Rough Justice

The mother's brow knitted. "He said that? To you?"

"Yes, he told me Eb gave him money."

"Dennell don't have money."

"Isn't it possible that Heb gave Dennell money?"

"No. I never saw a dime of it."

"But Dennell told me about street money. Did you know about that?"

"Street money?" the mother scoffed. "You don't know if Dennell was for real or not."

"Does Dennell lie?"

The mother didn't reply.

"I didn't think so," Judy said, and the mother looked at her hard.

* * *

The window in the children's crowded bedroom was insulated with Saran Wrap and Scotch tape, and Dennell's skinny bed sat underneath the peeling windowsill. The little boy squinted sleepily against the sudden brightness from a ceiling fixture of old, frosted glass. "Momma?" the boy murmured without opening his eyes.

"Dennell, wake up and talk to me a minute, baby." The mother stroked his head as he lay against a pillow covered with Star Wars characters. "There's a lady here to ask you some questions."

"I'm the lady with the skis," Judy said softly, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Remember me, Dennell?"

The boy's eyes remained closed, and his mother shook him gently by the shoulder. He wore a thick Sesame Street sweatshirt; the bedroom was cold despite a space heater whose two squiggly coils glowed orange in the far corner, near a bookshelf cluttered with battered board games, paperback books, and cassette tapes. The two older sons shared a double bed and one son was wide awake as the other slept. It was the oldest one who was awake, and Judy judged him to be about fifteen. He wore a bright red T-shirt that said CHICAGO BULLS. "Whas' up, Ma?" he asked.

"None of your business, Rasheed. Go back to sleep."

Rasheed quieted but stayed propped up in bed next to his somnolent brother, watching the odd scene. His face was long and handsome with strong features and dark, smallish eyes. Tacked on the wall above the bed were posters of Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and Dennis Rodman's hair.

"Dennell," said the mother, shaking the boy only reluctantly. Dennell dozed on.

Judy considered giving up, but it was too important. Somebody had tried to kill Mary and she had to get to the bottom of it. She had a rapport with this boy, and the police wouldn't. Something was telling her it had to be done tonight. Now. "Dennell," Judy called. "Remember we played with the skis?"

The child cracked an eye. "The skis?"

Judy inched up on the bed beside Dennell's mother. "I slid the ski to you. We played, remember?"

Both large eyes flew suddenly open. "You said it's not a toy!" he said in the loud voice Judy recalled.

"Well, it isn't."

"I fink it is!"

Rasheed snorted. " 'Think.' You got to say 'think.' "

"Fink!" Dennell repeated.

Rasheed shook his smooth head. "He can't say 'th.' "

"Shhh," said their mother, waving Rasheed off and turning back to Dennell. "Baby, you know a man named Eb Darning?"

Dennell nodded. His round eyes rolled from his mother to Judy and back again. He had eyelashes so long they curled up at the end, like a baby camel's.

"He give you money?"

Dennell nodded again, and his mother groaned. "What you do with this money, boy?"

"Did I do bad?"

Rasheed propped himself up higher on his elbows, his expression as intent as Michael Jordan's. "Don't lie, D."

"I ain't lyin'!" Dennell shouted, and his mother patted his leg.

"Settle down now," she said. "Don't be shoutin'. How much money?"

"I don't know. Two. Ten." Dennell shrugged, his tiny shoulders lost in the sweatshirt. "Ten."

"Ten dollars?"

"Yes. Ten."

"Where's this money now?"

Dennell blinked but said nothing.

"He ain't got no money," Rasheed said, and Judy glanced over. Rasheed looked uneasy. You didn't have to be a mother to know what was going on, and the mother turned from her youngest to her oldest.

"Rasheed. You know something 'bout this money?" Rasheed shook his head, and his mother stood up and put her hands on her hips. "Young man, you look me right in the eye and tell me you don't know what this baby's talkin' about."

"Ma—"

"You heard me. You look at me and lie to me. Don't be a sneak."

Rasheed flopped backward on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling. "I ain't a sneak."

"Nothin' I hate worse than a sneak. A sneak's not goin' anywhere in this world. No how. No way. Now you tell me."

Rasheed sighed. "The man give him money and shit."

"Watch your language. Now, what money?"

"Dollar bills."

"How many? Ten?"

"More," Rasheed said to the ceiling.

The mother folded her arms. "Where's this money now?"

"I got it."

"Get it, boy."

Rasheed sighed theatrically, tore off the covers, and swung his large feet out of bed. He started explaining as soon as he hit the thin rug. "It's my money, straight up. Dennell give it to me."

"Get it," his mother said.

"He can have it, Momma," Dennell said helpfully, but was ignored.

Rasheed strode to his closet in his oversized T-shirt and Champion sweatshorts. He was tall and thin, with wiry calf muscles knotted in long legs. He slid the closet door aside on a broken runner and reached in the messy closet to the top shelf. "I was saving it."

"You were keepin' a secret."

"I was savin'. You're always sayin', 'Save, save, save.' " Rasheed shoved a shoe box aside, revealing another tucked way back. It said ADIDAS on the hidden box. "I was savin' in case I didn't get those sneakers for my birthday. The Air Jordans."

His mother looked pained and her body sagged with resignation. "You know I can't get you those sneakers, Rasheed. They're a hundred dollars. I don't have that kind of money, boy."

"I know it, that's why I'm savin'. To get 'em myself."

"You can't get 'em yourself!"

"Yes, I can. You're always sayin', 'Try, try, try.' 'Save, save, save.' Now I'm doin' both and you're rip-shit."

"Rasheed, that's enough. Why didn't you tell me about the money?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

Judy watched in silence. She felt like an intruder, but was thrilled that her search was leading somewhere. She held her breath as Rasheed grabbed the shoe box from the shelf, plopped it on the bed, and lited off the lid. Dennell sat up and tried to peek in the shoe box, and his mother peered inside. "God help me," she said in a hushed tone, and Judy looked in the box.

A thick roll of money nestled in the corner of the shoe box, coiled like a snake. There was a twenty-dollar bill on the outside, but Judy had no way of knowing how much was on the inside. Where had all that come from? Underneath the money was a bright white notebook, and it caught Judy's eye. She was dying to know what it was. "Rasheed," Judy asked, "is the white notebook yours or did that come from Darning, too?"

"He gave it to ME!" Dennell chirped up, sitting cross-legged on his bed. "He tol' me to keep it. So it don't get stole."

"Can I see it?" Judy asked, and Rasheed handed it to her. She opened the notebook. Its pages were filled with lists of numbers written in pencil. What did the numbers mean? Was the handwriting Darning's?

"There must be a hundred dollars here," the mother said, astonished as she plucked the money roll from the box and flipped through it.

"Only eighty-two," Rasheed corrected.

"Only eighty-two?" she repeated, shocked. "You took eighty-two dollars from a man on the street?"

"I didn't, Dennell did."

"He don't know better, you do," she shot back as her surprise turned to anger. "You don't take money from nobody on the street! You don't take money from nobody. You know what they want for their eighty-two dollars, boy?"

Rasheed looked down. "The man didn't want nothin'."

"I work for my money, son. So will you."

"I work. I was gonna shovel—"

"You're damn right you're gonna shovel! You'll shovel all winter, for free. I'll loan you out. Then you'll remember. You don't take money from nobody. And you don't keep secrets from me."

"What was I supposed to do? Tell you?"

"Yes, tell me." Veins bulged in her slender neck. "Tell me, so we could give it right back."

"Give it back?" Rasheed started to laugh. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes, I am. Watch this!" Suddenly the mother peeled a twenty from the roll, ripped it in two, and threw the pieces into the air.

"Mom!" Rasheed shouted. "What are you doing?" He scrambled for the money as the pieces sailed to the bed and landed on his brother, who, incredibly, remained asleep. "Stop!" Rasheed pleaded, but his mother was already ripping up another bill, then another, and the one after that, throwing them into the air, setting the pieces flying around the shabby bedroom like snowflakes.

"You think I'm crazy?" she grunted to tear a stack of ones. "This is what I'll do if I ever, ever catch you taking money again!"

Dennell clapped in delight at his mother's adventure while Rasheed scurried to fetch the money falling to the carpet. The mother kept tearing until all the bills were gone and the room a blizzard of cash. "Get the point, boy?" she shouted, her expression grim and satisfied.

"Wha?" asked the middle son, waking up. He rubbed his eyes in bewilderment as money floated around his bedroom. "Is this a dream?"

The mother laughed, and Judy did, too. But Judy's smile was because of what she had in her hand. Eb Darning's notebook.

40

Marta shined her flashlight through the snowy cyclone fence at the LBI Marina, where Steere's bills had showed he docked his boat. The marina was tucked in a harbor on the bay side of the island, ringed by shuttered summer homes and protected from the brunt of the snowstorm at sea. Next to the fence sat a flat-topped wooden building, apparently a small office. On its wall was a faded JET SKI RENTALS sign. A frayed basketball hoop fluttered in the breeze.

Marta poked her fingers through the fence and leaned closer to get a better look. Snow fell steadily, but the bay was calmer than the ocean and rippled with choppy whitecaps that washed onto the docks at the ends. There were no boats in the water, which looked frozen in spots. Wooden slips covered with snow jutted into the empty water. Next to them stood a tall boat lift with a canvas sling. The marina was vacant, deserted, and dark except for a boxy security light on the outside of the office. Where were the boats?

Marta cast the flashlight through the snow flurries to her right, behind a covered section of the fence. Boats stood on dry land, in racks. There were motorboats and sailboats, their decks and awnings blanketed with snow. Marta estimated thirty hulking white outlines in the boatyard but didn't know if any of them were the Piratical. She had no idea what Steere's boat looked like even when it wasn't covered with snow. She'd have to get inside the marina to read the names.

Marta tucked the flashlight into her pocket and squinted up at the fence in the snow. It was tall, about eight feet high, and she tried to remember the last time she had climbed anything. The memories came back only reluctantly, they had been so long buried. She'd climbed oak trees in the woods, and rail fences. Onto a pony, bareback; even into her father's lap. Marta used to be a tomboy before she became a lawyer, a grown-up version of a hellion anyway. If she had to climb, she could climb.

She hoisted herself up and tried to wedge the tip of her boot into the cyclone fencing. Her boot was too large. Marta kicked the fence, driving her toe in. The fence jingled and shook. Snow tumbled onto her head. She brushed it off, pulled up her hood, and began to scale the slippery fence. Her parka weighed her down; her snowpants felt clumsy. She almost lost a boot but she made it halfway up and kept plugging.

When Marta reached the top she was panting. She threw a puffy leg over the bar and stopped to catch her breath. Wind gusted through her hair, freezing her ears. She blinked against the snow as she looked around her. No alarm began clanging and the marina wasn't ritzy enough to have a silent alarm. Marta felt safe.

Then she fell off the fence. The flashlight slipped out of one pocket and the pritchel slipped out of the other.

Marta replaced both without comment and lay for a minute in a snowdrift beside the fence. The pile of snow wasn't as soft as advertised, and Marta's body ached. She wiggled her arms and legs, taking inventory. Her head hurt but she couldn't remember when it hadn't. So far she had survived a car accident, a killer, a fall, and psychotherapy. Marta was beginning to think she was invincible, if not entirely professional.

She got up and brushed herself off. The dock was slippery, covered with snow, as were the empty boat slips. They looked like five capital I's facing her. Marta grabbed the handrail because she wasn't sure where the dock ended and the water began. She tramped over to the large boatyard in the snow, flicked on her flashlight, and began reading the names of the boats on the racks.

Free 'n' Easy, Skipperdee, Weekend Folly. The names were legible in the blowing snow because the letters were so big. The wind whistled off the bay as she read. My Girl, Showboat, Slip and Fall. The boats were all out of New Jersey, but none of them was Steere's. Marta hurried to the next rack.

Our Keough. Molly's Deal. Semicolon, but no Piratical. She bit her lip. Steere's boat had to be here; Marta had seen the docking bills. There'd been no other bill that showed Steere paid anybody to move his boat, or that he'd put in a claim for its loss. It was here and she would find it and whatever was hidden on it. Papers, a clue, whatever.

Rate's Bait. Huggybear. Amazing Paul. Some of the boats were registered in Maryland and a couple were from points north: Camden, Maine, and Marblehead, Massachusetts. Marta squatted on her haunches and read the last line of names. It was dark on the far side of the marina, less protected from the sea. Saltwater lashed the fiberglass hulls, and Marta turned her face to avoid a drenching. Mandessa, Ebony, and Go Below. She reached the end of the row of boats and stood up. Where was the Piratical? How could Steere hide a boat?

Marta looked around. Next to the marina's office, close to the water's edge, was a cinderblock building large enough to house boats. Maybe Piratical was inside. She hurried to the building. She reached it and shone the flashlight through its garage doors, pressing her nose against the cold glass like a kid at an aquarium.

It was dark in the building and there were no security lights. Marta squinted, her nose a refrigerated pancake. She could make out vague outlines of more boats on racks, but there was no way she could read the names from here. She had to get inside. She eyeballed the panes of glass. They were large enough. Marta drew back her rubber boot and with a technique only a lawyer could envy, drove her toe through the brittle glass. It cracked with a tinkling sound and she kicked until she had broken the pane completely, then squeezed through the jagged frame and scrambled onto the floor inside.

The floor was paved cement, dry except where pools of water had leaked under the door. Marta grabbed the flashlight and stood up among the glass shards. She dusted off quickly, leaving a tiny pile of snow behind Pigpen. It was quiet inside and it felt good to be out of the snowstorm, sheltered and protected. Just her and Jail Bait, Bet Thrice, and Ain't Nobody's Business. Where was Piratical?

Marta cast the flashlight around the warehouse. Its roof was of a corrugated metal and its steel reinforcing showed. The air smelled musty, and the building had the windless, still cold of a large, unheated space. It was full of boats, maybe owned by those with the money for indoor storage. She headed for the boat racks.

Marta hustled up the aisle, shining the flashlight on the boat names. First Edition, No Nonsense, SSCP. She rose on tiptoe, craning her neck to see the highest racks. Philly Boy, Compuboat, Hi-De-Ho. They sounded like a racing form, with name after stupid name. A grisly Sucker Punch. A boozy Mai Tai Time. The intellectual Einstein's Dream and its dinghy Feinstein's Dream.

Marta sloshed with dripping boots down row after row and read twenty more boat names, none worth repeating. She went down the aisles with the flashlight as fast as she could, left to right, bottom to top. The garage was silent except for the squeak of her boots as she turned. Finally the jumpy circle of light fell on Piratical. Marta almost dropped the flashlight.

* * *

The Piratical was a sleek motorboat and looked larger than its twenty-four feet because it was up on a rack. It was painted a bright white and made a huge wedge in the row, like a generous slice of birthday cake. It sat on the bottom rack, probably because it was the heaviest. There was a shiny gray outboard motor mounted next to the boat's stairs. Marta climbed aboard excitedly.

The boat's upper deck had a large sitting area shaped like a horseshoe, and elevated from the general seating was a padded driver's seat behind a steering wheel; the helm, Marta guessed it would be called, though she knew nothing about boats. She stood by the helm, taking it all in as it fell under the flashlight beam. She was learning fast.

In front of the helm was a compass with a clear plastic bubble over it. Marta could see through it to a floating red needle. Every surface on the Piratical was neat and clean everywhere she looked. There was something strange about it, though; Marta couldn't quite put her finger on it. She stood, puzzling, then checked her watch. Almost three o'clock in the morning. In a few hours the jury would reconvene. Marta had to hurry. She flicked the flashlight around the helm, but there was no place to hide anything.

Wait. There. On the left near the floor was a storage compartment. Marta squatted and opened the recessed cabinet. Papers! She pulled them out so she could see them better. A blue pamphlet that said THIS IS YOUR BOATING HANDBOOK and a packet of waterproof maps of New Jersey and the Chesapeake. A black Boating Almanac. Fuck! Maybe there was something stuck in its pages?

