m stunned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, because I must be wrong. But did you just turn off a Giants-Cowboys game?”

“We’ve got a witness,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“A witness to what?” I ask, but she’s already on the way to the car. I stifle the instinct to turn the game back on, and I follow her out the door.

Laurie tells me that Kevin has been trying to reach me all afternoon but that I haven’t been answering my phone. “I didn’t hear it ringing,” I lie. “Tara must have been barking.”

“Right. That Tara can really bark.”

Kevin is waiting for us in my office with a man, probably in his early forties, wearing sneakers, jeans, and a pullover shirt. The man is drinking a beer, interesting only because I don’t keep any in my office. Either he brought his own, or he sent Kevin out to get him one.

Kevin introduces him as Eddie Gardner, a truck driver who travels the country but whose home base is North Jersey. He turns the floor over to Eddie, so that he can repeat for me what he saw.

“It was September fourteenth,” Eddie begins. “I saw a guy pick up a hooker on Market Street in Passaic.”

I look up at Kevin, who nods at my unspoken question, indicating that September 14 was in fact the night Rosalie was killed.

“What were you doing there?”

He smiles with some embarrassment. “Hey, come on, man. What do you think? I had just come back from a two-week haul-that’s how I remember the date-and I had some extra money . . .”

“So you were there as a customer,” I say, stating the obvious.

He shoots a quick glance at Laurie, then nods. “Right. A customer.”

“Who was the guy you saw?” I ask.

He points to the newspaper on the desk, with Lassiter’s picture on the front page. “Him.”

“What time was it?” I ask.

“About one o’clock in the morning.”

“So you were there to pick up a hooker, but you were looking at the other customers?”

“I notice things,” he says.

“And how is it you noticed him?”

“He pulled up in his car, and usually the girl comes over and gets in the car. That’s how it’s done. But this guy leaves his car running and gets out. Then he walks around, trying to figure out who to take, like he’s out shopping, you know? He picks one, and they go back to his car and pull away. It just seemed weird, so I remembered him.”

“Why didn’t you come forward earlier?” Laurie asks.

“I didn’t see the picture until today,” he says. “And I’m on the road a lot, so I hadn’t known there was a murder that night.”

We question Eddie for a while longer, and when we’re finished, he gives us a number at which he can be reached. He’s willing to testify, even though it will cause him some personal embarrassment.

After he leaves, Laurie speaks first. “I don’t believe him.”

“Why?” says Kevin, his surprised tone revealing that he disagrees.

Laurie shakes her head. “I’m not sure. It just seems too easy, too pat.” She turns to me. “What about you?”

“I’ve got some doubts myself,” I say. “But I can’t be any more specific as to why.”

We talk about it some more, and Laurie takes on the responsibility of checking into Eddie’s background. Absent any significant negative discoveries, we agree that his story is credible enough that we have to put him on the stand.

In terms of the impact on our case, it can be enormous. Eddie provides a way to introduce Lassiter into the courtroom. Our alternate theory will be before the jury and might well create the reasonable doubt necessary to get Daniel off.

I have my doubts about Eddie’s veracity, but on its face his story stands up. As a lawyer, I cannot introduce testimony I know to be false, but I do not have to have an affirmative belief in its truth. That is for the jury to decide after they hear our side of the story.

And starting tomorrow they will.

• • • • •

TUCKER GOES MORE than a little nuts when we meet in Calvin’s chambers before the start of the court day. I can’t blame him: I’ve just announced that we intend to call Eddie Gardner as a surprise witness.

“Your Honor,” says Tucker, “we’ve had the defense witness list for weeks, and the day they are to begin their case we have this bomb dropped on us? It’s outrageous.”

Calvin turns to me, but I put up my hands as if it’s not my fault, which in fact it isn’t. “Your Honor, the witness came to us yesterday, as a result of the publicity from my television appearance Friday night.”

He interrupts me. “An appearance which I am not at all happy about.”

That’s too bad, Calvin, is what I’m thinking. What I say is, “In the last two months Mr. Zachry has been on television more than Oprah Winfrey, and far more than I have. Perhaps Your Honor would like to issue a gag order; the defense would certainly have no objections.” Especially since we’ve already got Lassiter’s picture out to the public.

He lets it drop and gets me to agree that I won’t put Eddie on the stand before tomorrow, an easy concession, since that was my plan anyway. I want to give Laurie a chance to dig further into his background.

I make time to talk with Daniel before court, and he’s more optimistic and excited than he’s been since this started. Eliot told him about the Walter Castle connection, and he’s embarrassed that he hadn’t seen it, but he didn’t know Castle had been a target of Linda Padilla. He considers it very promising, but not nearly as large a cause for celebration as Eddie’s appearance on the scene.

My first witness is Cheryl Kelly, a reporter for Vince’s newspaper who happened to be in Daniel’s office when he got the first call from the killer.

I get her to recount the events, then ask her about Daniel’s reaction. “What did he say when he got off the phone?”

“That somebody just confessed to a murder,” she says. “Told him how it was done and where the body was.”

“Did he seem surprised?”

Tucker objects, but I counter that I am merely asking for the witness’s impressions. Calvin lets her answer. “Yes. But he wasn’t sure he believed it. He said it was probably a crank.”

“Did you at any time think Mr. Cummings was putting on an act, that the call wasn’t real?” I ask.

She shakes her head firmly. “Absolutely not.”

I turn her over to Tucker. “Did you hear a voice on the other end of the phone?” he asks.

“No.”

“Are you and Mr. Cummings very close friends?”

“No, not really. We just work together.”

“Has he ever lied to you?” Tucker asks.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so,” she says. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“So he could be lying and you might not be aware of it?”

Backed into a corner, Cheryl has to admit that she might not be able to tell if Daniel is lying. It’s a nice move by Tucker and partially negates a witness of already modest significance.

The rest of the day is taken up by similar witnesses who spent time with Daniel during the period when he was in contact with the killer. All of them completely believed, and still believe, Daniel’s story.

Tucker takes the same approach with each, which is to demonstrate that they have no certain knowledge that Daniel was telling the truth. He does not spend much time on each, signifying to the jury that he doesn’t consider their testimony very important.

He’s right about that.

Our nightly meeting is devoted to how we will handle Eddie on the witness stand tomorrow. Laurie has checked him out as best she can, though she warns that she had little to go on and little time to dig.

Kevin’s view is that we just let him tell his story, quickly and concisely. I agree, but I’m more concerned with the argument that Tucker will present to Calvin afterward. Our defense view is that Eddie’s testimony opens the door to other testimony about Lassiter, possibly from law enforcement officials. Tucker will say that those witnesses have no specific knowledge of Lassiter’s involvement in this case and therefore should not be permitted to testify. It will be a struggle; Calvin could come down either way. But it’s a fight we have to win.

Eddie seems a little nervous and tentative when he arrives at court in the morning. It’s understandable: He’s about to enter the glare of the national spotlight and talk about the night he went to pick up a hooker. It’s a sign of how little I know about my own witness that I don’t even know if he’s married.