Marta flipped through the almanac, accidentally cracking its spine. Ouch. She loved books and never cracked their spines. But this time, it told her something. No one had read this book. She looked again at the maps. They were neat and unwrinkled in the flashlight's beam. None of these references had been consulted. The boat was clean. Marta wondered if the Piratical had ever been used.

She straightened up and scrutinized the boat next to Piratical for comparison, Atta Boy. Its cup holders were lined with dirt and its driver's seat was worn, with a worn pillow at the helm. The coiled yellow wire in Atta Boy's storage was dirty, but in Piratical it was spotless.

Piratical had never been used. Sailed, driven, whatever. Had Steere bought the boat and never used it? Why? Did it mean anything?

Marta had to keep searching. She stepped over the maps and went down the couple of steps to the living quarters below. It was dark and she ran her fingers against the wall until she found a switch. The cabin was cleaner than a hotel room and smelled like a new car. A sink and microwave were to the left; a tiny refrigerator sat under a sparkling counter. Marta opened the refrigerator door, but it was empty and its racks hadn't been put in. Its vinyl odor confirmed her suspicions. Never used. Did it matter?

She crossed to the eating area, which had a blue-striped seat around an oval Formica table. Shipshape and untouched. It didn't make sense. Why buy a boat if you hate the sea? Why buy it and never use it? Marta sensed she was looking at a $40,000 file cabinet. Something was here. She would find it. She was getting close. She had to be.

She went into the living area and feverishly upended all the seat cushions. There was nothing. Behind the living area was a sleeping area in a matching fabric. She turned over all the cushions and clawed at the rug sections underneath to see if any would reveal some sort of hidden compartment. She found nothing.

Marta thought a minute. There had to be an engine, right? The boat didn't run on baking soda. She remembered the gray outboard Evinrude she'd seen and hurried to the top deck. If there was an engine, it had to be up there somewhere.

She aimed the flashlight at the deck. On the white floor in front of the seating area were two aluminum handles. She swept the maps aside with her hand and yanked on the handle. The deck of the seating area opened up and underneath was a square-cut hole. A light went on automatically inside the hole and Marta set the flashlight on the deck.

VOLVO PENTA was written on the black engine, which looked like a car engine. She knelt down and felt around. There was no grease anywhere and no glop built up on what looked like a battery. The Piratical had never even been turned on. Turned over, who cared. Marta felt around in the engine and the other black things there. God knew what they were, but it didn't matter. They weren't hiding the papers she wanted.

She let the lid slam closed, plopped onto the deck, and picked up her flashlight, flicking it around aimlessly. The circle of light jitterbugged over books, maps, and the spotless deck. Marta had to be missing something. She wasn't thinking clearly. Something had to be here, or all was lost.

She unzipped her jacket with a sigh and stretched out her legs like a stuffed teddy bear. Ice from her boot dripped onto one of the maps, and she watched the water drop. Drip. Drip. Wetting the map. Marta was suddenly too tired to figure or plan. To search or break in. She watched the water drip onto the map. It was a nice boat. Piratical. A pirate's boat. A map. A map.

Marta sat bolt upright.

A treasure map? Could it be? She leaned over and grabbed the wet map. FIGHT POLLUTION TO KEEP YOUR WATERWAYS CLEAN! proclaimed the top map. Marta unfolded it with excitement. Pirates. A map. The treasure. The boat's never being used. It all made sense. The Piratical was a logical place to store a map. A hiding place under everybody's nose, yet almost impossible to find. The boat was in inside storage so the map wouldn't get wet.

LITTLE EGG HARBOR TO CAPE MAY. Marta squinted as she read the map. The Atlantic Ocean was at the top in white and there were numbers everywhere. 24, 27, 37. Marta had no experience with nautical maps and guessed they were depths of the sea floor. It was land she was interested in, on a hunch that a man who hated the sea wouldn't bury something under it, even if he could.

Marta's eyes traveled the shoreline on the map. How like Steere. He was in real estate. His true love was land. It had made him his fortune, now it kept his secrets. And judging from his boat's name, Steere thought of himself as a pirate. That meant the treasure would be buried on land, near the beach house Steere loved. Marta just sensed it.

She scanned the map left to right, looking for Long Beach Island. Ocean City, Sea Isle City, Seven Mile Beach. Where was Long Beach Island? She flipped the map over. There. At the left of the map it said Long Beach Island, over a tan length of land. The towns were Beach Haven and Holgate, then the island ended. It was the southern tip. Where was Barnegat Light? Marta wanted the north.

She threw the map aside and searched through the other maps. Maryland, Virginia, the Chesapeake. Nautical maps for waterways Steere would never sail. Decoys for the real map. She picked up NAUTICAL CHART 12324. SANDY HOOK TO LITTLE EGG HARBOR. Marta unfolded it and spread it out on the deck of the cruiser. It took up most of the floor.

On the map, two skinny strips of tan beach came from either side to meet in the center, like the claws of a hard-shell crab. At the center was the bulb that was Barnegat Light, and Marta traced with her finger where Steere's house must be. She saw the lighthouse she had spotted in the distance, then the stretch of dunes, but there was no X for buried treasure. Was it too much to ask? A little help now and then?

Marta peered at the map under the flashlight's beam, looking around the Barnegat Light area for a pen or pencil mark. Any kind of sign that would show where Steere had buried something. She saw nothing. She bent closer, her nose almost an inch from the map. Still nothing. She even thought back to what she knew the beachfront looked like. She couldn't remember a marker or sign. It was a normal beachfront.

Fuck. Marta sat back up on her haunches. It had to be here. She was running out of time. Maybe it was the way she was looking at the map. She held it up close to her face and shined the light on it.

Suddenly something flashed in her peripheral vision. A little lick of light. What was that? Marta held the flashlight and looked over the top of map as she shined it. A tiny dot of light appeared on the deck of the boat. What? How?

She squinted behind the map. A minuscule tunnel of yellow pierced the map and came out the other side. It was right near Steere's house, on the shore. Marta followed the light beam back to the map. There was the smallest of pinholes in the map. The flashlight's beam shone through like a break in the clouds.

Marta flipped the map over and touched the pinhole gently. It felt softly ragged, a tiny pinprick. This was it. It couldn't have been a mistake or coincidence. Marta had found the X, at least as much of an X as Steere would give. Her heart thudded with anticipation.

She flipped the map over again. The pinhole was about a centimeter from the shoreline. She looked at the scale. 1:40,000 nautical miles. There was something called statute miles, and yards. Not much of an X, but it was all she had. Marta would have to calculate the spot's location. It was either that or dig up New Jersey.

41

Jen Pressman had managed to escape the mayor and was finally in a car. A municipal-issue Crown Victoria, it had no snow tires, and she had to drive slowly on the city streets. Broad Street and Philadelphia's other main arteries had been plowed once, but it was slow going once she left them. Jen couldn't drive fast anyway. The migraine was teasing her and she still felt sick to her stomach. Bright snow bombarded her eyes and her vision went in and out of focus. The Imitrex was keeping her migraine at bay, but intense pain lingered at the edges of her brain like a stage villain waiting in the wings.

Jen reached the expressway with difficulty. There was no traffic on the road because of the mayor's ban. If a cop tried to stop her, she'd flash her City Hall ID and he'd let her pass. The job had catapulted Jen's career into another zone entirely. If the mayor won reelection, she'd wait a decent interval to quit, then sell herself as a partner to the law firm with the highest bid. She'd hired most of the mayor's staff, which would come in handy when she came back to lobby on a client's behalf. The beauty part was that it worked even if the mayor lost the election. Either way, she was covered. Like Switzerland.

Jen fed the car more gas. Her headlights made two bright tunnels down the snowy highway. Streetlights and snow seared into her brain. The white spots at the back of her head burned whiter and brighter. Jen considered pulling over but she couldn't. It was so damn late. If she stopped now she'd fall asleep in the car and maybe freeze by the roadside.

The car floated sideways toward the cement median, so Jen backed off the gas. Snow flew at her windshield, each flake a dot that grew bigger as it got closer. It reminded Jen of a foul ball that hit her at a Phillies game, as she sat with the city solicitor's staff behind third base. Jen had seen the ball as it flew, spinning in an are right toward her, its red stitching going round and round. She had put her hands up too late to catch it. The hard ball hit her finger and bent it back, fracturing it. She had to sign a release saying she wouldn't sue the stadium or the city. The city solicitor had laughed her ass off.

Jen stared out the windshield as she drove. It was getting harder and harder to see. The snow blew hard as balls being thrown at her. Hundreds of them, then thousands. Jen had been dodging them her whole life, in secret. Trying to drive between them, trying to get beyond them.

The car barreled ahead in the snow. Whiteness was everywhere, on the windshield and the road, covering buildings beside the expressway. There was no other car in sight or any form of life. It seemed so bright even though it was night. Jen fumbled for her sunglasses in the console but they weren't there. It wasn't her regular car since she hadn't been able to find her purse with her car keys. She'd had to borrow another car from the municipal car pool.

Suddenly there was hot white light at the back of her eyeballs. Behind her eyes, in the center of her brain. Her headache flared into brightness and flames. Jen blinked to clear her vision but all she saw was a hot, molten core. She hit the brakes but the car kept moving straight, then sideways. She couldn't see anything but white hot light. The car rolled over and over until it smashed into the concrete median. Jen felt nothing but agony, saw nothing but light. And in the split second before she died, she felt released.

42

Judy was trying to concentrate on Darning's white notebook, but anxiety kept getting the best of her. Would Mary be all right? She picked at the bandage on her hand. Who shot Mary and why? Would they be coming after her next?

Judy glanced around her empty apartment for the twentieth time. It was quiet except for the plastic clicking of her Kit-Kat clock as its round eyes darted this way and that. Snow fell steadily outside. There was no traffic noise or sirens. Judy felt like she was the only person awake in the city. Except for the killer.

She shifted on a stool at the kitchen counter and shivered despite her thick gray sweatsuit and sweat socks. Judy's apartment was three floors up and there was a buzzer system downstairs. It was a large apartment painted a soft ivory, with a galley kitchen off a large living room, where a foldout canvas futon sat against a wall in front of an Ikea coffee table. Pungent odors of turpentine and acrylics wafted from a bedroom converted to a painting studio. A red mountain bike and colorful loops of rock-climbing rope occupied the space under the two front windows. The articles reassured Judy that she was safe and at home. Secure.

She bent over Darning's white notebook and tucked a strand of stray blond hair into a wide black headband. The notebook had a spiral at the top and was a typical assignment book, like a student might keep. A math student, that is. The notebook contained only numbers, written in pencil. They were recorded single-spaced on the skinny lines in a double column:

Judy counted the numbers on the first page. About thirty-six. She flipped through the book and estimated it held about 110 pages. So how many numbers were there in the book? 36 × 110. Oh-oh. Judy's calculations fizzled as they traveled her brain's circuitry. An attack of math anxiety. Judy told herself it was all society's fault, but that didn't make her add, subtract, or multiply any better. Long division was out of the question and caused ovarian cramps.

She retrieved a pencil from a jar of paintbrushes and palette knives. She scribbled the problem on a piece of scrap paper, bit her lip, and stumbled to a solution. About 3,960 numbers. But what did they mean? Judy stared at the lists. It was a nightmare— a mathphobe analyzing a notebook of numbers. She forced herself to think despite the disability imposed upon her by sexists and Republicans.

39203930. The number was too long to be a house or phone number. It couldn't be a Social Security number because they were nine digits. Judy paused. Eb Darning had been a banker; maybe they were bank account numbers. She grabbed her purse from the counter, found her checkbook, and opened it. At the bottom of her Sierra Club checks were some blubby black symbols, then 289403726, then more symbols, and after that 0 384 273. The seven-digit number was her account number. Judy had to look at it every time she endorsed a check for deposit because she couldn't remember numbers. It didn't look like the eight-digit numbers in Darning's notebook.

She hovered in thought over the notebook. Different banks had different systems. Maybe Darning's bank had a different way of numbering accounts. But that would mean the white notebook dated from when he worked in the bank, in the sixties. Judy examined the notebook. Couldn't be. It didn't look that old. Its pages weren't curled or frayed at the edges. She guessed the notebook was three or four years old. Not carbon dating, but accurate enough.

So what did the numbers mean? They had to mean something, didn't they? Darning was comfortable with numbers. With money. Judy thought a second. Maybe they were serial numbers from bills. She went through her wallet and pulled out the cash inside. Three one-dollar bills with Kelly green serial numbers. B12892443E. F40155765E. L34522346G. She dug deeper and fished out a twenty. B38-803945C.

Judy was intrigued. The serial numbers on the bills were eight digits, like the numbers in the notebook. But the serial numbers had letters at either end and the numbers in Darning's notebook didn't. Damn. What could they be? What would a certain serial number mean anyway? Counterfeiting? Bribes? Judy had nothing to go on and didn't think they were serial numbers anyway.

She pushed the bills aside and picked up the notebook. Darning had written the numbers with a purposeful hand, not scribbled or messy. They almost looked as if they were copied from somewhere. Where? Darning had given the notebook to a little boy, Dennell. Why? Did Darning know Steere was going to kill him? Did Steere kill Darning for the notebook? Judy kept thinking of the eighty dollars in the shoe box. Where had Darning gotten it? Blackmail? Did the notebook have anything to do with it?

Judy had no answers so she went to the refrigerator. Her best ideas came to her while she stood in front of her Amana, and she believed it was the freon fumes. She breathed deeply. Still no answers. She grabbed the milk carton, popped the cardboard spout, and took a slug.

Judy closed the fridge and glanced at the black Kit-Kat clock. Usually it made her smile, but not tonight. Tonight it meant she was getting nowhere, struggling to multiply while her best friend was fighting for her life. Judy looked at the telephone and considered calling the hospital again. She'd called ten minutes ago and they'd told her Mary was in intensive care after surgery. There would be no new news.

Judy popped a chocolate chip cookie into her mouth from a crinkled Chips Ahoy bag on the counter. Her thoughts returned to Marta. The TV news had reported she'd been missing for hours. Judy felt a twinge. She considered telling the cops about the notebook, but they wouldn't do anything about it tonight in this weather. Besides, Judy sensed Marta was alive. She remembered the endless demands Marta had made during the Steere case. People like Marta survived. It was the people around them who succumbed.

Still, where was Marta? What had she learned about Steere? Judy stopped her munching and reflected how dopey she'd been to fall for that lie about the D.A. Marta must have learned that Steere killed Darning, but she couldn't figure out why either. Judy sensed they were working on answering the same questions right now. Where could Marta be? Could she make sense of these numbers?

Judy's confused gaze met those of the man in a glossy print thumbtacked to the wall over the kitchen counter, Cézanne's Self-Portrait in a White Cap. She had bought the print at the art museum because she liked the look in the painter's eyes. They were brown as chocolate-covered almonds, and Cézanne's short, layered brushstrokes projected assurance and solidity. When Judy had stood close to Cézanne's paintings at the show, she could see the thickness of the paint and how the artist had waited for one layer to dry before applying the next. Waiting and painting, reworking and recombining the pigments. So different from her favorite artist, Van Gogh. Cézanne knew what he wanted to do but unlike Van Gogh it came from his head, not his heart.

There was a lesson in it. Judy had to disengage her heart and start using her head. Forget about her math anxiety and Mary and Marta and figure this puzzle out. Solve it. She looked anew at the first page of the book just as the doorbell rang. Startled, she turned toward the sound, her pencil poised. Who could it be? Judy felt edgy again.

She dropped her pencil and eased off the kitchen stool, away from the apartment door. On the way she grabbed her portable phone from its cradle, ready to dial 911. Would the police answer on a night like this? Would anybody? She slid a carving knife from the butcher block.

The bell rang again from downstairs. Judy wasn't sure what to do. She wasn't buzzing anybody in blind. There was no intercom downstairs, her building being older. Judy tiptoed to the window and peered at the street from behind the snowy sill.

43

Assistant District Attorney Tom Moran's life had become a living hell. Torture without rest, suffering without relief. Constant screaming and crying pierced his eardrums. He hadn't slept all night and was sweating like a beer bottle in summer, so stifling was the tiny rowhouse in East Falls. His mother-in-law had cranked up the heat because it was the first night his daughters were home from the hospital. Ashley and Brittany Moran. Twins.

Holy Mary, Mother of God. His mother-in-law, in her quilted robe, held the newborn Brittany, whose agonized screams filled the living room. His mother, in her flannel nightgown, held the newborn Ashley, whose agonized screams filled the dining room. Wandering between the two rooms in pajamas, like lost souls in purgatory, were his tipsy father-in-law, who peaked as a high school quarterback for Cardinal Dougherty, and his angry father, who couldn't be in the same room with his mother since their divorce. Satan was present in the form of his sister-in-law, who allegedly came to "help" for the night and brought her three little devils. God only knew where his wife Marie was.

"Tom! Tom! We need two receiving blankets in the living room! They're in the nursery!"

Tom ran to fetch the receiving blankets, whatever they were. He didn't bother to figure out who was making the demand. There were so many demands for him to meet, their source was academic. His tie flying, Tom bolted upstairs to the nursery he hadn't finished painting. On the stairs he almost tripped on one of the devils, who was corkscrewing his index finger into his freckled nose. "Don't do that, Patrick," Tom said to his nephew.

"Shut up, dorkhead," the kid muttered.

Tom turned on the stair, but he didn't have time to go back. He hit the nursery at full speed and sidestepped the baby gifts and paint cans. Marie had been after him to get the cans out before the twins were born, but the Steere trial took all his time. Only two of the nursery walls were Blush Rose and only half the baseboards were Cotton Candy. Meantime Tom had probably lost the fucking Steere trial. He'd stood in front of enough juries to know they weren't with him and he was too tired to give a shit.

"Tom! Tom, bring two pacifiers when you come down!"

Tom tripped across the shaggy pink rug to the changing tables. Underneath were shelves full of disposable diapers, Desitin, and baby powder. He shoved it all around but didn't see any receiving blankets. Or what else? Pacifiers. Meanwhile, all hell was breaking loose on the Steere case. The security guards got dead, DiNunzio got shot, and Richter went AWOL. Where the fuck were the pacifiers?

He searched the soft toys and baby gifts on the floor. No receiving blankets and it was time to receive. Tom tore through the baby gifts. A pink rattle flew in the air, then a pink playsuit. Everything was a rosy blur. Marie wanted girls, so at least she should be happy. That used to make Tom happy, giving Marie what she wanted. Providing, fixing, doing. That was his job. But this twin thing went too far. Now the Steere case was exploding and he was snowed in. With the screaming twins. In Baby Hell.

"Tom! Tom, the blankets! And the pacifiers!"

Tom chucked a fluffy white bear to the side. He was an assistant district attorney of a major metropolitan area. He had attended St. Joe's University and Villanova Law. He had ambitions to be a Common Pleas Court judge. He had no room for a baby in his life, much less two. He drop-kicked a pink elephant.

And now Tom was going to lose Steere, he knew it. The indictment shouldn't have been brought in the first place. The best thing I can do for you, his boss had said, is to give you a case nobody can win. Then you don't look bad when you lose. Try this case for me, Tom. I'll remember you did. That's what his boss had said, but he failed to add that falling on your sword was vastly overrated as a career move. Plus you're the one that has to go to work the next day with your spleen in your hand.

"Tom! Tom! The blankets! And the pacifiers!"

Tom rummaged on a flowery chair until he found two pink blankets that were too light to keep even a doll warm. He ran downstairs with them and stopped when he saw the devil sitting on the stair, finger still embedded. "Hey, little dick," Tom said under his breath. "Find any diamonds?"

"Mom!" the kid wailed, and ran screaming.

Tom ran down to the living room where putrid, sulfurous smells arose from the screaming and crying. The air reeked of yellow baby shit, like mustard gas, and he detected a wheaty new stench, puked-up formula. The babies vomited like volcanoes— gastric reflux, according to his mother-in-law— and the lava on Tom's shoulder was already rancid. The house was so damn hot and his mother-in-law wouldn't let him open a window— Are you crazy? —because of the draft on the twins. Tom handed the battle-ax the blankets and fled on foot.

"You forgot the pacifiers. I said pacifiers!"

Tom veered left and hustled back to the stairway. He knew he was supposed to be happy but he wasn't. Everything had changed overnight. His wife had blown up like a balloon. His house was swollen with people. His career had been warped out of shape by the Steere case. He'd been working like a dog for a year now, unfortunately the same time as Marie got pregnant. He knew there would be some point when he would feel happy, but that time hadn't happened yet.

Tom raced across the nursery to the two pink dressers against the unpainted wall and tore open the first drawer by its bunny knob. Inside were itty-bitty undershirts and little hooded sleepers. He mushed them around. The twins wailed louder, shrill cries of the colicky floating up from the depths.

"Tom, the pacifiers!"

He dashed to the two Toys "" Us bags beside the two cribs. The white bags bulged like Santa's sack. A long receipt was stapled to the bag and Tom looked at the sticker in shock. Two hundred bucks!? He ripped into the bag. Two animal mobiles to make the babies calm. Two black-and-white cubes to make them smart. Two blue bunnies to make them sleepy. Two pacifiers to shut them up.

"Tom, hurry!"

Tom tore out of the room with the pacifiers and raced down the stairs. How would they afford two kids on his salary? Twice as many tuition bills. Double the doctor bills. Twice the clothing bills. Two weddings. Tom handed off the pacifiers, his wallet reeling.

"Tom! Get a water bottle!"

Tom ran to the kitchen where Marie sat at the table, engulfed by her sister and father. She winked at Tom from the center of their freckled circle. Everybody in Marie's family winked like they had Tourette's. Tom winked back and twisted on the tap. He had long ago stopped recognizing his wife, whose slim body vanished with their sex life. Marie had retained enough water to fill a swimming pool. Tom ran a shaking index finger under the tap.

"Tom! Tom! In here!"

Tom spun on his wingtips like a gyroscopic father. He didn't know where the sound was coming from, which demand to meet, the twins or the Macy's-balloon wife's or the bitchy mother-in-law's. Tom! Tom! Tom!

"Tom! The phone! The office!"

"Shit." The office? The jury? The judge? The pacifiers? Tom left the water running and raced into his study, where the two other devils were drawing on his briefs with a crayon. SHIT FUCK PISS, they were writing. "Sean, Colin, stop that," Tom said. He took the crayon out of Sean's hand and gave him a scissors, then handed Colin a letter opener and shooed them both out of the room. Tom picked up the bottle, uh, the phone. "Hello?"

"TOM!" boomed a man's voice over a speaker-phone. It was Bill Masterson, district attorney of the City of Philadelphia. Masterson's basso profundo echoed like the Wizard of Oz. Tom went weak in the knees. Oh, no. The only time Masterson called his assistants was to fire them. "Tom, you're not here!" Masterson bellowed.

"I will be. I'm on my way."

"I'm in, but you're not. I don't get it. Where are you, Moran?"

"At home."

"Why are you there? Get your ass here!"

"Uh, they're still plowing me out." Tom squinted out the window. Two cops were directing a snowplow down his street. The blade had fallen off the first plow and they had to jerry-rig another. "I'll be right in."

"Why the fuck were you there in the first place?"

"My wife had twins, sir."

"I don't care. Get in here. Steve told me you'd be here an hour ago."

"They sent a car for me, but it couldn't get through—"

"I don't care. You shouldn't have left the office."

"I thought I had time. The jury was out."

"I don't care. Don't you get it? Why the fuck did you leave the office?"

"To check on my wife and babies."

"I don't care. Why do you think I care?"

Tom broke a sweat. The twins howled in the background. "Tom!" someone yelled. "TOM!"

"Tom!" Masterson barked. "You tried Steere, yes?"

"Yes."

"So why am I the one in the office? I don't get it. You tried the case, but I'm in the office. You work for me, yes?"

"Yes."

"You work for me, but I'm the one in the office. I don't get it, do you?"

"No," Tom said. "Sorry—"

"Look, I don't care. Steve took a call from Judge Rudolph's law clerk. There's an emergency hearing scheduled. Get your ass to the office. You hear?"

"Yes."

"You hear me, Tom?" Masterson said, and the speakerphone clicked off.

"TOM!" someone yelled, and he picked up his briefcase and ran.

44

Marta sat in the truck with her flashlight, the nautical map, and a skinny ruler she'd found in one of Christopher's tool chests. The ruler was double-edged and easy to read, even if it reeked of whatever comes off the bottom of horses' hooves. She checked the time. 4:15 in the morning. Oh no. She was running out of night. Would Christopher change the jury's vote? Could he turn the tide?

Marta squinted at the calculations she'd made in the map's margin. The numbers swam before her eyes. Her logic had gone fuzzy a half hour ago. She'd tried to calculate the yards from the coastline to the pinhole, then stopped when she realized how witless that was. She had no idea where the coastline was, with the tides and the storm and the spin of the earth's rotation and the moon in the seventh house. Her brain had melted to yogurt. Her head thundered from her wounds and the sheer effort of staying awake.

Hold on. There was another way. She could go back to Steere's home office and find the deed, which would describe the plot of land exactly. Using it, she'd be able to calculate the yards from the house to the pinhole. That could work. It had to. She set the stuff aside, twisted on the ignition, and turned the truck around toward Steere's house.

* * *

SSSHUNK! The shovel hit the first icy chunk of snow and Marta started digging. The storm had lessened but was still blowing off the sea. The surf crashed behind her. She could barely see the shovel in the light from the flashlight, stuck in the snow like a floor lamp. Digging for treasure may have been crazy, but Marta preferred to think of it as a long shot. She sensed something was under there and had to believe that her calculations, made from a reconciling of deed, blueprint, and nautical map, weren't that far off. So she'd dragged Christopher's horse manure shovel out to the middle of the beach, over dune and erosion fencing, and had begun to dig. There was no more time for geometry or numbers. There was no time for anything but action.

Marta pressed the shovel into the snow and drove it deeper with the bottom of her boot. Every muscle in her torso ached, but she had grown accustomed to the pain. She lifted the shovel, but she'd piled on too much snow in her haste and the snow slid off. Marta had shoveled snow in her childhood, but never in the dark before, or in a blizzard. By the ocean. With a man she'd killed down the beach.

Marta jabbed at the top layer of snow for a lighter load and threw it to the side successfully. The wind blew it off the nascent pile and carried it away from her hole. She went in for another load. The snow grew wetter the deeper she dug and felt heavier on the shovel. No matter, she told herself. She'd dug out three shovels of snow. Only 398,280 more to go.

SSHUNK! Marta tried not think about it. Bogosian, up the beach. Darning, his face frozen in death. Steere, and how she'd been fooled, or her other cases and clients. How she'd come to be on a beach in the middle of nowhere, attempting the impossible. She tried to convince herself she wasn't dead tired, desperate, or a fool. At least she had done one thing right in this case; she made sure those girls were safe. Carrier and DiNunzio were probably home asleep in their beds.

Marta dug deeper, but was still into snow. When would she hit sand? A foot more, two? Then how far down would the treasure be? Two feet, three? She took another scoop. Her back was as sore as her ribs. She bent from the knee and took another heap of snow. Then another ten and another ten after that.

SHUNK! Sharp pains wracked her lower back and her arms felt like they were about to fall from their sockets. She was drenched with sweat under her coat. Her neck felt clammy where snow had melted under her collar. Wetness sluiced down her face and cheeks. Still she kept digging. Marta would dig all night if she had to. She might be wrong and she might be crazy, but she would not be denied.

* * *

Marta stared at the empty hole in the purplish light of dawn. Her body sagged and her faint shadow drooped on the snow. Her hair was drenched and her face was soaked. Salt air stung her eyes, and she told herself that was why tears kept welling up in them. It was almost dawn, probably about six o'clock. Marta had run out of time. Out of luck. It had all come down, it was all coming apart.

The hole was empty. A good four feet of dark, soggy sand, with water in the bottom, like a pool for a child's sand castle. Marta had dug it out, then clawed it out. When her gloved hands slowed her, she stripped them off and used her bare hands until they were scraped raw and insensate. Nothing. There was nothing there. No treasure, no papers, no clue. No treasure chest full of incriminating evidence. It was all over. There was only emptiness.

The sky was bright now that the storm had passed. Soon the sun would climb the clouds and the world would wake up. Coffee machines would gurgle and toasters would ring. Fax machines would awaken convulsively. Computer screens would crackle to life, obeying encrypted instructions. Telephone lines were probably being repaired this very minute and roads plowed clean. The morning was a beginning to everybody else, but to Marta it seemed like the end.

The night had been dark and under its cover she had been free to move, to run. To search and dig. But dawn would bring police and questions. They would find Bogosian's body. They would want her to account for the security guards at the office. They would want answers. It was all over. Steere had won. Marta had lost. There would be no justice.

She let the shovel fall to the snow. The sky was dim, the atmosphere thin. A frigid wind whipped off the sea, a blast so cold and dry Marta imagined it could kill germs. Disinfect the world, eradicating virus, disease, pestilence. Hate, grime, blood. Murder. The surf crashed behind her like someone tapping her on the shoulder. Marta answered, turning.

The ocean glimmered, barely visible. The waves that had seemed black as india ink last night were jade green, and the sea foam was tinted ivory. Whitecaps broke on the shore, one after the other, and sea bubbles raced in all directions and vanished. In the distance Marta could see the lighthouse and a rocky jetty near Steere's beach. The sight was desolate and beautiful, and she felt like it had been scrubbed as clean and raw as she was. As if God had taken a stiff wire brush to the world.

Marta considered walking into the waves just then. Leaving the fucking shovel on the ground and strolling right in, as if she were walking into a courtroom. Taking over. Striding into the Atlantic like she owned it. Marta could do that. The waves would welcome her and take her in and suck her up, her soggy coat and her aching back and her numb fingers. She even knew the depths of the water by the shore, if indeed that was what those precisely etched numbers on the nautical map had meant.

Marta pictured herself walking in to three feet and starting to float at six feet and by fourteen feet she could tread water, just for show. By sixteen feet she'd begin to dip below the frigid waves and they'd knock her around a little, but by eighteen feet she'd have them licked like she licked everything else. After all, she was undefeated.

Marta turned for a last look at Steere's house, in the light of a new day. It was majestic and serene. She owned no house like that anywhere. Not New York, Boston, L.A., or Cape Cod. She was never home anyway. She was never anywhere. She was always in motion. Marta knew where the VIP waiting room was in any USAir hub. She could work the cruise control on a rental Taurus without asking. She kept the fax numbers of every Four Seasons Hotel in her bulky Filofax.

Marta's wet gaze lingered on Steere's house. What a thing a house was! To think that she could walk into the Atlantic without ever having owned a real, honest-to-God home! And Steere's was a nice one, worth every zero. She imagined herself as its buyer, waltzing through for the first time. The house was set so beautifully, nestled alone among the dunes. Location, location, location.

Now that the sky was brighter, Marta could see how high the dunes rose in front of the house, tall and bright white in the new sun. No wonder they had been so hard to run on, they were steep. The wooden erosion fences crisscrossing them had done their job. Marta could see the wooden fence that had caught her coat last night. It crossed the beachfront in two directions.

She blinked against the glare. Funny. One fence ran down the beach from the upper left of Steere's property, and one ran from the upper right. Only the tops of the wooden posts showed, and Marta could see them clearly as the sun rose and a warm golden blanket slipped over the snowy beach. The two wooden fences met at the side of the house, about forty feet from where Marta stood. The tops of the slats made two dotted lines. And where the two dotted lines met, smack dab in the center, was a rather distinct X.

Was she exhausted? Was she crazy? Was her mind playing tricks on her? Marta wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, but the X was for real. An X, right next to Steere's house. X marks the spot! The pinhole in the map must have been a backup, in case the fences shifted. Marta bent over and grabbed her shovel.