He proves to be a decent witness on direct examination. My questions are straightforward, as are his answers, and he lays out what he saw that night, much as he did in my office. He speaks softly and without much emotion, but his words cause obvious excitement in the jury and gallery.

The defense has thrown its best punch. The battle has been joined.

I turn Eddie over to Tucker, who is trying to look confident despite what he has to consider a major blow to his case.

“Mr. Gardner, you testified that you are a truck driver and that you often drive cross-country. Is that correct?”

Eddie nods. “Yes.”

“How is it you know you were in this area on that particular night?”

“I keep a log for my employer of where I am at all times. It’s how I get paid.”

Tucker nods; this seems reasonable. “And your previous trip ended two days before the night of the murder?”

Eddie nods again. “Right. I got home on the twelfth; the murder was on the fourteenth.”

“At about one A.M.?”

“Right,” agrees Eddie.

Tucker makes some notes, then turns a page on his legal pad. “Are you familiar with the number 201-453-6745?”

“Yes. It’s my cell phone.”

Uh-oh. I don’t like where this is going.

Tucker takes a sheet of paper and gets permission from Calvin to approach the witness. He hands it to Eddie, who looks intently at it, still seeming unworried.

Tucker directs him to two calls made that night, at 12:45 and 12:51. Based on the area codes of the numbers called, they were both in this area.

“Did you make those calls?” Tucker asks.

“I don’t remember,” Eddie says. “I guess so.”

“Does anyone else use your cell phone?”

“No.”

“And it wasn’t stolen?” Tucker asks. “You still have it?”

“Yes.”

Tucker introduces another document into evidence, which he asks Eddie to read. It is an affidavit, signed by a vice president at Eddie’s cell phone company.

Eddie’s voice grows softer as he reads one particular sentence. “The two calls in question were made from within four miles of Camden, New Jersey, more than ninety miles from the city of Passaic.”

A bomb has been dropped in the courtroom, yet when I look around, I don’t see any charred wreckage. All I see are jurors and press and citizens and a judge staring right back at me. Kevin looks like he may throw up on the defense table, and Daniel is somehow able to obey my edict to look impassive. He may just be in a state of shock.

If it weren’t so sad, it would be laughable: Dominic Petrone had promised to help me if I kept his name out of the trial. I did keep his name out, but only because Lassiter’s name was a ready and preferable substitute. Now it seems obvious that Petrone has delivered on his promise by providing me with a witness to support my case. The problem is that the witness is lying, and my case has blown up in my face.

Thanks, Dominic.

Eddie finally gets off the stand, but not before Calvin publicly directs Tucker to pursue perjury charges against him. Calvin then tells Tucker and me to come back for a meeting in his chambers.

Tucker is surprisingly subdued in chambers, though I wouldn’t blame him if he were turning cartwheels. Calvin asks me how this disaster happened, and I tell him the truth, minus my previous conversation with Petrone. Both Calvin and Tucker seem to accept my denial that I knew Eddie was lying when I put him on the stand, and Calvin doesn’t seem inclined to sanction me further.

“I think you’ve probably suffered enough,” he says.

There’s no doubt that I have suffered, but not as much as my client, who I happen to be sure is innocent. There is virtually no chance that the jury will agree with that assessment, not now that his defense has been shown to be lying in front of them.

I make it through the afternoon court session in a semifog. I can only liken it to a team in the last game of the World Series, when the other team scores ten runs in the seventh inning to take a fifteen to nothing lead. The trailing team goes through the motions in the eighth and ninth, but they know the boat has sailed.

Ironically and pathetically, my next witness is a cell phone technology expert, whom I’ve brought in to show that the science is inexact as it relates to the night Linda Padilla died. I make some decent points, but Tucker blows me out of the water with his cross-examination.

“If your technology shows a call was made from Camden, could it actually have been made in North Jersey?”

“No,” says my expert.

Game, set, and match.

Our team meeting tonight is more like a wake, with my body the one on display. It is incredibly frustrating: We know who the guilty party is, but we can’t take advantage of that fact. Worse, we’ve been shown to be liars, which is to say that the jury will not believe anything we tell them for the rest of the trial.

Laurie and I take turns beating ourselves up. She feels she should have done more to check out Eddie, though there really is no way she could have in the time allotted. She would not have access to cell phone records, nor did she have the manpower at Tucker’s disposal.

For my part, I put someone on the stand that I was unsure of. In doing so, I staked the reputation of the defense on his testimony, and it took Tucker less than five minutes to leave that defense in shreds. I blew it, plain and simple.

Kevin tries to make both of us feel better, an impossible task if ever there was one. After a half hour or so he gives up, and turns his efforts toward motivating me to prepare for court tomorrow. It’s not an easy job; I would rather spend tomorrow having my eyeballs plucked.

The phone rings and I jump to get it, anything to not have to think about the mess we are in. I don’t even bother to look at caller ID; which is okay, because Willie’s voice is on the other end.

“Andy? It’s me.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping to be drawn into a long conversation about dog adoptions or coffee futures or anything else not having to do with our case.

“Sondra was attacked,” he says, and I now realize his voice is shaky.

“Is she all right?”

“Yeah, I think so. She says she is. It happened in front of my house.”

“I’ll be right over,” I say, and he doesn’t try to talk me out of it.

I tell Laurie and Kevin what has happened, and Laurie comes with me to Willie’s. Kevin stays behind to go over tomorrow’s witnesses, pathetic though they may be.

Willie still lives in a very run-down area of Paterson. He bought a small house and has done a lot to fix it up. He is wealthy enough to live pretty much anywhere he wants, but feels like he would be a traitor if he left his old neighborhood. I wonder if what has just happened will change his mind, but I doubt it.

Sondra is lying on the couch when we arrive. She seems shaken but not badly hurt. Willie is more upset than I have ever seen him, even when he was on death row.

“Tell me what happened,” I say.

“We got home from Atlantic City about an hour ago. I dropped Sondra off in the front and went to park the car because our garage is filled with stuff. I came back and saw her on the steps, with this guy grabbing her from behind.”

I turn to Sondra, who picks up the story. “I couldn’t find my key, so I was waiting for Willie. The guy grabbed me around my neck; I didn’t see him coming.”

Willie takes over, describing how he ran toward the house screaming and the guy took off. Willie hesitated to make sure Sondra was okay before picking up the chase, which allowed the attacker to get away.

“If I had caught him, I’da killed him.”

I have no doubt Willie would have done just that. “Did he take anything?” I ask. I look at the alexandrite locket still around her neck. “Any jewelry or anything?”

Sondra shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

Willie asks if he needs to call the police, and I say that it would be a good idea. Sondra hadn’t seen her attacker, but at least calling would alert the police to be on the lookout for him in the area.

Willie, mostly because of his past experiences, has a healthy distrust of the police, but he makes the call. He reports that they don’t seem too distressed, but promise to send an officer over to take a statement.

Laurie and I stay around awhile, mainly because I don’t want to go back and deal with the grim realities of court preparation. The doorbell rings and I answer it, fully expecting it to be the police. I am very surprised to see Kevin standing there.