45

A large, chilly presence, Bennie Rosato stood just inside Judy's apartment door as the associate gushed an explanation, from color blindness to a handwritten motion for a mistrial to Darning's white notebook. Bennie remained unmoved, stiff in her Gore-Tex jacket, unwilling to set foot in the apartment. As the managing partner of the law firm that bore her name, Bennie needed to maintain a professional distance from her employees, precisely because of times like this. Times she dreaded. "So what I'm hearing," Bennie said slowly, "is that you have been gathering evidence to incriminate Elliot Steere."

Judy nodded so eagerly that hair slipped from her headband. "I'm working on it. The notebook means something; I just can't figure it out yet. It's full of numbers. I think it has something to do with street money."

"You're missing my point, you're gathering evidence against one of our clients."

"Well, against Elliot Steere." Judy stood behind the canvas futon and leaned on its back. In her hand was the notebook.

"Run that by me again, Carrier. Are you making a distinction between Elliot Steere and our other clients?"

Judy blinked. "Yes. Of course. Elliot Steere is a killer. A murderer. He sent somebody to kill Mary and Marta."

"You have proof of this? Of any of it?"

"Not yet, but—"

"Not yet?" Bennie struggled to restrain herself. The associate seemed to have no idea how dangerous this game was. It was like watching a toddler play with an assault rifle. "Do you realize what you're doing? You're Steere's lawyer. Even if you had proof of his wrongdoing, the only ethical thing you could do is file a withdrawal from the case. You get to bow out, not sabotage his murder trial."

"The judge wouldn't have granted a withdrawal."

"You didn't even try. You should have come to me. I could have filed something with the court. We could have fought it together. Legally. Even if we couldn't, you still have no right to be gathering evidence against your own client. It's the D.A. who has to prove the case against Steere, and if he can't, Steere deserves to go free. Period."

"But he's a murderer!"

"What is this, Ethics 101? Elliot Steere is a client of our law firm, my law firm. Last time I saw one of his checks, it was made out to us, for a very large retainer."

Judy shook her head in disbelief. "So what? What does he buy for his money?"

"Loyalty, without apology or reservation. He buys all our efforts and skill, everything we know about the law and courtrooms. He paid for it, he's entitled to it. There is no shame in that, none at all. That's business. My business."

Judy felt sick inside as Bennie spoke. She could never agree with Bennie and regretted telling her about Darning's notebook. Time to correct the error. Judy didn't think Bennie had focused on the notebook, so she let it slip from her fingers. It fell to the rug behind the futon and Judy nudged it underneath its canvas skirt with her toe.

"Didn't you stop and think?" Bennie asked, her temper giving way. "Didn't you realize you have an ethical obligation here?"

"My loyalty to Steere ended when Mary got shot. My hands had her blood all over them, they still do." Judy held out her palms, but Bennie wouldn't even look.

"That makes no difference."

"It makes all the difference in the world! What's in your veins, Bennie? Ice?"

Bennie stood tall. "You're a lawyer in my employ, Carrier. I hired you to work on this case, handpicked you and DiNunzio. It was a choice assignment, the most significant case in our office. Steere was supposed to be our calling card."

"I understand that, but the case has gone wrong."

"Nothing was wrong with the case until you filed that motion for a mistrial— without the client's authority. Before that, it was outside the record that Mary is in the hospital. It was outside the record that Marta is missing and that you found some magical notebook. As far as the case was concerned, nothing outside the record even existed."

"I can't divide my brain that way. Outside the record, inside the record."

"Bullshit!" Bennie shouted. "You're supposed to be a trial lawyer. You filed motion papers against a client's express orders. He gets to define the scope of his representation, not you. If Steere is as smart as I think, he's gone forward on his own or hired someone else. You got my firm fired, and for conduct so egregious we could all be disbarred."

"I was trying to find out who tried to kill Mary, and why."

"Are you insane? That's not your concern. That's not your job. You got me fired, you got us fired, and so I have only one recourse."

"Go ahead. Fire." Judy grinned crookedly even though she felt like crying.

"You're fired. I'll send you the termination forms as soon as possible. I'll also send you some forms to report this to the disciplinary board. If you don't file them yourself, I'll file against you. Don't make me do it."

"I'll think about the disciplinary board a little later, if you don't mind. I'm more worried about Mary than myself right now."

Bennie couldn't let that pass. "Don't think I'm not worried about Mary. I'm the one who sat there with her parents. But what you're doing— and what she was doing— was wrong. Ethically wrong."

"But not morally wrong."

"That's not your judgment to make. I took on Steere's representation, and you work for me. What happens to the legal system if each lawyer makes his own judgments about a client's morality?"

"Justice. Finally." Judy stared at Bennie, who returned her gaze with equal fury.

"No. Nobody will have a lawyer they can trust. And justice doesn't have a chance." Bennie yanked her jacket zipper up and turned to go. "Enough. Clean out your office as soon as possible. Don't talk to the press."

Judy held her head high. She didn't have anything to be ashamed of. Her only regret was hurting Bennie and the firm. "I'm sorry it turned out this way. I'll see you at the hospital, probably. Or around."

"Not so fast." Bennie held out her hand and was pleased to see it wasn't shaking. "You said you had a notebook. Give it to me and I'll turn it over to the police."

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not giving you the notebook."

"You can't refuse me."

"Why not?" Judy cleared her throat. "You're not my boss anymore. I'm single again."

Bennie didn't laugh. "Stop screwing around and give me that notebook."

"No."

"You're keeping it from the police, who might be able to figure out what it means."

"I'll figure it out myself. I know the case. I'm smarter than they are."

"You're not trained the way they are. They're professional. They have tools, resources at their disposal."

Judy's mouth dropped open in mock surprise. "I can't believe my ears. Bennie Rosato, destroyer of cops, defending them? They almost deep-sixed you last year."

Bennie pursed her lips. Shit. This kid was a whip. Too bad the firm was losing her. "The cops can handle it."

"Not tonight, in this weather. You said so yourself, they weren't even at the office. Did they find the notebook or did I?"

"It's not a competition, Carrier."

"Yes it is," Judy said, her voice suddenly urgent. "That's exactly what it is. It's a race. I didn't find out in time to save Mary, but I can still save myself."

Bennie paused. She should have realized it. Of course Carrier would have been scared. "You're in greater danger if you keep it. Did you ever think of that?"

"It's my judgment, not yours. Like you said."

Bennie didn't know what to say or do. She couldn't beat the notebook out of her, and Carrier was right about the attention the police would give it tonight. She opened the apartment door and walked out, torn. Conflicted.

"Good-bye," Judy called after her, but Bennie was too upset to answer.

* * *

Blinking against the flurries, Bennie stood in the snowstorm outside Judy's building and looked up at the associate's apartment. Warm light spilled out of the large, uncurtained window but Carrier wasn't in sight. Bennie's emotions wrenched her chest. She was tempted to go up and retract what she'd said but she couldn't. She couldn't sanction what Carrier was doing, it was dangerous and wrong, but she wouldn't thwart it, not yet anyway. Bennie looked up at the snowy sky, which was brightening. It had to be close to dawn, almost morning. The jury would be back in deliberations soon. Carrier didn't have time to stop the verdict even if she tried.

Snow fell on Bennie's face and thick knit hat. So Carrier had found a notebook of Eb Darning's with numbers in it, and had learned something about Eb and street money. And Bennie's old friend Bean had told her that Eb worked at City Hall for cash. Was it connected? Was Darning's notebook a record of cash payments? Money for votes? The answer would be at the heart of the city.

City Hall.

Bennie turned from the building, jammed her hands in her pockets, and began the trek. If she could figure out what was going on, maybe she could protect Carrier. She trudged down the street in deep drifts. Every step felt heavy but it wasn't the snow. Bennie was thinking about DiNunzio. What's in your veins, ice? It had hit home. Bennie had been feeling more responsible for Steere than for her two associates. Where was her loyalty to them?

Bennie tucked her head into her chest against the driving snow. She was responsible for the associates as well. She was the one who had accepted the Steere representation without a second thought; she'd seen financial viability and a dramatic opening for her law firm. Bennie had never dreamed it would turn out like this, with one associate terrified for her life and another near death.

She kept her head down and turned north into the storm. If there was a way out of this, Bennie had to find it. That was part of being the boss, too.

46

Marta dug through the sand like a terrier as soon as her shovel hit something. It was hard, whatever it was, and it wasn't a clamshell. It rang when the shovel struck it, a metallic ding. Marta shoveled in a fever. Sand flew until a tan spot appeared at the bottom of the hole. It was camouflaged, barely visible in the morning sunlight. Something was there. What was it?

Marta fell to her knees, dropping the shovel beside the deep hole and uprooted erosion fencing. She clawed with her gloves and shoved the wet sand to either side of the hole. The sun shone cold on her back but she still had time. It wasn't too late. It wasn't over. She had found it!

Marta's heart raced with excitement and exertion. She dug and dug, perspiring in her heavy coat. The patch of tan metal widened in the wet sand. She clawed faster. Her fingers raked the sand in five deep ridges. Underneath it was a metal box of some kind. It existed.

The hole began to widen. The circle of tan metal grew. Five inches, then eight, then ten. Marta burrowed around the box. The top was smooth metal, like a strongbox. Sunlight winked on the water covering the box in a thin layer. Marta rooted in the sand until she exposed the thick lid of the box. She heard herself laughing, giddy with relief and delight. What was it? It was good. It was something. It was it! What Alix Locke had been looking for. What Eb Darning had died for. What Elliot Steere had killed for. It was almost hers!

Marta cleared the perimeter of the box and tried to wrench it out of the sand and snow, but it was stuck in the sand. She tore off her gloves and rammed her fingers between box and sand. Her fingers were bloody but she didn't care. She flattened her hand between the box and the sand and wedged her fingers straight down, deeper and deeper. Her fingertips drove to the bottom of the box and she yanked with all the strength she had left. The box came free in her hands.

Marta fell backward onto her butt and scrambled to sit upright. It was a locked strongbox about the size of a legal pad, six inches thick and apparently watertight. Marta sat on the frigid beach with the box on her snowpants, momentarily stumped by the large Master padlock, of heavy gray metal. She'd have to break it to get inside.

Marta struggled to her feet with the box and looked around. The beach was deserted and the storm had passed. The wind had died down and the snow had formed a thick, icy crust. But the sun was high. It was morning. How long before somebody found Bogosian's body? How long before they came after her? What was in this fucking box?

Marta shook it and something inside jostled. Not rattled, not clanged, just jostled. Shifted. It made almost no sound. Was it paper? Was it money? What was it? She had to get inside. She thought about looking for a key, but that would take too long. She didn't want to search Steere's office again or the Piratical. There had to be a better way.

Christopher's pickup truck. The back of the truck was full of evil tools. One would break the padlock. Marta tucked the box under her arm and ran up the beach. She picked up her pace to a sprint like a star receiver, the box in the crook of her arm. She could bust the padlock with a hammer. Saw it off. File the fucking thing down.

Marta's heart lifted as she dashed across the snow, her boots crunching through the hardened top layer. An ocean breeze blew sweet and clear. A slight wind gusted at her back. So the box was locked. So what? She giggled as she ran. Her breath came easily as she scooted past Steere's house. Her coat was soaked but it felt light on her shoulders. She wasn't even tired. She'd blow the box wide open. She'd melt the thing in the forge. She'd chew her way in.

She hit the dune running, up, up, up and over the crest, then down again, almost falling. The box felt secure under her arms and she kept running, down the glistening white valley between the dunes. There were no footsteps in the snow except Marta's. She ran up the dune and caught sight of Christopher's pickup, parked by the snow-covered curb.

She half ran, half skidded into the truck, fumbled for the keys, and nestled inside the driver's seat with the strongbox on her lap. She twisted around and thrust her hand into one of the tool chests. Out came a hammer with a spike at the top. The nail set! Rock and roll!

Marta set the strongbox between her padded knees, held it steady, and brought the nail set down against the padlock. The box slipped. She tried it again and hit the padlock, but it remained intact. She hit it again and made solid contact. Clang! The padlock stayed locked. Fuck!

She tossed the nail set aside and went fishing again in the tool chest. She found a saw with a fine-tooth edge, held the box still on top of her leg, and applied the saw to the lock. Marta had never used a saw in her life and it showed. The saw went crazily left and right. She pushed too hard and it wouldn't move against the lock. She pushed too easy and it went too fast, barely scratching the metal. An emery board did more damage.

Marta flopped the box over on its back and sawed the latch with vigor. The padlock wiggled back and forth but the saw's teeth barely etched the surface of the metal. She sawed again and almost amputated her index finger, which was frostbitten anyway. Not a good idea. She threw the saw back in the truck and searched the chest again. An old iron horseshoe! Marta hooked the shoe through the lock and tried to wrench it off. No go. There had to be something in the truck that would open this goddamn padlock! The truck was a hardware store on wheels!

Marta got out of the truck with the strongbox and slammed the door behind her. She stormed to the back of the truck and yanked the back door open. The forge, a tiny oven without a door, was on the left. She could melt the strongbox down!

Marta tried to shove the box into the forge, pressing with her shoulder. The box was too wide. She grabbed the box and slammed the lock against the back edge of the forge, but succeeded only in denting the forge. The padlock stayed fast. What a product! What a company! Marta wondered momentarily if it were publicly traded, then grabbed the box and drop-kicked it across the snow. It landed in a snowdrift and disappeared. Uh-oh.

Marta ran after it, growling, and dug it out. Fucking padlock. They weren't kidding in those commercials where they shot the shit out of the thing. She set the box down out of the snowdrift and jumped on it over and over, like a trampoline. She climbed off and looked down at her handiwork. The lock survived, as did the frame of the box. This wasn't funny anymore. Marta snarled and whirled around. Her gaze fell on the pickup truck. Of course.

She left the box in the center of the street and sprinted back to the truck. She climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. The driver's clock said 7:01. She still had time. She could make this happen. Christopher would be working for her. Everything would be okay as soon as she cracked the box. She released the emergency brake and twisted on the ignition. The truck coughed twice and turned over.

Marta heard herself cackling softly as she gunned the engine. A padlock against a lawyer? No contest. She wrenched the steering wheel to the left and aimed straight for the box.

47

Bennie barreled in her wet parka down the marble corridor of City Hall, past the glass-etched sign that read ADMINISTRATION REPORTERS. The elegance of the sign belied what was beyond the next door. The City Hall press room was even filthier than a precinct house, which was why Bennie loved it.

She flung open the mahogany door and deftly avoided the newswire machine that obstructed an entrance hall choked with empty vending machines and a grimy shelf of mailboxes. The floor was a gritty brown tile strewn with crumpled memos, discarded gum wrappers, and curly faxes. A dusty dictionary with marbleized endpapers sat on a battered bookstand. An old wooden coatrack had fallen against the wall with the weight of reporters' coats. The air smelled vaguely electrical with a hint of body odor.

On either side of the entrance hall stood eye-level partitions covered with dirty burlap and wrinkled clippings. Beyond them were offices filled with cluttered wooden desks and dingy file cabinets. Bookshelves were packed with papers, plastic spiral notebooks, and superseded style manuals. Each newspaper had its own office in the press room and on the door of the News office hung an open shark jaw.

Bennie peeked over the left partition at the starchy back of an old friend, Emil Gorebian. Emil sat erect at his keyboard and tapped with an expert's skill. He had covered the City Hall beat for thirty-four years but had been demoted to the night shift when he declined to retire early. The city editor had told him the newspaper "wasn't downsizing, it was right-sizing," and Emil had politely allowed as how a human being wasn't a suit. But it didn't matter, the suits were in control. Which was why Bennie could never work for anybody else. "Emil!" she called over the partition.

"Bennie!" Emil said, the alarm in his voice tinged with a courtly Middle Eastern accent. "What am I hearing about you? Your office, murders. How terrible!"

"I know." Bennie dripped into the office, slipped out of her snowy hat and parka, and popped them on the back of an empty chair. She looked around. The other desks were empty. The dirty gray computers were on, their screen savers ever-changing, but the scuffed chairs sat vacant. "Where is everybody?"

"The young Turks? Most can't get in because of the snow, they are too tender. The others are hounding the innocent, like good reporters. Myself, I am waiting for my editor to call, to give me some very important instructions like I don't know what I'm doing. So tell me, what is going on?"

Bennie flopped into the ratty chair and shook the chill off. "I'll sue the paper for you, I told you. We don't have to go to court, it's a union paper. We can grieve it. It's easy."

"No." Emil pursed his lips, which were full and vividly pink under a frosty gray mustache. His eyebrows were shaped like thick commas over round eyes. His nose was a parrot's beak set against exotic olive skin. "They are not worth my anger, or yours."

"You've given over thirty years to this newspaper. You've won awards and your experience—"

"Please. Times have changed. It's a spot news operation now. They care nothing for history. Experience has no value. It's what happened today, not yesterday. Now tell me what is happening. Can I help?"

"I need information about someone who used to work here in the sixties."

"Who?" He cocked his head, his interest piqued. "I know everyone who worked here then."

"His name is Eb Darning."

"I don't know him," Emil said immediately.

"What? You sure?"

"Yes."

"Think about it. You know everybody here?"

"I do. If I don't know him, he wasn't here." Emil patted his tie, which he wore with a white oxford shirt, still pressed despite the lateness of the hour. Or the earliness.

"How can you be sure so fast?"

"I'm sure that fast. How slow do I have to be to make you feel confident of my answer? I told you, I don't know him, so he didn't work here."

Bennie smiled, remembering that one of the reasons she liked Emil was that he was the only person more hyper than she. One day she'd introduce him to Bean and they'd kill each other. "Darning may have worked for L and I or Fleets. Maybe the Parking Authority."

"Very specific."

"Work with me, Emil."

"Is this about those murders?"

"Yes."

"Fine." Emil's gray head, with its puffy side part, snapped to his computer. He hit a few keys and pressed ENTER. "Eb Darning, you say his name is. Eb is a name?"

"Yes."

Emil frowned at the screen. One neat wrinkle creased his forehead deeply, as if even his brow had been starched. "What kind of a name is that?"

"Not Armenian. He was black and a youngish man at the time. He might have had a daughter. He definitely had a drinking problem."

"In City Hall, it's a job qualification," Emil muttered as he focused on the screen. "These old 286 machines annoy me. They take too long. Here."

"What?" Bennie scooted her chair closer. On the computer screen was a list of names.

"Here are the L and I employees for 1960. No Darning is there."

"Let's try 1961."

Emil hit a key and drummed his fingers while the computer cranked away. "Why aren't you married, Bennie? You should be married."

"I'm dating a very nice man, who's unfortunately out of town."

"Dating isn't married." Emil frowned at the monitor. "I have someone I want you to meet."

"No. Your last fixup was a disaster."

"This one likes women who work."

"How enlightened."

"An Armenian, of course. A member of my church. His wife died and he wants to remarry."

"Forget it."

"Bennie," Emil said, his eyes focused. "I want to see you happy. I hope you will find a husband."

"I don't need a husband. I need Eb Darning."

Another list finally materialized on the flat matte monitor. Names in faint green letters floated in an inky background. Emil's sharp eyes ran down the list. "No Darning." He hit another key. "I'll try the next year."

"Thanks." Bennie struggled to keep up with Emil as he read. "Darning might have been a building inspector."

"Not here," Emil barked before he was off to the next list. He and Bennie checked employee lists for all the City Hall departments for the past thirty-odd years, but Eb Darning's name didn't appear on any of them. Then they checked variations on Eb Darning's name, including Heb Darnton, for the same time period. No variations appeared either. Confused, Bennie produced Eb's clean-shaven photo and showed it to Emil.

"Never saw the man," he said, handing it back.

Bennie returned it to her jeans pocket. She didn't tell Emil that Darning was the same man Elliott Steere had killed, for the same reason she hadn't told Bean. He didn't need to know it to help her. "Emil, I know Darning worked here and he might have gotten paid in cash. How is that possible?"

Emil smiled tightly. "I was afraid of this. Perhaps he was a party employee, not an employee of the city."

"So?"

"So he worked for the party. He performed jobs for the party. City Hall was a different place then. You know that. You're a hometown girl."

"So you're saying that Darning wouldn't show up in the employee lists. He was invisible, at least officially."

"Yes."

"Nobody would know him, and if they did, they wouldn't say."

"Yes. He may have been paid for odd jobs. For influence. Even for vote-getting. Does that jibe with your information?"

"Yes," Bennie said. Her thoughts hurried ahead. What was it that Carrier had let slip? "Like 'street money'?"

Emil nodded. "Payment for votes. It was commonplace then. Now, not so. Or so I choose to believe."

Bennie eased back in the chair and tried to process the information. So Eb Darning was a drunk on the party payroll, who was paid street money by someone for votes. Was Steere the someone? He had to be. Why else would Steere kill him? Steere hated the mayor because the city wasn't ponying up for his properties. Maybe Steere had paid Darning to fix votes against the mayor in the last election, and Darning had decided not to keep quiet about it any longer, so Steere killed him. Steere wouldn't take the risk otherwise, especially a personal risk.

It made perfect sense, and Bennie had been around enough official corruption to know it followed the same sleazy patterns. It wasn't Philly's first encounter with vote fraud, and no matter what Emil chose to believe, it wouldn't be the last. Something was rotten at City Hall and Bennie could smell the stink. She stood up and grabbed her wet jacket and hat. "Where's Jen Pressman's office?"

"The chief of staff? Down the hall next to the mayor's. Why?"

"I have to ask her some questions. How can I get a meeting with her? She hates my guts. Because of the police misconduct cases. Every time I sue the city, I put her in the chair."

"I know Jen Pressman. She likes me. I'd be happy to go with you." Emil's dark eyes flickered with the remembered thrill of the hunt.

"No, what I have to discuss with her is confidential."

"I won't go in with you, I'll merely introduce you. Get you in. Pave the way. If it's something big, you'll give me the exclusive."

"You dog." Bennie smiled. "What about that phone call you were waiting for from your editor?"

Emil glanced up at the ancient black clock on the wall. "It's eight o'clock. My shift was over a long time ago. Let him call somebody who's the right size."

48

Marta stood over the metal strongbox in amazement. She had run the thing over in the pickup and it lay crushed in the deep rut of snow. Still, the Master padlock had stayed intact even after the hinges on the strongbox had popped. What were these padlocks, kryptonite? No matter, if Marta couldn't get past the fucking lock, she'd go in through the broken hinges.

She picked up the box, wrenched cruelly out of shape, and squinted through the hinges. She could see the edge of a manila envelope. Her heart beat quicker. She pried the hinges with her fingers but her gloves were clumsy. She tore them off and held them in her teeth while she tried to wrench the lid off the box. No luck. It was too badly smashed.

Marta ran back to the truck with the box and sat in the driver's seat while she searched the tool chest. Chisels, hammers, and about three hundred pritchels tumbled by. Why hadn't they been this easy to find last night? Her fingers groped the bottom of the chest and she came up with a thick Phillips head screwdriver. Good enough.

She grabbed the box and drove the screwdriver between the demolished lid and the box, trying to pry them apart with the screwdriver as a lever. She couldn't wedge the screwdriver in because she'd crushed the box too flat. She tried again and again, breaking a sweat even in the cold car. It was late. The sun was up. She had to hit the road before the cops found Bogosian's body.

Marta abandoned the screwdriver for a hammer, braced the box on her lap, and pounded the twisted metal hinges. The jarring hurt her legs and the pounding reverberated in her skull, but she hammered away. She was about to scream with frustration when the lid popped up. She tore it off and it flopped aside, hanging by the padlock.

Marta's mouth went dry. Inside the smashed box was a manila envelope, the kind her L.A. office used for mailers. The envelope was crumpled from being run over and there was no writing on the front. She ripped open the envelope with a nervous hand. Inside was a stack of paper, which she pulled out and set on her lap. They were printed pages that looked like computer entries:

>18 294 827

>03 04 95

>03 06 85

>03 31 99

>F

>5'7"

>BRN

>C

>–

>*/1

>Jamie Rodriquez

>110 Kenwall Avenue

>Philadelphia, PA 19103

Underneath the single-spaced grouping was a UPC code, a miniaturized signature, and a photograph of a young man with a fuzzy goatee and slacker's expression.

Marta reread the entries. They appeared to be some sort of identification. It was familiar, but Marta couldn't place it. She studied the next set of information, also grouped together:

>29 837 471

>11 10 95

>11 06 55

>11 30 99

>M

>6'2"

>BLU

>C

>–

>*/1

>Cliff Jay Martin

>3329 Dickinson Street

>Philadelphia, PA 19147

Again, underneath was the bar code, a miniaturized signature, and a photo. The photo showed a gaunt man with glasses; its harsh lighting made him look cadaverous. What photo could be so unflattering? Marta thought a minute. It was an ID with a photo. A photo ID that made everybody look their worst. A driver's license!

She skimmed the lines of information excitedly. BLU, for eye color, and the M, for gender identification. Birthdays at the top and expiration and renewal dates. It was the information entered for a driver's license, fields in a record, for computer use. Marta's office grouped information in records like this for form letters and fee agreements. She was looking at a computer file of driver's licenses. But what did it mean?

Marta flipped through the stack and estimated the page count. Just under a hundred pages in the stack and most pages had four fields, each with photos. Why would Steere hide this? What was incriminating about it? It appeared to be perfectly innocent, but nobody buried something innocent.

Marta flipped through the pages for a clue. The drivers all lived in Pennsylvania, so presumably they were issued Pennsylvania licenses. The ages, race, and sex of the drivers were different. Black women, white men, the old and the young, stared up at Marta from the sheets, revealing nothing.

Marta skimmed the addresses. Bustleton Pike. Wolf Street. Ninth Street. Baltimore Avenue. E Street. Apartments and houses, all around the city. She looked again. All the addresses were in Philadelphia. Marta thumbed through the pages to double-check. None were from suburbs or towns outside the city. So? What did this file have to do with Darning's murder? Marta stared out the frosty windshield, thinking. A dusting of snow lay on the truck's hood, too thin to conceal its dings and dents.

Suddenly she heard an engine sound and a jingling in the distance. The sound got louder, coming from the main drag. Marta slouched low in the driver's seat and watched the street from the driver's side mirror. A new snowplow drove past the cross street with chains jangling on its tires.

Marta checked her watch. 8:30. Her gut tightened. She was late. The business day had started. People were moving around. Snow dripped off the trees like raindrops. She had to get going. Fast. She gathered the papers into a stack, shoved them back into the envelope, and stuck it in her purse. She'd have to do her thinking on the way back to Philly. She wondered what the jury was doing. Would Christopher be able to do the job?

Marta tossed the file aside and twisted on the ignition. It made a noise, then nothing. The truck wasn't turning over. No! Not now, for God's sake! It was working before! This wasn't fair. It couldn't be happening. Marta tried to stay calm and remember what Christopher had told her.

Be patient. She just needs to warm up. Don't flood the engine.

Fine. Marta fed the gas gently and turned the ignition key. It cranked, then died.

Talk to her. She likes when you talk to her.

"Start or I'll sue your fucking ass!" Marta shouted as she hit the ignition. The truck started right up.

A law degree was a good thing to have.

* * *

Marta twisted the pickup onto the island's main drag and headed south. The file jiggled on the duct-taped passenger seat. The street stretched in front of her like a landing strip of melting snow, and Marta drove past the house where Bogosian's body lay. No one was around and there were no cars in the driveway. The house looked shuttered and closed.

Marta's stomach felt queasy. She had killed a man and was leaving his body in the snow. Strangely primal feelings of respect for the dead welled up. She thought of her father's simple grave, then her mother's. Marta had paid for her headstone, but didn't even go to the funeral. She sped up, trying to leave her emotions behind.

A car drove by in the opposite direction and its driver negotiated carefully past her in the slippery snow. Marta tugged her hood up and pulled it low over her forehead. She couldn't afford to be recognized. The guards' murders and her vanishing act had to be all over the news. She wished she could find out what was going on. She tried the truck's radio again, twisting the black dial uselessly. No soap.

Marta pressed the gas pedal and the truck sputtered slightly before it picked up speed. Along the strip she could see one or two stores opening up, a bagel shop and a 7-Eleven. She steered the pickup off the island and onto the rotary that led to the causeway, following Route 72. Light traffic traveled the highway, the drivers driving with caution in the snow.

Marta kept her face low and checked the clock. 9:16. She wouldn't get to Philly for hours. The jury would have been in session all morning. She hoped Christopher was delaying the jurors' final vote. She would need the time to piece together the file. She didn't understand the significance of the driver's licenses, but she knew who did. Alix Locke. The newspaper offices were right in Philly. Marta would find Alix, tell her she had the file, and make a deal. A long prison sentence could be very persuasive to a woman accustomed to cashmere.

Marta drove the pickup as fast as road conditions allowed. The highway had been plowed and salted, and mounds of snow at the shoulder were dissolving to gray slush. Snow-covered scrub pines and reedy white birches reappeared, but Marta had no time for reminiscing now. The truck hiccuped slightly, so she kept the gas flowing. She checked the fuel gauge. Still a quarter-tank left.

The truck hiccuped again. What was happening? The truck lurched slightly, then coughed. Marta eased off the gas. The truck slowed down and its coughing turned to hacking. Was something wrong with the engine? The hacking sounded terrible. Marta thought the thing would vomit blood.

"Don't you dare!" she shouted, but this time the truck wouldn't be intimidated. The warning light on the dashboard flickered to red. The engine stalled and was silent. The truck coasted to a stop in the middle of the deserted highway, almost a hundred miles from Philadelphia.

49

Judge Harry Calvin Rudolph sat atop the mahogany dais and scanned his courtroom. Elliot Steere sat alone at the defense table, wearing yet another Italian suit, one that everybody but judges could afford. The assistant district attorney, Tom Moran, slumped in his chair at the prosecution table, his eyelids curiously at half-mast. The gallery was empty except for the trial junkies who inhaled the Steere case like hot pizza. Any reporters able to get to the Criminal Justice Center in five feet of snow were scattered in the designated area in the very back row. Siberia, where they belonged.

Judge Rudolph checked his watch with a discreet twist of the wrist. It was barely ten o'clock in the morning, but no law required him to wait for a studio audience. He banged the gavel. "I am convening this hearing in the matter of Commonwealth v. Steere to ascertain that the defendant Elliot Steere's waiver of his right to counsel is knowing, intelligent, and voluntary. Let's begin. Mr. Steere, please rise."

"Yes, sir." Steere stood up in front of his seat. He had no lawyer but he hardly appeared powerless. On the contrary, with a rested, confident expression, he looked as in control as he felt.

"Mr. Steere, you sent me a letter in this matter, did you not?"

"I did, sir."

"Is this the letter you sent me, Mr. Steere? You may approach."

Steere walked to the bench like a seasoned litigator and examined the letter the judge handed him. "It is, Your Honor."

"You wrote this letter yourself?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You sent it to me last night at approximately one o'clock in the morning, is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I asked one of the guards to take it to you, since I had no lawyer."

At the back of the courtroom, two reporters scribbled notes into steno pads. A sketch artist sat next to them, drawing hastily. Steere looked even taller in her sketch.

"You may be seated, Mr. Steere."

"Thank you." Steere returned the letter to the judge and strode back to his chair at counsel table. He took his seat, crossed his legs, and brushed his pants leg into order.

Judge Rudolph turned to the assistant district attorney. "Mr. Moran, my law clerk has provided you with a copy of Mr. Steere's letter. Did you receive it?"

"Huh?" The assistant district attorney started in his seat, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. The stiffness of his three-piece suit seemed to be the only thing holding him up, like a legal El Cid. His head was full of the colicky crying of the twins. On the legal pad in front of him were a set of scribbled calculations and each number was multiplied by two.

Judge Rudolph waved the letter like a white flag. "Did you get a copy of Mr. Steere's letter?"

"Yes, I got it, Your Honor." Tom cleared his throat and tried to stay awake.