“I didn’t know Willie’s phone number, but I knew where he lived,” Kevin says.

“Sorry,” I say, “I should have called you. Sondra’s fine; just a little shaken up.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Kevin says, and for the first time, I notice he has a weird expression on his face.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. “A woman’s been strangled and her hands were cut off.”

• • • • •

DENISE BANKS HAD been out dancing with friends at the Belmont Club in downtown Paterson, approximately six blocks from Willie’s house. Friends say that she complained of a headache and left the club alone at eleven P.M. Her body was discovered an hour later in an alley fifty feet from her car.

We get this information from television, along with an unconfirmed report that Ms. Banks was strangled and her hands were cut off. If the reports are correct, either the same killer has struck again, or a copycat killer has taken over.

We are all stunned, both because of the murder itself and also because of the strong likelihood that Sondra was almost the victim. It’s certainly possible that there were two attackers in the area around that time, but I don’t believe in coincidences, and I’m not going to start with this one.

We head over to the murder scene, and Willie and Sondra come along. Their report to the police is even more significant now, but in all the turmoil it may take the cops a while to get around to them.

Vince is already on the periphery of the scene when we arrive, though he has no more information than we do. I’m sure he’s upset that a woman has been murdered, but his focus is elsewhere. “You think this will get Daniel off?” he asks, and I deflect the question, mumbling that we’ll have to wait and see exactly what happened.

Laurie says, “I’ll take Willie and Sondra inside.”

I nod. “We’ll be right here.”

She then leads them into the area where the police are concentrated, able to make her way in because she knows most of the officers guarding the periphery.

Vince, Kevin, and I spend the next hour and a half standing in the same spot, waiting for their return. I see a number of people that I know leave the scene, including the coroner, Janet Carlson. She sees me and just shakes her head sadly; it’s another night of exposure to the inhumanity of humans. I wouldn’t do her job for all the money in the world.

Finally, Laurie, Willie, and Sondra come out, and I’m very pleased to see that Pete Stanton is with them.

“Let’s find someplace to talk,” Pete says.

“I know a coffee shop three blocks from here,” says Vince.

Pete shakes his head. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

I’m sure Pete doesn’t want to be seen talking with the enemy, and I don’t blame him. I also don’t want a big crowd for this conversation, but there’s no way we’re going to get rid of Vince. “I think we should help Willie get Sondra back,” I say. “She’s been through enough tonight.”

Willie shakes his head. “I don’t need no help. There ain’t nothing going to hurt her.”

I believe him totally and they head home. The rest of us go back to my house, with Pete taking his own car. I ask Laurie what she has learned, but she explains that everybody was tight-lipped, and she was going to give up when she saw Pete. He was heading out, and he agreed to fill us in.

Pete asks us not to reveal that he spoke with us, since he knows Captain Millen would have a stroke if he found out. Pete also knows that all this information is due to us in discovery anyway, so he is merely giving us a couple hours head start.

“It’s the same killer,” Pete says.

“No chance it’s a copycat?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not according to Janet. She said the angle of the strangulation and the way he cut are identical. She said it’s the same guy; she told Millen while I was there.”

“What did he say?”

“That she shouldn’t jump to conclusions, and should go back and examine the body more carefully.”

“Which she’s doing now?” Laurie asks.

“Yeah. But she told me her opinion won’t change, that there’s no doubt.”

“Anything else we need to know?” I ask.

He nods. “The killer left a note. I think I remember the exact words . . . ‘Only fools kill the messenger.’”

This is another bombshell in a night full of them. “He’s talking about Daniel,” I say. “He had said that Daniel would reveal him to the world. Daniel was his messenger, and he’s telling the cops they are killing the wrong guy.”

Pete leaves, and Kevin and I immediately start to focus on the most effective way to use this information in court. We are both confident that it will be admissible, and we discuss strategy in case Tucker resists. More likely, he’ll see it as a futile effort; he knows as well as I do that every juror must already know about tonight’s events by now.

Laurie and I aren’t in bed until almost three A.M., and we spend some more time reflecting on the amazing turn of events. Today was a true disaster in court, but now I don’t see how we can lose.

“Too bad Denise Banks had to lose,” she says.

This comment jolts me; it’s pathetic how little attention I’ve paid to Denise Banks. I’ve been so caught up in my own situation that a victim of a vicious murder became a piece of a strategic struggle.

Also absent from my thinking has been the fact that the killer is still out there, probably preparing to strike again. Once again his actions defy understanding: Why go to all the trouble of framing Daniel only to commit an act that could get him off the hook days before his certain conviction?

I fully believe that Lassiter is the murderer, but these are not the actions of a dispassionate contract killer. It seems like more of a game, or an ego trip, a taunting way to embarrass the police. A more deadly version of his paint-ball game with me on the Manhattan street.

I’m up at six, refreshed despite getting less than three hours’ sleep. I watch the news as I prepare to go to court, but though it’s far and away the dominant story, there is less-current information than I got from Pete.

At seven I get a call from the court clerk: Calvin is summoning us to his chambers for an early meeting. Laurie takes Tara for her walk, and I pick up Kevin so that we can strategize before our meeting. The way Calvin handles this will decide Daniel’s fate.

“Well, gentlemen, we’ve got some issues to deal with” is how Calvin begins. He invites Tucker to update all of us on the events of last night, and Tucker quickly does so. His version has Janet Carlson less confident that the killer is the same, and neglects to mention the note.

“Did the killer contact anyone?” I ask innocently. “Or maybe leave any kind of message?”

Tucker nods and grudgingly tells us about the note. “You leave anything else out, Mr. Zachry?” Calvin asks with obvious annoyance.

Tucker says that he has not, and goes on to argue that this latest murder should not be presented to the jury, that it could be a copycat and does not change the facts concerning the previous murders.

We are prepared for this argument, but any first-year law student could win it. Kevin gives me a copy of the transcript of Tucker’s direct examination of Captain Millen. I read back to Calvin the exchange during which Tucker asked if any further murders have been committed since Daniel’s arrest.

When I’m finished reading, I drive the point home, though it’s already been made. “Clearly, if the question was proper when the prosecution asked it, it will be proper when I call Millen back to the stand and ask it again.”

Tucker has no answer for this, at least none that Calvin finds remotely persuasive. He asks me whom I plan to call, and I tell him just Millen and Janet Carlson. He decides to delay the start of court until after lunch, to give both of them time to get here.

I use the additional time to talk to Kevin about our final strategy for these witnesses, though it will be a cakewalk. When we’re finished, I realize I haven’t talked to Daniel since all this went down, and I arrange to meet with him in a court anteroom.

The first thing Daniel says when he’s brought in is, “Is it all true? Did he really kill someone else?”

I confirm that it is in fact true and bring him up-to-date on where we stand. He takes it all in, a look of some wonderment on his face. When I finish, he says, “It’s weird: An innocent person dies and it makes our case.” My opinion of him instantly goes up a very large notch; his reaction is exactly what mine should have been.

Understandably, he soon focuses on the trial. “Is there any way we can lose? I mean, there has to be at least reasonable doubt now, doesn’t there?”

I always try to be honest with my clients when I have bad news, so I might as well continue with that approach when the news is good. “Unless we get another surprise, I think Tucker will have to move for a dismissal.”

I call Captain Millen to the stand, and before I start my questioning I have to make sure I’m not salivating. He doesn’t put up any real resistance, answering my questions honestly and dispassionately. He admits his belief that Denise Banks’s killer is the same person who killed Linda Padilla and the other women, though he says he cannot be sure.

Janet Carlson is next, and she puts the finishing touch on a perfect afternoon. She says there is no doubt that one man has done all the killings.

“So if we assume that Mr. Cummings has been in custody for the past three months, would you say there is reasonable doubt that he killed Linda Padilla?”

She looks at the jury as she answers. “I would say there is no doubt whatsoever. Mr. Cummings did not kill Linda Padilla.”

Tucker does not cross-examine and asks for a brief recess. When it’s over, he stands and addresses the court. “Your Honor, I don’t think it’s any secret that the events of last night have cast a new light on this case. It has always been the policy of this state to treat everyone in a fair and impartial manner, and my office conducts this and all cases with that fairness as our primary concern.”

I allow myself a look at Kevin, and his expression confirms my feelings. Tucker is about to give it up.

“With that in mind, Your Honor, we believe that you should order a directed verdict of not guilty, and all charges against Daniel Cummings in this matter should be dismissed.”

There is an uproar in the courtroom, but my feelings, while I’m happy with the result, are unlike any I’ve experienced in my career. We’ve won, a client I believe is innocent is being set free, but I feel I’ve done little to accomplish that fact. Forces outside of my control intervened to provide this victory, and mixed in with my joy and relief is a slight discomfort.

It’s possible that the actual mechanics of the event are causing my reaction. I’m used to the tension and buildup before a verdict; this opposition surrender has a bit of the surreal to it. But it’s happened; I only have to glance at the press section to confirm that.

I look at Daniel, who seems stunned even though I told him this was a very likely result. He stares at me, questioning, and I smile and nod. Only then does his face reflect his joy.

Calvin dismisses the charges and it’s over. Daniel hugs Kevin and me, and Tucker comes over to congratulate us all. It’s a surprisingly gracious gesture from a man who is sure to face some difficult media scrutiny.

Vince comes down to the defense table. He hugs Daniel, then Kevin and me, and I think he’s actually tearful. “Man, you did it,” he says to me. “You did it.”

It’s not true, of course, but I don’t bother to correct him. Someone else did it, last night, by strangling and mutilating Denise Banks.

• • • • •

OUR POST-TRIAL VICTORY celebration is at Charlie’s. It’s a tradition, and as always, we are given a private room in the back. In this case the privacy is more necessary than usual because the press and public somehow became aware of the location, and they’ve shown up en masse.

We limit the party to the core group: Kevin, Laurie, Vince, Daniel, and myself. We are more subdued than usual, possibly because there is no explosion after the tension of waiting for a jury verdict. Relief is etched on Daniel’s face; he claims never to have been so scared in his entire life.

He raises his glass in a toast. “To the best legal team and the best lead lawyer a man could ever have.”

There seems to be no dissent from that opinion, so I’m not about to quibble. I’ve gone from the worst lawyer on the face of the planet for putting Eddie on the stand, to America’s finest legal mind. All because a maniac committed a brutal murder.

The gathering breaks up fairly early, and Daniel gives us each a final hug as we leave. I tell him that we will need to get together to go over my final bill, and he smiles and says, “Anytime. No problem.”

Vince comes up to me and for a moment seems to be readying for a hug himself. At the last moment he veers off, and it becomes a handshake, which is fine with me. “I knew you could do it and you did,” he says. “You did.”

The fact is that I didn’t, but I don’t bother saying that to Vince. Laurie and I head home, and when we’re in bed, she asks, “You okay, Andy?”

“I’m fine. I’m glad it’s over.”

“Are you going to go away?” She’s referring to my traditional post-trial break, where I take Tara and get away for a couple of weeks to decompress.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure I need to.”

“I thought maybe we could go together,” she says. “The three of us.”

“That sounds nice.”

My reaction sounds less enthusiastic than I actually feel about her suggestion, and she picks up on it. “Unless you don’t want to,” she says. “I know you like to be alone.”

“Laurie, getting away with you sounds wonderful. But not for too long. I was thinking under five years.”

She smiles and kisses me, but we wait until morning to tell Tara the good news.

Kevin is in the office in the morning when I arrive. We go over the hours we put in, and prepare a final bill for Daniel. It’s very substantial; Lassiter could have saved Daniel a lot of money by committing another murder a couple of months earlier.

When we’re finished, I call Daniel to set up a meeting to go over the charges. He’s not yet back working at the paper, so he asks if we can meet at his house at six P.M., which is fine with me.

Kevin and I haven’t really had a chance to discuss the sudden ending to the case, and I can tell he shares my rather disoriented feeling about it. He’s more of a legal purist than I am and is very uncomfortable with the fact that the determining event of the trial happened in a back alley in downtown Paterson.

No matter what angle we look at things from, the actions of Lassiter make no sense. He went to huge trouble to frame Daniel for the murders, only to save him when his efforts were about to be rewarded. Even more puzzling is Lassiter’s motive for the entire murder spree: Could someone be paying him to do this? And if so, why? Is it simply that he is insane?

Kevin thinks that Lassiter is a psychopath who gets off on making fools of the police and is unconcerned about how many people must die to make that happen. The fact is that the only way we are going to get any of these answers is if Lassiter gets caught, and hopefully, that will be accomplished before other women are killed.

I head home and take Tara for a long walk in the park. Laurie and I have decided to rent a house on Long Beach Island for a couple of weeks, and Tara seems fine with that. Tara and I have been there a number of times; it is beautiful and peaceful, especially outside the summer season.

I leave a note for Laurie, suggesting that we have dinner at Charlie’s after my meeting with Daniel. I then drive over to Daniel’s house, which is in a very expensive, heavily wooded section of Englewood Cliffs.

As I pull up to the house, I can see Daniel looking out at me through his front window and smiling. He is dressed casually and seems the picture of comfort, a far cry from the agony of confinement behind bars.

Moments later the front door opens, and he comes out on his porch to greet me. As I walk toward his house, I hear what seems like a small clap of thunder from behind me and to the right. I turn but don’t see anything, then look back toward the porch.

Daniel is still standing there, but he no longer has a face. It has been replaced by a bloody mask, and I watch, transfixed, as he slowly topples over onto a small table and then to the floor.

It takes my mind a split second to process what has happened, and I realize that a shot must have been fired from the wooded area behind me and across the street. I dive behind Daniel’s car, parked in his driveway, and try to peer into the trees. It’s getting dark, but I doubt that I would be able to see anyone even if it were broad daylight.

In my panic I briefly consider trying to make it to those woods, in the hope of at least getting a look at the shooter, but it seems futile. If he has taken off, he’s had plenty of time by now, and I won’t be able to catch him. If he’s still there, I’ll be a sitting duck and his next victim. My logical decision to stay put does not have to overcome any latent heroic streak residing inside me, so I stick with it.