"Does the Commonwealth have any objection to its being admitted into the supplemental record?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Fine," Judge Rudolph said. "Would the court reporter please mark this letter as the next exhibit?" The judge handed the letter across his desk to Carol the court reporter, who had to stretch to take it. Tom watched her skirt hike up her slim, muscled thighs. His wife Marie used to have great legs. Now they were puffy and red pimples dotted her calves. She smeared tubes of cortisone cream on them every night. Tom hoped the leg zits went away soon.

"Mr. Steere," Judge Rudolph said. "As you know, we are here because you state in your letter that you wish to represent yourself for the remainder of this trial. Is that still your wish?"

"It is, Your Honor."

"You are not represented by counsel at this hearing, is that correct?"

"It is," Steere answered. "I do not wish to be represented by counsel. I know my rights."

"You are aware that the Court has attempted to contact your lead counsel, Marta Richter, and has been unsuccessful."

"I am aware of that, sir. I repeat, I wish to proceed as my own counsel. I do not wish any of my previous counsel contacted on my behalf."

"You can afford counsel, can you not?"

"Of course I can afford counsel. I simply don't need counsel. My case is before the jury and I rely on their judgment." Steere nodded toward the courtroom gallery, where a silver-haired John LeFort sat with another lawyer in the front row. "I have the Cable and Bess firm on retainer, Your Honor, and my attorneys are present in the courtroom this morning. They will act as my legal advisers if need be."

"And you are satisfied with their representation, Mr. Steere?"

"Completely."

Judge Rudolph nodded. "The expertise of the Cable and Bess firm is well-known. There is an outstanding motion in limine, however, filed by the prosecution. Your former counsel Ms. Richter mentioned she would be filing a response."

"She was mistaken. I have discussed the matter with my attorneys and we will not be filing a response. I do not want further delay in my trial."

"Fine." This would go in well. All the bases were covered. Steere was holding up like a champ. Time to wrap it up. "Mr. Steere, although you have made your wish to represent yourself more than clear, Pennsylvania law requires that I hold a formal, on-the-record colloquy to make the determination that your waiver is knowing and voluntary. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Good. I will be asking you a series of questions intended to determine that you understand that you have the right to be represented by counsel, that you understand the nature of the charges against you and the elements of those charges, that you are aware of the permissible range of sentences for the offenses charged, and that if you waive your right to counsel you will be bound by all the normal rules of procedure. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes."

Tom Moran blinked to stay awake, but he kept slipping into a dream. He couldn't find the pacifiers and the twins were about to be married. No one came to the wedding reception because he forgot the reception blankets. The twins and their husbands moved into the nursery, which remained unpainted because he ran out of Powder Puff.

"This matter is somewhat unusual in that it has already been submitted to the jury," the judge continued, "but I am holding this colloquy out of an abundance of caution. As far as scheduling, your letter requests this matter to proceed with dispatch. I will have the jury resume its deliberations as soon as this colloquy is over."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"Quite welcome." Judge Rudolph reached for his colloquy notes. He would go down the list and ask each question. By the last one, the Steere case would be back on track. It was finesse like this that destined Judge Rudolph for greatness. He eased his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and began with the first question.

50

Bennie and Emil walked down the wide hallway, past the huge mahogany door flanked by display cases and an etched-glass sign that read OFFICE OF THE MAYOR. Rose and gray marble wainscoting covered the walls. The corridor was empty and its marble floor lustrous as a casket.

Emil pointed left, down the hall. Double mahogany doors opened onto the middle of the corridor and TV lights poured from them, casting a bright parallelogram on the shiny floor. Laughter echoed from the room. "Another grip 'n' grin," Emil said. "Does this man want to be reelected or what?"

"I gather. Won't Pressman be there?"

"She only goes to some. She's probably in her office." Emil reached the door with a gold number painted next to it. "Let me do the talking. The secretary is a friend of mine. You stay behind me."

"Emil, I'm a foot taller than you. You can't hide a sequoia with an olive tree."

"Then we cover your face." Emil tugged Bennie's hat down. "To the left of the door is a waiting room. Sit there until I get past the secretary. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Don't be such a joker. Men don't like that."

"Then I'll stop. Right away."

"Hmph." Emil straightened his tie and opened the door onto a sparsely furnished secretary's area with high ceilings. It was empty except for a secretary who was fast asleep, propped up by her elbow on a desk that faced the door. Emil flashed Bennie a thumbs-up sign and pointed to the waiting area, which held a couch and two chairs around a small coffee table. Bennie marched obediently to the couch and sat down. To the left was a water cooler and a shelf of slots for mail. Down the hall must have been Pressman's private office.

"Flossie," Emil whispered. "Flossie?" He touched the secretary's arm and she woke up with a start.

"Oh. My. What?" The secretary's sleepiness vanished when she recognized Emil. "Emil, my goodness! I must have been snoozing on the job. How embarrassing!" She laughed nervously and patted a gold chain around her neck.

"That's all right. I sometimes doze off myself now that I'm on the night shift."

"Now I know how you feel. I was here all last night." She straightened her navy sweater and finger-combed her short brown hair. She looked middle-aged, with soft jowls around the laugh lines in her face. Snapshots of lithe Bengal cats covered her desk. "I don't know how you do it."

"Not very well. Sometimes I feel like a mole. How did your stuffed grape leaves turn out, by the way?"

"They were wonderful! I've been meaning to thank you. My daughter-in-law ate three and you know how picky she is. She reminds me of you-know-who. Her nibs." The secretary jerked a resentful thumb toward Pressman's office.

"I'm so pleased the grape leaves turned out well. You didn't fry the leaves too long, I hope. That is the secret."

"No," the secretary said, "I followed the recipe exactly. It was so much easier than I thought."

"Now, tell me, why have you been here all night, Flossie?" Emil's voice was honeyed as baklava. Back on the couch, Bennie rolled her eyes, wondering when he was going to get to the point.

"The snowstorm, of course. The snowplows. What a mess. The cats must be so upset. Smoochie can't sleep without me, poor thing."

"I understand completely. On night shift, I hardly see my wife or the girls. It's hard to get used to."

"I'm so mad about what they did to you, Emil. I never buy the News anymore."

"Flossie, my fight is not yours. Anyway, I don't mean to keep you, I wanted to see Jennifer. Is she in?"

"No." The secretary's lip curled. "She left a while ago. Just cut out and left. I have to stay because I'm a 'subordinate.' "

"What?"

"Don't get me started."

"Where did she go? I would like to see her."

"Home, supposedly, but we can't reach her there. I don't know." The secretary shook her head. "She'll probably be in soon, and you're welcome to sit and wait."

"If we must, we must. Thank you," Emil said graciously, but back at the couch, Bennie just growled.

51

The jurors sat at the conference table in the hotel in the same positions as they had in the deliberations room at the courthouse. The hotel conference room was large, modern, and windowed, like the one at the Criminal Justice Center, the legal pads sat stacked in the middle of the table, and the ice water tasted the same. In fact, the only difference between yesterday and today was that Christopher Graham had, to the astonishment of all, changed his vote. And shaved off his beard.

"You changed your vote?" asked Ralph Merry, his soft jowls draped around a mouth open in surprise. "You think we should convict Steere?"

"Absolutely," Christopher answered, with as much certainty as he could muster. "I vote guilty as charged."

Megan was amazed at the change in Christopher, and she wasn't thinking about his vote. Without his beard, Christopher's chin was strong, with a rugged cleft in it. His lips were full and nicely formed. He looked ten years younger, and thinner. Megan edged forward in her chair. "You shaved your beard?" she asked.

Ralph ignored her. "But, Christopher, yesterday you said we should acquit Steere. You've said he was innocent from the beginning. Why did you change your mind?"

Megan couldn't get over it, over him. The difference in Christopher was so awesome. He looked way hunky. "I think you look better without your beard."

Christopher smiled and shrugged happily. He felt better without his beard, like a new man with a fresh start. Lainie didn't want him and neither did Marta. Well, he was starting over, but he couldn't tell Megan that. "I don't know why I shaved, but I know why I changed my mind. I couldn't sleep all night. My conscience got to me."

"Your conscience?" Ralph asked in disbelief.

Gussella Williams looked crestfallen. "Christopher? You're changin' your vote? You're not puttin' us on?" Her large features collapsed into a frown that broke Christopher's heart, He paused, uncertain, and scanned the jurors one by one. The pain on Gussella's face was reflected on almost every juror around the table. They were even wearing their Sunday best, dressed up to go home today. Christopher felt terrible keeping them from their families, especially Mrs. Wahlbaum, who looked at him last, her eyes hooded in disappointment.

"Do you mean this, Christopher?" she asked, uncomprehending. She couldn't have felt worse if her best student flunked a midterm. "Please explain this to me."

Christopher reminded himself of his purpose and bore down. He would tell the truth, in a way. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wahlbaum. I'm sorry, all of you, but I think Steere belongs in jail. He's a dangerous man. A murderer."

Smack! Kenny Manning slapped a loud high five with Lucky Seven, but theirs was the only joyous reaction. The other jurors remained puzzled.

"For real?" Nick asked. He was surprised. He woke up this morning all calm. Now he was getting all nervous again. Last night he knew just how to vote. Antoinetta visited him and told him what to do. He should vote not guilty. It would be over sooner if he did and go better for him in the neighborhood. Now Nick was all confused.

"But why?" Mrs. Wahlbaum asked. "You have to have some sort of rationale. Please explain."

Christopher cleared his throat. He'd spent all night rehearsing. "I don't agree with what Steere did. I don't understand why he just didn't drive away. If a man came up to me and I was in my truck, I'd drive away."

"Damn right," Lucky Seven said.

Mrs. Wahlbaum frowned. "Mr. Steere was frightened. In fear of his life, as you said. I thought you showed a real understanding of the situation yesterday."

"I hadn't thought it out yesterday. I needed to sleep on it."

"But you were so perceptive. So sensitive."

Christopher looked as uncomfortable as he felt. "I guess my conscience got to me. Steere shouldn't have just shot the poor man in cold blood."

Mrs. Wahlbaum's penciled eyebrows drooped. "Mr. Steere panicked. He didn't know what to do. It was a biological reaction, for self-preservation."

Martin Fogel folded his skinny arms. "She's a biologist now," he said, but Christopher ignored him and stood up at the head of the conference table, in front of a large window. The snowstorm was still going strong. Snowflakes fell from the gray sky on an already whitened city. The room was quiet and the snow muffled what little noise there was outside.

"It doesn't make sense that Steere was that afraid," Christopher said, as he stood behind his chair. "Why was he so afraid? The poor man was obviously homeless. Drunk to boot."

Megan couldn't take her eyes from Christopher. His shoulders looked so broad in front of the hotel window. She had on her best Urban Decay makeup, thinking she'd get back on-line today. But when she looked at the new Christopher, Megan suddenly stopped missing her computer.

"I wonder if Steere was afraid of the knife," Ralph Merry answered dryly. "My guess is that the knife had something to do with it. Besides, the man was a carjacker, not a hobo or something."

"But the man was drunk," Christopher countered. "He couldn't have used a knife."

Ralph shook his head. "Christopher, the defense proved the carjacker wasn't that drunk. Remember that expert? The carjacker's blood alcohol showed he wasn't dead drunk. He could still have done some damage with a knife like that."

"I disagree," Christopher said. "It was an empty threat, and Steere killed him for it."

Lucky Seven grinned, and Kenny Manning crossed his arms. "Man's goin' down," Kenny said, nodding.

Christopher's head bobbed in unison with his new allies. "Also, why didn't Steere take the stand? Why didn't he just get up there and testify? Tell his side of the story?"

"We aren't permitted to consider that," Mrs. Wahlbaum said. "Mr. Steere had a right not to take the stand. We're not supposed to hold it against him."

"I know, but I can't help wondering," Christopher said. "Think about it, Mrs. Wahlbaum. We took an oath. We have to find the truth. It's our responsibility to wonder why somebody has something to hide."

"We're supposed to deliberate using what the judge told us," she insisted. "We have to look at the law and the evidence."

"But at the end of the day, it's our conscience," Christopher said as firmly as possible. He pointed to his chest beneath his flannel shirt and it made him feel even more emphatic. "We have to make the decision and we have to live with it."

"Thas' right," Lucky Seven said. "Everybody else, they go right on. The judge and lawyers go to the nex' case. We the ones, we got to live with it."

Christopher nodded. "Why did Steere shoot him? Why didn't he just hit him— clock him— and drive away? Or if he had to shoot him, why didn't he shoot him in the shoulder or someplace else that wouldn't kill the poor guy? Instead, he shot to kill."

"Coulda done a million things," said Lucky Seven, and Christopher nodded again.

The jurors' heads wheeled back and forth.

"Right," Christopher said. "Exactly. I know how you all feel and I felt the same way yesterday. But here's something all of us are forgetting. A homeless man is dead today because of Elliot Steere. A man is dead. Nobody can bring him back."

The room fell silent suddenly. Megan glanced at Mrs. Wahlbaum, who pursed her lips. Nick took a shaky sip of water. Wanthida looked down.

Only Gussella looked at her fellow jurors with undisguised scorn. She wasn't about to miss another week with her grandson. When babies were that young, they grew so fast, and Gussella wanted to hold that little boy in her arms. She could feel his softness against her skin, a warm bundle. Chubby arms to snuggle around her neck. Little fingers to coo over. A crinkly Pampers on that little butt. She couldn't wait a minute longer. "Are you all crazy? That man done wrong! He was tryin' to rob Steere's car! He held a knife to Steere's throat! We all saw how his lawyer showed it. He cut Steere right in his face!"

"Under his eye," Mrs. Wahlbaum added. "Mr. Steere could have lost his sight."

Mr. Fogel said, "Thank you, Dr. Wahlbaum. She's an eye doctor now."

Christopher faced them all. "Yes, that's all true. Everything you say is true about what that man did. But the question we have to answer is, did he deserve to die for it? Would you have killed him for it?"

"Damn," Lucky Seven said softly, and even Mrs. Wahlbaum looked like she was thinking twice.

Ralph Merry looked from face to face and worry crept over him. The jurors could go south on him. Christopher might be able to reach them in that down-home way he had. Christopher might be able to talk them into changing their votes, even though they were so close to acquitting. He might hold out and force a hung jury. He could wear them down.

Ralph considered his options and chose the one that made the most sense. He had to nip this sucker in the bud, before the worm started to turn. The jurors had gotten up expecting to go home and thought they were just an hour or two from a unanimous vote to acquit. Even Kenny Manning had acted less cocky than usual at breakfast. The brothers were breaking ranks. Ralph had the Big Mo, like George Bush used to say.

Ralph checked his watch. 11:10.

He'd have this sucker over with by lunch-time. The jurors wanted to acquit and he had to clinch the verdict. He'd blitz this battle like General Schwarzkopf. Get in, kick ass, and get out. This was his own personal Desert Storm. After all, he had a deal to live up to. With a killer. "Anybody else need a bathroom break?" Ralph asked, trying to sound casual.

52

Marta stood on the sunny shoulder of Route 72 in front of a sooty, pitted mound of snow. Purse on shoulder, she was thumbing a ride. She wanted to suppress the déjà vu but it was inescapable: Marta was back beside a highway, surrounded by snowy woods. Waving, hoping, begging a ride. Familiarity and fear flooded her, undeniable. She was terrified to do this again.

Please, sir! Please stop!

An oil truck with a long silver tank headed down the highway. Marta held up her hand but couldn't bring herself to flag down the truck. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her muscles refused to respond. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt dizzy and broke into a sweat.

Please, sir! Please!

The oil tanker rumbled closer. Its tank glistened like a bullet in the sun. Marta had to catch it. She tried to wave but her arm still wouldn't move.

Please, sir. Please stop!

Please stop. Please don't. The oil tanker roared closer. The driver with the glasses was almost upon her. She could feel his hand on her knee. Sliding up her thigh. Fear rippled through her limbs. Her knees buckled. She wanted to panic and run. She was trapped in the station wagon. Open the door. Run out. Run away. Run away.