It is unlikely anyone in this sparsely populated area saw or heard anything, so I am going to have to make the next move, whatever that move might be. Staying low and under cover as best I can, I make it to the porch to check on Daniel’s condition. It doesn’t take a physician to know that he is dead; it is one of the most horrible sights I have ever seen.

The door to the house remains open, and I decide to go inside to get out of the possible line of fire. I make a break for the door and half dive, half trip into the foyer, sprawling on my stomach. It’s not pretty, but unfortunately, no one around is alive to see it.

I find a portable phone and call 911, reporting the crime and making sure they alert Captain Millen. As I do this, I occasionally peek out the front window, though there is no sign of the shooter. Clearly, Daniel was the sole target; if the killer wanted to get two for the price of one, I was an open target as I approached the house.

The next thought to enter my stressed-out mind is that Vince must be told that his son is dead. I consider the possible ways to do this, and none seem right. I don’t want him to hear it from the media or from the police, and it doesn’t feel right to tell him over the phone, certainly not from here.

Instead, I call Laurie, and fortunately, she hasn’t gone to Charlie’s yet. “Laurie, it’s me. Something terrible has happened.”

I go on to describe my situation, and I’m not two sentences in before she’s yelling at me to “stay down.” I tell her that the shooter has gone, that there’s no longer anything to worry about, but she keeps saying it, until I sit down on the floor to continue the conversation.

I bring up the subject of Vince, and she immediately says, “I’ll tell him.” I mention that Vince is usually still in his office at this time of day, but she cuts me off, telling me not to worry. “I’ll find him and I’ll tell him,” she says. “You just be careful. And call me as soon as the police get there.”

At that moment sirens can be heard in the background, so I peek out the window. “They’re here. Thanks.”

By the time I get outside, the street is filled with police cars, ambulances, and every flashing light in New Jersey. Patrolmen, with guns drawn, approach the house and order me to lie down with my hands outstretched. I let them search me, all the while identifying myself and telling them that I’m the one who called 911. In answer to their questions, I describe how this happened and where I think the shot came from.

I’m brought back into the house and led into a den near the back. As I go, I see medics rushing to attend to Daniel. If they can do something for him, we’ve made greater strides in medicine than I was aware of.

Two patrolmen sit in the den with me, but neither asks me any questions. My guess is that Millen has sent instructions that he wants to be the first to question me. It’s a good guess, because Millen arrives five minutes later, with two other detectives.

I describe what happened in my own words, then answer a number of questions from Millen designed to bring out more detail. He’s good at it; he gets more out of me than I realized I knew. Nothing earth-shattering, but maybe it will be helpful to him.

My assumption is that this was Lassiter, finishing up a deadly game with Daniel that I’ve never understood. I tell this to Millen, and rather than blowing me off, he seems to consider it. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe some looney-tune citizen thought justice wasn’t done in court and figured he’d take care of it himself.”

I write out a detailed statement and sign it, promising to make myself available to Millen. He tells me I’m free to go, and when I stand up, I’m surprised and a little embarrassed to find that my legs are shaky. This has been a rough night.

I go outside, and it’s still just as much of a madhouse as before. I start to walk to where I left my car when I see Laurie and Vince, standing next to a police car. I instinctively look to where Daniel had been lying on the porch and am glad his body has been removed. I hope it was done before Vince got here.

I walk over to them and put my arm on Vince’s shoulder. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Vince.”

He just nods, and Laurie hugs me as hard as I’ve ever been hugged. “Are you okay, Andy?” she asks.

I confirm that I am, after which Vince starts asking me questions, probably as many as Millen did. Laurie makes eye contact with me, and this time I know we’re thinking the same thing: Vince is trying to attack this problem logically, trying to immerse himself in the effort to catch the killer, so that he will not have to deal with the emotion.

I patiently answer every question Vince has, until the crowd is starting to thin out and there’s just no reason to stay there anymore. I ask him if he wants to come to my house and stay with Laurie and me, but he doesn’t.

He wants to be someplace where he feels comfortable, but no such place exists.

• • • • •

THE CROWD AT DANIEL’S funeral could fill Madison Square Garden. Vince asks Laurie and me to sit up front with him, so it’s not until it’s over that I get a full appreciation for the size of the crowd. Daniel had a lot of friends, though the overwhelming majority of the attendees are there because of Vince. Vince knows everybody and everybody knows Vince, and it’s apparent today that they like him as well.

Vince sits stoically throughout the service, much as he’s been the last three days. Laurie and I are worried about him, but all we can do is watch him try to deal with this nightmare as best he can.

Vince invites about a dozen people back to his house afterward, and Laurie views this as a healthy sign. She and I are included in the group, and she has the foresight to call ahead and order some platters of food to be delivered there when we arrive. It’s not something Vince thought of, and he’s grateful for her thoughtfulness.

There do not seem to have been any developments in the search for Lassiter, and as I sit at Vince’s, my mind wanders back to the circumstances leading up to Daniel’s murder. There’s got to be an answer to the question of why Lassiter would get Daniel off his legal hook only to gun him down. Hatred is not the likely motivation; it’s fair to say that Daniel would have suffered more if the state had put him to death after years of miserable confinement on death row.

Vince’s boss, Philip Brisker, comes over and sits down with Laurie and me. Philip is in his early seventies and has been publisher of the paper since taking over from his father twenty years ago. The paper has been in the Brisker family for as long as I can remember, and that family has been well respected for a lot longer than that.

Philip wants to discuss our mutual concern for Vince. He thinks it would be good for Vince to come back to the paper sooner rather than later, and Laurie and I agree. I say that I’ll talk to Vince and gently suggest it but that he needs to do what feels right for him.

“It’s ironic,” Philip says, “all that time, with all everybody went through . . . for it to end like this. You win your case, and then . . .”

He doesn’t finish his thought, but I wouldn’t know if he did because my mind is racing. I’m realizing why I won my case and why Daniel lost his life.

Laurie and I stay for a short while longer and then say our goodbyes to Vince. I drop Laurie off at home, though she wants to stay with me.

Where I’m going I have to go alone.

I arrive at Dominic Petrone’s house at about five in the afternoon. I have no idea if he is at home, but I didn’t think calling ahead would be possible or productive. I could have had Vince arrange the meeting, since Vince knows Petrone along with everyone else, but I didn’t want him to know about it.

I pull up to the gate that we went through the night Driver and Gorilla brought Marcus and me here. Once again three enormous men are on duty, though I don’t recognize them as having been there that night. It doesn’t matter; any one of them could handle me quite easily.

“Yeah?” says one of them when I open my window.

“I want to see Dominic Petrone,” I say.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Andy Carpenter.”

He picks up the phone and calls in, reacting with some surprise a few moments later when he gets an apparently positive response. “Park behind the house and wait,” he says, and the gate opens.

I park where I’m told, and in less than a minute Driver and Gorilla come out to meet me. “This brings back a lot of memories, doesn’t it?” I say as Gorilla frisks me. They don’t answer, but then again I don’t expect them to.

I’m brought into the same room as on my previous visit, except this time Dominic is not there when I enter. Gorilla, Driver, and I sit and wait for almost twenty minutes, without a word being spoken. It’s not the most comfortable twenty minutes I’ve ever spent.

Dominic enters and comes over to shake my hand, ever the gentleman. “Andy, sorry to keep you waiting. You should have told me you were coming.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I didn’t figure things out until about an hour ago.”

He seems amused. “Is that right?”

I nod. “Dominic, I just want you to confirm what I believe. We both know there’s nothing I can do about it legally, so I give you my word it won’t leave this room. I just have to know for sure.”

He sits down at his desk. “I’m listening.”

I lay it out for him. “You came to believe that Daniel had Linda Padilla killed, and maybe he did . . . I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. You wanted him dead, but you had promised me your help if I kept your name out of the trial. When I did so, you sent me Eddie as a witness, but that blew up in my face. To make good on your promise, you made sure I won my case by having another murder committed.”

“Andy . . . ,” he says, but I’m almost finished, so I continue.

“Once I had my victory, you got your revenge on Daniel for Linda Padilla’s death.”

He shakes his head in apparent sadness and looks at Driver, who mimics the shake. “Andy, you believe I would have an innocent woman murdered for no other reason than to let you win your case?”

I nod. “I do.”

“You are entirely wrong. About everything. I would not and did not have that woman murdered, I doubt very much that your client had anything to do with Linda’s death, and I did not have him killed. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, and immediately regret it.

“You flatter yourself,” he says. “You are not important enough to lie to.”

“Then tell me the truth. All of it. Please.”

He considers this for a few moments, then, “I’ll tell you what I know and what I believe. And if any of it is spoken outside this room, you will long for a death as quick and painless as your client’s.”

There isn’t much to say to that, so I just wait.

“Tommy Lassiter killed Linda and the other women. I believe he was out for revenge against your client, which is why he framed him. I also believe he shot and killed him.”

“So Linda Padilla was randomly picked like the others? She was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

He shakes his head. “No, she was killed because Lassiter knew how much I valued her friendship. He killed her to hurt me . . . to show he could.”

I understand this completely; he also shot me with the paint ball on the street simply to show he could. But there is much I don’t understand. “Why would Lassiter commit that other murder, the one that got Daniel set free?”

Dominic shrugs. “I have no idea. He’s not the most stable of men.”

“And why would he want revenge against Daniel?”

“Daniel,” he says, pronouncing the name with distaste, “hired Lassiter to kill his wife and make it appear as if someone else committed the murder. The man Lassiter framed turned out to have an alibi that Lassiter failed to anticipate, and the case fell apart. Daniel was dissatisfied and withheld some of the payment.” He shakes his head. “Not a smart thing to do.”

My mind is spinning, a fairly common occurrence these days. I believe Dominic; he would have no reason to lie to me. He is saying that my client, Daniel, was a murderer all along, though he was not guilty of the crime for which he was on trial. He arranged for the murder of his wife in a business transaction and then was stupid enough to renege when it came time to pay up.

The more I think about it, the more incredulous I get. “Lassiter killed five women, strangled them and cut off their hands, to get revenge against someone who didn’t pay him enough money? That’s what this was all about? Money?”

Dominic smiles a slight smile. “That’s all it’s ever about.”

• • • • •

LOGIC TAKES A BUM RAP. It is the way I live my life. I probably ask myself the question “Is it logical?” more often than I ask, “Is it right?” Because logic is almost always right, and as far as I’m concerned, it should be the primary basis for human behavior.

Yet I am often told that I am “too logical” by people who don’t understand that there is no such thing. Those people worship emotion and passion, and that’s fine. Their mistake is in thinking that such feelings are inconsistent with logic, when in fact they should be using logic to drive that fire within them. If you’re desperately, passionately in love with a woman, you don’t win her over by picking your nose. It wouldn’t be logical.

I guess that’s one of the reasons I’m so disconcerted by what I’ve been through these past few months. I’ve been trying to apply logic in order to figure it out, when all along it’s been a madman calling the shots. People have been literally dying all around me while I have been figuratively hunched over my desk, trying to apply logical theorems to the work of a vicious psycho.

Lassiter was angry because Daniel reneged on a deal, and he wanted revenge. So far it makes sense. But then he went out and killed five women and got Daniel on and off a legal hook, before killing Daniel himself. Why go to all that trouble? Why not just go out and kill Daniel in the first place? There is just no logical answer.

It’s been three days since my conversation with Dominic Petrone. I’ve shared what he said with Laurie, and while she couldn’t provide any real insight as to Lassiter’s behavior, she was less surprised by it. I suppose that comes from her years on the police force, during which she dealt with an unending list of villainous screwballs.

I also told Pete Stanton about the Petrone conversation. I value his advice, and I can trust him to keep it to himself. He was so interested to hear what I had to say that he didn’t make me take him to an expensive restaurant to say it.

I call Vince every day, but he’s still pretty much in a fog. He’s not ready to go back to the newspaper and says he doubts whether he ever will. I know it’s going to take him time to bounce back, and I’m frustrated that I’m powerless to speed up the process.

I’ve decided against sharing Petrone’s revelations with Vince. I know he has a right to know, but right now I just can’t see myself telling him that his son murdered his daughter-in-law. Maybe I’m looking for an excuse, but I know he wouldn’t believe it anyway; he would assume that Petrone had some reason to lie. Since he knows Petrone, he also might confront him about it, thus demonstrating that I revealed what Petrone told me, despite his warning not to. It could result in my untimely and very painful death, which would complicate matters greatly.

I haven’t been in the office since Daniel’s death; what little productive time I’ve spent has been at the foundation. There’s something comforting about taking care of those dogs. They absolutely need me to provide food and shelter and comfort and life, and I know exactly how to provide them. It’s all very logical.

I’ve also gotten to spend a lot more time with Tara, which is always good. We go on extended walks in the park, just like the one we’re on now. Tara seems to appreciate the world more than I do; each bend in the path provides new sights and especially smells that captivate her. I both admire and envy this.

We are passing the Little League fields, a place that holds countless pleasant memories for me, when my cell phone rings. It is an unwelcome intrusion, and I’m sorry I brought it with me. I see on the caller ID display that it is Vince calling.

His voice is crisper, more alert, and his message is to the point. “They found Tommy Lassiter.”

I’m very pleased to hear this, but my primary reaction is surprise. I had become convinced that Lassiter would never get caught, and I also assumed he was long out of this area.

“Where was he?” I ask.

“In a motel on Route 4.”

“Is he talking?”

“I doubt it,” Vince says. “He’s been dead for three days. Shot in the head. The maid saw the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, but the place started to stink, so she decided to disturb.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Someone who knew him . . . he was having a beer and eating a sandwich. Somebody else’s beer was there also, but Lassiter’s was mixed with a drug to knock him out. The coroner thinks he was unconscious when he took the bullet.”