Then she blinked. The driver with the glasses had vanished, replaced by a trucker with a beefy face. He wore a white uniform, not a tie and jacket. He wasn't the man in the station wagon. Marta swallowed her anxiety and waved. Hard, then harder. Pumping away wildly.

"Please stop!" she heard herself shout. The voice was hers, not her mother's. The gesture was her own, too. Marta wasn't a liar or a drunk. Her car really had broken down. She really did need a ride. She jumped up and down, almost slipping in the slush. Yelling at the top of her lungs. She didn't care. She had to get him to stop. And she felt free, absolutely free.

"Please STOP!" she cried, but her shout was swallowed up in the Doppler effect of the huge rig as it roared past her. Marta jumped to avoid the fan of gray slush it sprayed in its wake. She stopped trembling as the truck rolled down the empty highway, shrank into a silver speck, and finally disappeared into thin, cold air.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Marta was in a blue Dodge Omni inching down Route 72. An older woman was at the wheel, going to Philly to visit her divorced daughter. The ride should have been a lucky break, but less than a mile down the highway Marta regretted ever accepting it. It was 11:30, and she could have walked to Philly faster. "Are you sure I can't put the radio on?" Marta asked, trying again. She had to know what was going on. Was the jury still out? Were the cops after her?

"No radio," the woman replied flatly. She was about sixty-five years old, with a cap of straight gray hair yellowing in the front. She could barely see over the wheel, which she squeezed with arthritic knuckles. A skinny brown cigarette dangled from her lips, dusting her thin cloth coat with ashes.

"Not even for a minute or two?"

"No radio."

"Why not?"

"It's my car and I don't like radio. I don't like music."

"I didn't want to listen to music, either. I want to hear the news. I have to hear the news."

"No radio." The woman shook her head, her chin tilted up as the car crept along. "I don't like news. I never listen to news. If news comes on TV, I change the channel. At lunchtime I watch my stories. You know why? All the news is bad."

"Don't you want to hear the weather report? It's a snowstorm."

"I look out the window, that's my weather report." The woman sucked on the cigarette and her hollow cheeks got even hollower. "If it's raining I get my umbrella. If it's snowing I get my Totes. What's so hard?"

"But there's a blizzard in Philly," Marta said, about to explode. "You need a traffic report. Don't you want to know what routes to take to see your daughter?"

"I know how to get to my own daughter's."

"What if you can't get through because of the snow?"

"I'll get through. If my daughter needs me, I'll get through." The woman blew out a puff of smoke that rolled onto the dashboard like a wave. Acrid smoke filled the compact car, and Marta rolled down her window a crack. "Don't do that!" the woman snapped. "It's freezing out."

"Sorry." Marta rolled the window up. Her nose stung. Her eyes watered. She sweated inside her coat and snowpants. At this speed, they'd never get to Philly. If not for her motion sickness, Marta wouldn't know they were in motion.

"Keep that window shut! I'm older than you, not as strong." She flicked some ash into an ashtray crowded with crushed butts and looked over. Her brown eyes were reproachful behind her pink-framed bifocals. "I'll catch my death."

"It's so smoky in here."

"Oh, one of those, are you? Smokers have rights, too, you know. It's discrimination! In the Pancake House, the smokers have to sit by themselves. On the nonsmokers' side, they could have anybody there. They could have drug addicts there, or tuberculosis people. They don't have a sign saying NO DRUG ADDICTS, do they?"

Marta smiled, almost persuaded. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke, depriving her brain of oxygen. She peered out the window through the carbon monoxide. The trees dripped melting snow, and their car was so poky Marta had time to identify each tree. It took her until Pennsauken to persuade the woman to turn on the goddamn radio, and a few minutes into the news, Marta picked up a report on the trial:

"This is Howard Rattner reporting from the Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia. The jury is expected to return this morning from deliberations in the murder trial of real estate developer Elliot Steere. The jury has been out only a matter of hours, and court observers expect it to return soon with a verdict of acquittal. Legal experts say the jury should know nothing of the murders last night of two security guards in the offices of Rosato and Associates, the all-woman law firm defending Mr. Steere."

Marta tried to stay calm. Good, the jury was still out. Christopher had delayed them successfully. Maybe he could persuade them to convict. She couldn't give up hope.

"In a related story," continued the reporter, "no developments in the status of two of the lawyers formerly defending this murder case. Elliot Steere's former lead counsel, Marta Richter, is still missing and her whereabouts are unknown. Another defense lawyer, Mary DiNunzio, remains in intensive care, fighting for her life. As we reported, Miss DiNunzio was shot in the early morning hours by an unknown assailant and spent the night in surgery."

Marta sat stricken, reeling as they went though a tollbooth.

"Told you, it's always bad news," said the old woman. "Murder. Killing. That's all they put on. That's all that matters to them." The woman moved to turn the radio off, but Marta grabbed her hand.

"No, stop. I need to hear this."

"All right, fine." The woman quickly withdrew her hand. "Don't get excited."

Marta turned up the volume. The reporter said, "The police have no suspects in connection with the shooting of attorney Mary DiNunzio. We'll keep you posted as events unfold both in and out of the courtroom. Back to you, Jane, for the latest on the blizzard that has buried the Delaware Valley."

Marta tried to get a grip. Mary, shot? What had happened? Had Bogosian done it? How? Marta didn't know what to do. She felt shaken, torn. She was drawn to see Mary, but she'd be recognized and taken in if she went to the hospital. The press would be everywhere. Everything would be lost. No, not the hospital. Not to Alix Locke, either. Suddenly Marta knew where she had to go.

53

Ralph Merry ducked into a stall in the men's room, unbuckled his pants, and dropped trou. His white boxers stretched between his knees, and the packet they'd sent to Ralph's wife was taped inside the waistband. He'd carried the damn thing every day like they told him to. He'd felt like a secret agent taping the packet to his skivvies in the morning, but now he was glad he had. He would never have guessed Christopher would pull a Benedict Arnold. The man turned out to be just plain weak.

The packet was tiny and plastic, no bigger than a thumbnail, and it contained white powder. Ralph didn't know what the powder was, but they told him it wouldn't kill anybody, just give him a stomachache for a day or two, long enough to get him off the jury. They told Ralph to use it if he got in a jam. Ralph figured this was a jam all right.

The urinals flushed as he peeled the packet off the waistband, leaving white threads stuck to the tape. Ralph threw the tape in the toilet and tucked the packet under his sleeve, like he practiced with his wife during the conjugal visit when she brought it. It was so easy to smuggle it in; of course it wasn't picked up by the metal detector. Ralph had realized what a cakewalk it would be to smuggle drugs into the country. The United States had to do a better job protecting its borders; it was a question of integrity, national integrity. Ralph double-checked the packet under his shirt cuff and pulled up his pants.

"Ralph, you fall in?" asked the sheriff, who was standing by the door.

"Nah, I'm good to go." Ralph flushed the toilet for show and opened the stall door.

54

Marta sat in Judy's apartment, sickened as the shaken associate told her the details of Mary's shooting. So Marta hadn't been able to keep the associates safe; they were both in it up to their eyeballs. And judging from the time Mary had been shot, it couldn't have been Bogosian that did it; he was in Long Beach Island around that time. Steere must have sent someone else. Someone who must be out there, waiting. Marta had set in motion something she couldn't control, jeopardizing them all. It had gone too far. She was spent after the long, exhausting night. It had to stop.

"Wait until you see Darning's notebook," Judy was saying, from the stool at the kitchen counter. A small TV sat on the counter on low volume; the news covered the snowstorm continuously. A blue bag of Chips Ahoy sat open-mouthed next to the TV.

"No, I don't want to see it. I don't care about the notebook. I care about you and Mary."

Judy blinked at the unexpected sentiment. Erect? "The notebook could lead to why Steere killed Darning."

"Not our concern," Marta said. Her manner grew calm suddenly. She felt centered, more in control than when she was a control freak, ironically. "We'll take the notebook and file to the police. Tell them we want protection, too."

"Did you say 'file'?" Judy straightened up on the stool. "What file?"

"It doesn't matter." Marta hadn't told Judy anything about the buried treasure or Bogosian. It was safer if she didn't know. "This has gotten way out of hand. Trust me."

"Now you sound like Bennie."

"Rosato? She knows about the notebook?"

"She's concerned about my ethics. I'm out of a job."

Marta winced. She'd gotten one kid shot, and one ruined. "We'll take the notebook and the file to the police. Leave the whole thing to them."

"Is that the file you mean? That envelope there?" Judy eased off the stool and pointed to the manila envelope peeking from Marta's purse.

"People are dead. Mary's been shot. No file is worth that."

"Mary's the reason I want to see that file. She wanted justice, and so do I. Don't you? Isn't that why you went after Steere in the first place?"

Marta felt a twinge. "Not in the beginning, don't kid yourself. It was jealousy, not justice. My motives were impure."

"So you did the right thing for the wrong reason. It doesn't make any difference now. Steere killed Darning. We have a notebook that could prove it. Now could I see that file?"

"It's too late." Marta stood up, grabbed her purse, and zipped up her heavy coat. "Let's go. You're in danger as long as you have that notebook. We both are."

"We worked all night for this evidence. It's better than anything the cops have done. What's in the envelope? What kind of file?"

"Nothing. I don't even understand it. Maybe the cops will. Come on, pack up. Let's go."

Judy folded her arms and stood her ground. "Wait. I'll make a deal with you. Let me see that file. You look at the notebook. If we learn nothing in five minutes, we go straight to the cops. I promise."

"No."

"We've come this far. What have we got to lose? Five minutes?"

"I don't care. Get your coat. We're outta here." Marta headed for the door, but Judy stepped in front and blocked her path to the door. The two lawyers stood toe to toe.

Marta laughed abruptly. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead. I'm like a be-bop clown. I pop right up."

Judy paused, unwilling to resort to striking Marta, though she'd fantasized about it during the trial.

"Excellent choice." Marta sidestepped the associate and headed to the door. "Get your coat, kiddo."

"I don't think so," Judy called after her. "I won't go with you unless you give me the five minutes. If you go to the cops now, you go alone. Without me or the notebook."

Marta stopped in her tracks and turned around, incredulous. "Where did you learn shit like that?"

"From the master, of course," Judy answered, with a gap-toothed grin.

55

The sequestration hotel had plied the jurors with a breakfast tray of bagels, Danish, and coffee, set on a credenza in the conference room. Ralph Merry hovered over the leftover food and coffee. He'd eaten the same cherry Danish every day for two months and he couldn't wait to check out of this place. First thing he'd do was travel and stay in better hotels than this one. Maybe take a cruise, too, with the wife. But right now he had a mission to complete.

Ralph shook a Styrofoam cup from the upside-down stack next to a bronze plastic jug of coffee. He kept his back to the jurors, who were sitting around the table listening to Christopher yammer like a bleeding heart. Ralph couldn't tell how many of them were buying it. He had to assume a worst-case scenario. There was no margin for error. Zero tolerance. He couldn't cross a man like Elliot Steere.

"Who wants more coffee?" Ralph boomed. "Anybody else for fresh coffee while I'm buying? How about you, Mrs. Wahlbaum? Mrs. Williams?" Ralph kept his voice cheery, like he was barbecuing with his wife and grandkids. Who wants hot dogs? Who wants hamburgers? Same thing.

"I'd love some coffee, Ralph," Mrs. Wahlbaum said.

Ralph grinned. "No problemo, young lady. How would you like it?"

"Extra cream and sugar."

"Roger dodger, my dear." Ralph poured Mrs. Wahlbaum a tall cup of coffee. Steam curled from the top. "Christopher? Want another cup of hot brew?"

Christopher looked at his Styrofoam cup. It was empty and he'd had enough coffee for the morning. "I guess not. Thanks anyway."

A miss. "Come on, Christopher. If you're gonna convince me to convict that rat bastard, you're gonna need some hair on your chest."

Megan laughed. "No way, Ralph. Christopher's trying to get rid of unwanted hair. Right, Christopher?"

"There you go," Christopher said with a smile. He liked the way Megan was looking at him. She was a pretty girl except for the blue-painted fingernails, but he supposed they were considered sophisticated in Philly.

"Christopher," Ralph said gruffly. He glanced from Christopher to Megan and didn't like what he saw. No time for tomfoolery like this. "Have some coffee. I'll pour one for you and Megan, too."

"Okay, I'm addicted to coffee," Megan said. "I get the latte at Starbucks. Do you like Starbucks coffee, Christopher?"

"I never tried it," he answered. He had to get out more. "But I'll take a cup, too, Ralph."

KABOOM! A direct hit on the second shot. Cheered, Ralph picked up the plastic pitcher and began to pour. "How do you take it, soldier?"

"Cream and sugar."

Ralph filled Christopher's cup with hot coffee and slipped the packet of powder from under his cuff. He palmed the packet, grabbed two packs of sugar, and tore the end off all three together. Then he poured the sugar and the powder into the hot coffee, stirred with a plastic stick, and tucked the leftover plastic back under his cuff. His heart thudded as watched the powder dissolve, but he was no coward. His resolve didn't waver.

"Don't forget mine, extra sugar and cream," called Mrs. Wahlbaum.

"Got you covered, young lady," Ralph said. He set Christopher's coffee aside so he wouldn't get it confused with the others, and poured the other coffees.

"How about me, Ralph?" Wanthida asked. "I take mine black."

"Hold your horses, darlin'. Christopher asked first and he's the foreman. He's the one doin' all the work." Ralph picked up Christopher's coffee, walked over to the table, and handed it to him. "See if I put enough sugar in, Chris."

Christopher took a quick sip. "It tastes great. Thanks, Ralph. Appreciate it."

"Sure thing," Ralph said, and had to remind himself that Christopher wouldn't die. He'd just get a tummy ache and spend some time in sick bay. He'd be out in two days, after the verdict was in and Steere had walked. Ralph would hold up his end of the bargain. The payoff would be deposited in a special account. Ralph couldn't wait to call his literary agent. They damn well better put his picture on the cover. "Let me get those other coffees," he said, and hustled away.

56

Marta only reluctantly skimmed the list of handwritten numbers in Darning's notebook and half wondered if they represented money or account numbers. There were no patterns she could discern. The police would do better. "Three minutes left, kiddo," she said, testy at the associate sitting next to her on the futon.

"Four minutes." Judy hunched over the computer file spread on the coffee table. "You're right about this file. These are records used to make driver's licenses. It's a database, a computer file of driver's licenses."

"It doesn't tell us anything, and I have no idea what the notebook means. It's a bunch of eight-digit numbers. That's it. Two minutes and we roll."

"These numbers are eight digits, too."

"What numbers?"

"The numbers at the top of each field," Judy answered, pointing. "The operator's numbers, from the driver's licenses."

Marta looked over. The way the numbers were spaced, she hadn't noticed. Hmm. "Probably just a coincidence. There are about four thousand records in the computer file. How many numbers are in the notebook?"

Judy looked at Marta in astonishment. "About four thousand. Holy shit," she said, but Marta tried not to jump to conclusions.

"So there are four thousand numbers in the notebook and four thousand driver's licenses in the file. We don't know if there's a connection."

"Connection? What connection could there be?"

Marta paused, thinking. "It's possible that the notebook is related to the file. If the notebook is a list of numbers and each computer record has an operator's number, then maybe the notebook is a list of the operator's numbers from the computer file."

Judy's eyes widened. "You think they match? Like a copy?"

"Possibly." Despite her better judgment, Marta felt a jolt of excitement. "If so, we should be able to find each of the operator's numbers in the notebook. Read me a number from one of the driver's licenses."

Judy picked up the top computer page. "22 746 209."

Marta scanned the list of numbers on the first page of the notebook with Judy looking over her shoulder. Two sets of keen eyes raced down the page. "Too bad they're not listed in any order." Marta asked, "Do you see it on the first page?"

"Nope."

"On to the next." Marta turned the page and they both skimmed the list on the second page. Judy was obviously excited, though Marta was trying not to get carried away with her. It felt strange to work so closely with an associate, and not entirely unpleasant. "See it on page two?"