“So it had to be someone he trusted,” I say.

“Damn straight,” says Vince. “If Lassiter thought he was in danger, a marine division couldn’t have killed him.”

What Vince is saying makes sense, but I still think Petrone was behind it. “It’s got to be Petrone,” I say, since Petrone had said to me that if he found Lassiter, we’d be “talking about him in the past tense.”

Vince shrugs. “I don’t care who did it. I’m just glad it got done.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Vince. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m getting there. You up for Charlie’s later? There’s a college game on.”

Laurie and I were planning to spend a quiet night at home, but I know she’d want to support getting Vince back into the world. This news about Lassiter seems to have given him a lift, and I don’t want to do anything to discourage it. “Sounds great. Okay if I bring a date?”

“Only if it’s Laurie.”

We meet at seven-thirty, and by seven-forty-five the table is covered with burgers, french fries, and beer. The game is on ESPN 2; it’s Boise State versus Fresno State. The NCAA claims to be against gambling, yet they don’t complain when ESPN buys a game like this for national broadcast. Do they think there’s a single person east of Idaho who would be interested in Boise State-Fresno State if they weren’t betting on it?

I take Boise State minus seven points. For the entire first quarter, Vince is yelling at the bartender to adjust the color, refusing to believe me when I tell him that the football field in Boise is actually blue. My mind is filled with interesting tidbits of knowledge like that.

Boise is up twenty-one at the half when Pete Stanton comes in. He tells the bartender he’s going to run a tab, but the tab he’s talking about is mine.

“I knew I’d find you losers here,” he says, then turns to Laurie. “Female company excepted.”

Laurie smiles. “Exception noted.”

“What’s the score?” Pete asks.

“Twenty-eight-seven, Boise,” I say.

“Who’d you take?”

“Boise.”

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “Money goes to money.”

Like most of his comments, I let this one slide off my wealthy back. “Anything new on Petrone?”

He nods. “Yeah, the word on the street is he didn’t hit Lassiter. He wanted to, but somebody beat him to it.”

“You believe that?” I ask.

“Yup. The people who told me would know one way or the other. And the word is that it had to be somebody Lassiter trusted. Also, the gun was a Luger. Not the Petrone group’s weapon of choice.”

“So who could it have been?” I ask.

“Come on, you want a list of the people that would want to see Lassiter iced?”

“I’d be at the top of that list,” says Vince.

Pete frowns. “You’re not confessing, are you, Vince? ’Cause I’m off duty.”

“Nah. But if I had a clean shot at him, I’d have taken it.”

I’m getting that disconcerting, “where the hell is the logic?” feeling again, and Laurie picks up on it. “Let it go, Andy,” she says. “You’re out of it now.”

But even if I wanted to drop it, Vince doesn’t. “If someone else killed Lassiter besides Petrone, you think that person could have killed Daniel as well?”

I shake my head. “No, I think it was Lassiter that shot Daniel.”

“Why?” Vince asks. “I still don’t see what he had against him. I mean, to frame him like that and then kill him . . .”

I don’t know what the indoor record is for quick, embarrassed eye contact, but Pete, Laurie, and I are certainly smashing it. The three of us know about Petrone’s accusations against Daniel, but we’ve left Vince in the dark. Right now that doesn’t feel right, and Laurie seems to agree. Her slight nod tells me she thinks we should come clean with Vince.

“Vince, there’s something I’ve got to tell you, something Dominic Petrone said.”

“What?” asks Vince, and he literally prepares himself for a bombshell by gripping the table with his hands.

“He said that Daniel hired Lassiter to kill Margaret and then reneged on the payment. That’s why Lassiter did what he did; he was getting revenge on Daniel.”

“He’s full of shit.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, made without thought. A defense of his son.

“I didn’t say he was right,” I say. “I just thought you had a right to know.”

“He’s wrong,” Vince says.

“Of course he is,” says Laurie.

“Did he say why he thought so?” Vince asks.

“No. But he didn’t say it’s what he thought. He said it’s what he knew.”

Vince takes a drink from his bottle of beer but finds it empty. He looks around for the waitress. “Whose ass do you have to kiss to get a beer around here?” It’s Vince’s way of ending this part of the discussion, and it’s fine with me.

I signal to the waitress that she should bring beers for everyone. Telling a man his son is a murderer is thirsty work.

• • • • •

ANOTHER LONG-STANDING tradition goes down the drain. And in this case, the drain is where it belongs.

For as long as I can remember, at the conclusion of every major case I’ve had, I take Tara and head down to Long Beach Island, where I rent a house and spend two weeks decompressing. It seems like I’ve done this for twenty years, but I realize that it’s actually only seven years since I rescued Tara from the animal shelter.

This time Laurie has come with us, and while I haven’t discussed it with Tara, I can’t believe we didn’t bring her along before. It’s really quite remarkable; Laurie is all plus, no minus. By that I mean that she is great company, terrific to talk to, and I love having her around. At the same time, there are no negatives; she doesn’t intrude, doesn’t make me feel like I have to entertain her or be anything other than myself. When I want to be alone, I can be alone, either literally or just with my thoughts.

And since Tara has twice as many hands petting and giving biscuits to her, I suspect she agrees with me.

At the ten-day mark, I’m trying to figure how to add another week onto the trip. And maybe another decade after that. A phone call from Willie puts an end to such fantasies.

“When are you coming home?” he asks.

“Why?” I evade. “Any problems at the foundation?”

“Nope. We’re doing great. I just wanted to know if you’d be home by Saturday.”

“I will if you need me,” I say.

“Good. I need you.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Sondra and I are getting married Saturday night. You’re the best man.”

“That’s a real honor, Willie. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Laurie walks into the room at that moment. “And neither would Laurie.”

“Good,” Willie says. “’Cause she’s the best woman.” I hear Sondra’s voice correcting him in the background, so he corrects himself. “Maid of something.”

“Maid of honor,” I say.

“Right.”

Willie goes on to tell us the location of the wedding, an Italian restaurant/pizzeria in Paterson. He’s negotiated a private room in the back. I would venture to say that Willie is the wealthiest person ever to get married in a pizzeria, but I think it has a certain panache.

I hang up the phone and turn to Laurie. “Willie and Sondra are getting married Saturday night. We are the best man and maid of honor, respectively.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says.

For a woman who thinks that every marriage is “wonderful,” Laurie makes surprisingly little effort to have one of her own. “Jealous?” I ask, casting my bait and hook into the water.

“For sure,” she says. “I’ve had my eye on Willie for a long time.”

We stay at the house until Saturday morning, trying to make the vacation last as long as possible. Just before we leave, I take Tara for a walk on the beach, a departure tradition that I want to continue. I throw a tennis ball into the water, and she dives in after it, oblivious to the cold and the oncoming waves. It is an act of absolute joy, and I want to watch her do it for years to come.

Weddings for me are high on the list of things that I dread attending. They’re generally fancy and boring, and the fancier they are, the more boring they are. I particularly hate “black-tie affairs,” which is one of the reasons why Willie and Sondra’s wedding is so much fun. It’s not fancy, not boring, and very much a no-tie affair.

The ceremony is nondenominational and relatively brief. Willie and Sondra take their vows, kiss, and the fifty or so guests raise their beer bottles in salute. We are all led into another room, where huge bowls of pasta are on the tables, and buffet tables are set up with every kind of pizza imaginable.

As best man, I am called upon to make a toast after dinner. I’m not at my best in situations like this, but I do the best I can. I toast Willie and Sondra as two wonderful people who have turned their lives around and who deserve each other, and I speak of Willie as a cherished partner and friend.

I’m not much for dancing, so Laurie must find other partners to satisfy her apparent need for public gyration. Fortunately, Vince loses all inhibitions after his fifth beer, so he is able to more than fill in ably for me.

It is while they are dancing that Willie comes over to me and sits down. “Man, I know you don’t like to hear this, but I owe everything to you. Everything.”

“Who said I don’t like to hear it?”

Willie never likes to talk about his time on death row, and we don’t do so now. But we do talk about the other things that have happened since, the money, the foundation, new friends, and finding Sondra.

“It’s weird,” he says, “all these things happenin’, one after another.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I say. “They’re happening because of who you are and the way you’re living your life.”

“You always say that.”

“What?”

“That you don’t believe in coincidences.”

“That’s because I don’t,” I say.

“Well, I’ve got one for you. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” His tone is uncharacteristically serious, maybe a little worried.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“In just a few months, Sondra almost got murdered twice.”

His words hit me right between the eyes. Sondra was shot and then almost strangled. I never connected the two; they seemed like isolated events. Coincidences.

“Maybe you should move out of this neighborhood,” I say, but the words have a hollow, foolish ring to them. It may even be a sign of a bias I didn’t know I had: This is a poor, mostly black neighborhood, so attempted murders are not such earthshaking events. If it happened in wealthy suburbia, they would be forming commissions to investigate it.

“Maybe,” he says, but he doesn’t sound any more convinced than I am.

“And with all the expensive jewelry you’re buying her, it makes her more of a target,” I say, grasping at more straws.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Add everything up, I ain’t spent a thousand bucks. Sondra thinks I’m cheap.”

“Come on, Willie, it’s none of my business, but that locket alone is worth ten thousand. It didn’t fall off a truck, did it?”

His look is one of pure amazement. “Ten thousand? Are you kiddin’ me? For that thing around her neck?”

“What did you pay?”

“I didn’t. It was her friend’s . . . Rosalie. It was in her stuff. Sondra wears it all the time . . . it’s kind of a good-luck charm.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Rosalie, the . . . girl that was working with Sondra, she had an alexandrite locket?”

Willie calls out to Sondra, sitting across the room, and asks her to come over, which she does. She’s wearing the locket, and Willie points to it. “That was Rosalie’s, right?”

Sondra reacts defensively, her hand covering the locket. “Yes . . . it was hers . . . I didn’t know anyone to give it to.” Some defiance creeps into her voice. “I think she would have wanted me to have it.”

“Can I see it?” I ask.

She takes it off and hands it to me. I’m not an expert, but I have no doubt that it’s real. “Rosalie had this in her apartment?” The apartment was ransacked after the murder; it would take a stupid criminal to leave this behind.

“No, we shared a safe-deposit box. All the girls had them. The guys that would come around . . . let’s just say we didn’t trust them that much.”

I nod, and hold up the locket. “Did she have anything else like this?” I ask.

“No, not really. Just some old clothes . . .” She points to the locket. “Is it worth anything?”

“Ten grand,” says Willie, and Sondra makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

“Oh, my God . . . ten thousand dollars,” she says, then points to the locket. “It opens. There’s a picture inside.”

She shows me how to open it, and there is in fact a picture of a quite attractive woman, maybe fifty years old. The woman is well dressed and seems to be wearing the same locket, or one just like it. In the background is a stately Victorian house; it does not take a genius to figure out that this is a wealthy woman. “Do you know who this is?” I ask.

Sondra shrugs. “She sort of looks like Rosalie, so I just figured it was her mother or grandmother.”

“Can I borrow this for a few days?” I ask.

“Sure. No problem.”

On the way home I relate the story to Laurie, who doesn’t see it as so remarkable. “Most of these kids don’t start out on the street, Andy. Some of them come from upscale families, and if they run away, they could take a piece of those families with them.”

“But Randy Clemens said it was all about ‘the rich one’ and that the others were ‘window dressing.’ We all just assumed it was Linda Padilla. What if it was Rosalie? What if she was the real target, and Linda Padilla and the others were killed to cover up that fact?”

“So we need to find out who Rosalie was,” she says. “Without prints, that’s going to be tough. Dental records don’t help unless you know who it might be, so you can get them and compare. They-”

I interrupt her, slapping the steering wheel in my excitement. “Maybe that’s why he cut off her hands! Laurie, this guy was out there committing these psycho murders, but he didn’t fit the profile of a psycho. There was no passion, no sexual molestation. He was cold and calculating, but cutting off the hands didn’t fit in with that. Now it does! Maybe he was cutting off the hands so we wouldn’t be able to identify Rosalie.”

Laurie asks me if I have any idea at all who Rosalie might be, and though I do, I’m still so unsure that I don’t want to voice it yet. Instead, I pick up the phone and call Kevin, Vince, and Sam Willis and give them each an assignment. I ask them to come to my house at four P.M. tomorrow with whatever they find out.

In the morning, I’m going to call Cindy Spodek and ask her a key question. Other than that, I’m going to just wait until four P.M. and try to relax. Because if I’m right, that’s when the shit is going to start hitting the fan.

• • • • •

I BELIEVE THAT ROSALIE was Eliot Kendall’s missing sister. Eliot had said his sister had never been found, but I think he was lying and that he had learned where she was. I also believe he hired Lassiter to kill her, and to kill the others as a way of deflecting attention.

I have to wait until four P.M. to find out if I’m right. It’s like waiting for a jury verdict. People are going to march in and tell me whether or not Eliot Kendall is guilty of murder. They won’t be doing it as part of a decision they’ve reached, but rather with the information they’ve spent the day gathering. But I feel just as powerless as when I’m waiting for a jury verdict: The final result is in the hands of others.

By three-thirty Kevin, Sam, and Vince have arrived. Only Vince hasn’t brought the answers with him; they are being dug out of the Cleveland newspaper archives and being faxed directly to me. Laurie puts out food and drinks, and we begin.

Sam has done his usual amazing job of digging information out of that bewildering world inhabited by computers and the geeks that run them. He has come up with a copy of the recently deceased Byron Kendall’s will, which is part of the public record because it involved a significant transfer of ownership of Kendall Industries, a publicly traded company. Byron, whose wife, Cynthia, died eight years ago, split his entire fortune evenly between his two children, Eliot and Tina. It notes that Tina has been missing for seven years and that if she is not found within three more years, she is to be considered deceased for the purpose of the document. In that case, Eliot would become the sole heir. As best as Sam can tell from his computer snooping, the total value of the estate is six hundred million dollars.