"Nope."

"Onward and upward." They read page three and continued, page after page, until they reached page ten. There, in the middle of the page, sandwiched in the middle of the list on the left, it said:

22746209

"Yes!" Judy shouted in delight. "We figured it out! We're geniuses."

Marta laughed. "Oh, yeah? Then what's it mean, whiz kid?"

"I have no idea. What do you think?"

Marta paused. She considered going to the cops. They were so close. "Give me that sheet. I want to see who number 22746209 is."

Judy showed her the computer sheet. There was a field of information and a photo of an older white man with a faint smile. "It's William Swenson. 708 Greentree Court, Philadelphia."

"Set Mr. Swenson aside and read me another number. Let's not go off half cocked. We only matched one of them."

"Okay. 92294593,"Judy read, then hung on Marta's shoulder as she thumbed back to page one of the notebook. "Beginning at the beginning, huh?"

"I'm nothing if not methodical."

"That's one word for it."

Marta glanced over her shoulder. "Read, kiddo." They went down the lists on the first page and the second, and stopped at the list on the fifth page. There it was:

92294593

"Awesome!" Judy almost cheered.

"Totally."

Judy laughed. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor."

"I don't. Tell me who Mr. 92 is."

Judy looked at the second driver's license on the sheet. The face of a middle-aged woman squinted behind bifocals. "She's Helen Minton of Rhawn Street, in Philly."

"Set her aside. Check five more, then I'll believe the theory."

"I'm sure we're right."

"You're young and impetuous. Now read."

Judy read Marta another number, which the lawyers found in Darning's notebook, then four more after that. They found each number in the notebook and set aside each license when they matched it. "Now what?" Judy bubbled when they were finished.

"We call them up."

"What? Why?"

"To see what we can learn." Marta checked her watch. Almost one. No time to lose. She picked up the portable phone. "Hand me the first sheet, then get me a phone book. Hurry up."

"You like to give orders, don't you?"

"Love it. Get the book."

Judy reached under the end table for the phone book. "It makes you feel powerful."

"I am powerful."

"But people don't like to be bossed around."

"Your point is?" Marta asked slyly, and Judy threw the phone book at her.

* * *

"Is this the Swenson residence?" Marta asked, with the associate sitting close enough to hear the voice on the telephone receiver. She felt strangely silly, like they were schoolgirls making phony phone calls. In a way, they were.

"This is the Swensons'," said the woman on the other end of the line.

"May I speak to William Swenson, please?"

"That would be my husband."

"Is he in?"

"He's dead. My husband is dead."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Marta said, caught off-balance, and Judy deflated like a hot air balloon.

"He died in a car accident four years ago. A drunk driver crossed the median."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you. Can I help you with something?"

"No, thank you," Marta said. "Thanks again for your time." She pressed down the plastic hook. "Read me the next phone number."

"Say please."

"Before the jury gets back."

"I hear you," Judy said quickly, and read off the number.

* * *

Marta punched in the phone number, albeit in a darker mood. She had to solve this thing and she had to solve it soon. She couldn't shake the thoughts of Bogosian or Mary. Was there a killer out there now? Waiting? "Is this the Minton residence?" she asked when a young woman picked up.

"Yes."

"May I speak with Helen Minton?"

"That's not very funny, you know. You're a real jerk, whoever you are."

"Excuse me? What? I have to speak with Helen Minton."

"No joke?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"My mother was murdered," the woman said with the flatness of deep anger.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Marta said. What was going on here? "I'm very sorry."

"I thought everybody knew, at least around here. She was killed in the pharmacy during a holdup. The scum who shot her just got to court. Sitting there every day with his fancy lawyer, tryin' to beat the rap."

Marta couldn't ignore the pang she felt. "I'm sorry. Really sorry."

"Almost four years later, to the day. That animal had four more years than my mother."

"I'm sorry. I wish you the best. Thanks," Marta said and hung up quickly. Hadn't the other woman said four years, too? What did it mean? It seemed too coincidental. Marta was almost there, she could feel it. "Read me the next number. Quick."

Judy recited the number and Marta punched it in. "Is this the Jacobs residence?"

"Yes," said a young man's brusque voice.

Marta braced herself. "May I speak to Sherry Jacobs, please?"

"Nope. Sherry died about four years ago."

Marta stopped. Four years. Bingo. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Sherry wasn't the nicest person in the world. I'm her brother-in-law, take it from me. She used to torture my wife somethin' awful. 'You're too this, you're too that.' She could be a real bitch."

"I see."

"She left all her money to a dog, can you believe it? Put my wife through the wringer and left two hundred grand to a Welsh corgi. The only good thing she ever did was die and give her body to science. I feel sorry for the schmo who gets her heart. It's empty."

"What?"

"Her heart. Sherry was an organ donor. Now what did you say your name was?"

* * *

Marta tried another number with a new attitude. "Is this the Walters residence?"

"Yes," said a woman's voice. Someone was playing piano in the background. "But I'm giving a lesson now."

"Just one minute, we're checking our records. Is it true that one Ronald Walters passed away four years ago?"

"Thereabouts. Yes."

"Was Mr. Walters an organ donor?"

"Why, yes."

"Thank you very much," Marta said and hung up.

57

Christopher's stomach was killing him. Pain shot through his gut like buckshot. He'd never had cramps like this before. He gulped his coffee but it didn't help. He wanted to roll over and die.

"Let's deal with the testimony, friends," Ralph was saying. He stood at the other end of the conference table and drew in Magic Marker on a wipe-off board on an easel. The thick black lines wiggled before Christopher's eyes and he blinked to bring it back into focus. It looked like a star or a triangle or something. The lines wouldn't stay put.

"Ralph, what is that?" Christopher heard himself say. His voice sounded weak, and Megan looked over with a concerned frown.

"You okay, Christopher?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Sure." It hurt to talk but Christopher didn't want them to know that. He'd get sent home or kicked off the jury or who knows what would happen. He had to stay here and convince them. "You were saying, Ralph?"

Ralph pointed to the easel with his finger. "It's a diagram of the carjacking. Point A shows where Steere stopped his Mercedes. Point B is the pillar under the bridge where the carjacker was hiding. The testimony is that this is a distance of five feet at the most. Correct?"

The jurors nodded. Christopher watched their heads bobbing like a herd of horses. He felt so damn sick. He took another swallow of coffee, avoiding Megan's eye. She really looked worried. Lainie had never looked that worried about him.

"Now," Ralph continued, "what I'm saying is that if I were the driver of the car and somebody jumped out of the pillar that close at me, I couldn't even think about what to do. There would be no time, like that Marta Richter showed us."

"I agree with you, Ralph," Mrs. Wahlbaum said. "You'd have to react in a split second. You wouldn't have time to think. You wouldn't have time to consider your alternatives."

Christopher struggled through the pain, which was worsening. He wanted to grab his stomach. He was supposed to be convincing the jury to convict Steere.

"You sure as hell wouldn't," Ralph said. "Not with a knife at your throat."

"It's a natural instinct," Mrs. Wahlbaum added, nodding her gray head. "Flight or fight. Even animals have it."

Mr. Fogel smirked. "A zoologist now. Is there anything this woman does not understand? Any area of science, mathematics, or philosophy that she's not an expert in?"

Mrs. Wahlbaum's head wheeled around and she finally exploded. "So what do you think, buster? Every day for two months I've listened to you criticize me. All you do is criticize. You never say one thing for yourself. You're all negatives and no positives."

Christopher looked between Mrs. Wahlbaum and Mr. Fogel. Don't fight, we have to convict, he wanted to say. Don't be tired. We have time. His gut twisted like a wrung-out rag. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

Mr. Fogel blinked behind his thick glasses. "You want to know what I think, Miss Know-It-All? I'll tell you. I'm the expert on just one thing. I'm the expert on time. And I, for one, have given enough time to this trial. I have been here seventy-two days, two hours, and" —Mr. Fogel checked his Timex— "twenty-three minutes. The way I see it, that's too much time!"

Ralph clapped heartily. "Hear hear!"

Support seemed to embolden the watchmaker, who stood up at his seat, tall and straight as an hour hand. "I'm not giving a day more of my time. Not an hour more, not even a minute more. I want to go home. I want to drive my own car. I want to talk on my own phone. I want to go into my shop and fix Mrs. Millstein's clock, which I owe her from September. We listened to the witnesses, the lawyers, and the judge. Now it's time for them to listen to us." And then Mr. Fogel sat down.

The jurors started applauding, Gussella loudest of all. Megan clapped, too, less enthusiastically because Christopher wasn't clapping. His face was turning gray and he leaned to the right. "Chris?" she said softly.

Nick's lower lip began to tremble. "I wish I could see my wife. I want to go home, too."

Mrs. Wahlbaum patted his suit sleeve. "I miss Abe. He has a hard time all by himself, the shopping and the cooking. It's his knees."

"Lord, I got to see my little grandbaby!" Gussella shouted, so loud that Wanthida jumped.

"We all want this over with," Wanthida said in accented English, "and we think Mr. Steere innocent. We should vote and go home."

"Not all of us would vote for acquittal," Ralph said, though he couldn't have been happier. The war was almost won and he'd taken out the opposing general. The only problem was Kenny Manning. Time to attack, when his enemy was weakest. "Kenny, what do you think? You still would vote to convict?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Kenny said, cocking his head.

"It's up to you, friend. I'm the first one to say that we all respect your right to vote however you want. I'm not tryin' to put pressure on you. If you want to talk about it longer we will. I'm here to tell you that you have a right to satisfaction."

Christopher saw it all slipping away. Marta. The conviction. Somebody was pounding hoof nails through his stomach. Megan was saying something to him but he replied only with a gurgling sound the jurors didn't hear. They were all looking down the table at Isaiah, who suddenly cleared his throat and hunched over the table, meeting Kenny's glare head-on.

"My fiancée's pregnant, man," Isaiah said, his voice low. "If I don't get outta here soon and get her down an aisle, she's gonna get her heart broke. And her momma's. She don't want to be showin' in front of the whole church, and I don't blame her neither."

"Shit, man," Lucky Seven said, hanging his head. "Why'n't you say somethin'?"

"She told me last night, durin' the visit. I'm sorry, Kenny, I'd like to go with you. I know how you feel about convictin' Steere, and you might be in the right. But I don't blame the man and I can't stand with you, bro. I can't even take the time to fight with you about it. I got to take care of my family. I got to get home."

Kenny just glared back; then his dark eyes slid over to Lucky Seven, who threw up his hands like he'd been held up. "Don't look at me, man," Lucky Seven said, from between large palms. "It's up to you. I go with you, you know that."

"Christopher?" Megan said in alarm. She rose to her feet and was almost at his side as a wave of agony wracked Christopher and he collapsed in his chair.

58

Ten phone calls later, Marta sat at the edge of the futon, her thoughts racing. "So what have we learned?"

Judy sat slumped into the white cloth cushions. A carton of milk was wedged between her legs. Crumbs were sprinkled across her gray sweats. "We learned that we're terrible people, intruding on the privacy of the bereft."

"What else?"

"That all the people we called are dead."

"And all died violently or by accident."

"Yes. In the City of Brotherly Love."

"And all died a little over four years ago. And they were organ donors."

Judy took a slug of milk. "A file of organ donors. That's why it didn't show up on the computer fields. The whole file is of organ donors."

"What do you mean?"

"In Pennsylvania, you can tell by someone's driver's license if they want to be an organ donor." Judy crossed to the counter, retrieved her wallet, and handed her driver's license to Marta. "See? It says right there. I'm an organ donor. Aren't you?"

"Of course not." Marta looked down at the small plastic card. Under an unflattering photo of Judy it said in bright green letters, ORGAN DONOR. Like a grisly caption. "How disgusting."

"No it isn't. Everyone should be a donor. You know how many people die each day waiting for an organ transplant? I signed up at City Hall. They have an organ drive every year."

"City Hall does?"

"Sure. It's run by the mayor's office. It started when the mayor was D.A."

"When did you sign up?"

"A long time ago."

"When, exactly?"

"Must have been five years ago. They had a big drive. The whole office went. We were at Stalling and Webb then, Mary and I."

Marta felt suddenly antsy and rose from the futon. Her ribs were killing her, but she had to pace to think more clearly. She had her best ideas pacing or in the shower; if she could pace in the shower she'd be attorney general. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me the mayor's office has a list of organ donors in Philadelphia."

"I guess. The donor drives are a high-profile thing. The city runs it with the local organ donor organization."

"The mayor can monitor deaths of organ donors in the city?"

"I suppose so. City Hall could tap into a network of organ donors. I think it's a public organization that runs the network. I doubt it's even confidential information."

Marta paced back and forth. "Assume City Hall connects up with the network, so they know when an organ donor dies. Some of the donors die right before the mayoral election. Their deaths get reported because their driver's license says they want to be donors."

Judy followed Marta's line of reasoning. "Their deaths don't show up in enough time to take them off the voter registration rolls. City Hall finds out first because they're hooked up with the information." The associate paused, momentarily stumped. "But why would they do that? Why would they care?"

Marta's eyes met Judy's. "Ten to one, Mr. Swenson and Mrs. Minton voted in the last election. And Jacobs and Walters. All of them, on all those driver's licenses. They all voted even though they were dead."

"How? How would they physically go and vote?" Judy frowned and Marta resumed pacing.

"Good question." Judy was more able than Marta had realized; it was almost better working together. "Maybe somebody pretends to be them and votes for them."

"Not possible," Judy said, shaking her head. "There are women and men. Some are white, some are black. They're all different. You can't vote without somebody seeing you."

Marta froze. "Yes you can. An absentee ballot. Somebody makes out absentee ballots for them. Somebody finds out they're dead before anybody else knows it— because of the donor card— and makes out absentee ballots for them. They have their signature right on the license, and they forge the ballot. That's why they need the licenses on file. Because the licenses have the signature and they have to sign the ballot."

Judy's mouth fell open. It all fit together. "Street money."

"Somebody gets paid to file an absentee ballot in the name of the organ donor."

"Eb Darning would be the somebody."

"Bingo," Marta said quietly, and suddenly she saw it all. Steere's scheme, perfectly planned and executed, years in the making. Steere had paid Eb Darning to file absentee ballots in the last election, undoubtedly voting against his enemy, the mayor. But Steere didn't anticipate that Eb would keep his own proof of the deal. Darning must have been blackmailing Steere, and Steere killed him for it. "Get the file and notebook," Marta said. "We have to get going."

"What? Where? To the cops?"

"No time for that. To court."

59

Bennie sat sweltering in her parka, growing increasingly impatient as she and Emil waited for Jennifer Pressman in the chief of staff's office. There was no alternative to waiting, but it went against Bennie's nature to sit on her hands. She'd excused herself twice already to prowl the corridors of City Hall, opening office doors and checking the room where the mayor had held his press conference. The conference had ended, and Jen Pressman was nowhere to be found. "Maybe she's home by now," Bennie said, nudging Emil with her elbow. "Ask the secretary to call again."

"No." Emil flipped through the glossy magazine he'd found on the coffee table. "We just called. Behave."

"Ask her."

"No. Jen will be in soon, she has to be. It's her job. She's dedicated."

"I can't wait any longer. You want the story or not?"

Emil snapped the magazine shut. "You try me, Bennie."

"Thank you."

He dropped the magazine on the table and walked over to the secretary's desk. "Flossie, do you think we should call Jennifer's home again?"

The secretary stopped typing and looked up from her keyboard. "It hasn't been that long since last time."

"I understand, but this is an important matter. Would you mind very much? I consider it a great favor to me."

"You know—," the secretary hesitated, then her voice softened. "To tell you the truth, Emil, it won't do any good to keep calling her at home. I don't think my boss made it home last night."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. I don't think she slept at home last night."

Emil colored. "I see."

"You didn't hear this from me, right?" the secretary said, lowering her voice.

"Right."

"You'd never print anything we talk about, right?"

"Of course not, Flossie. We're friends, you and I."

"Well, I think she went to see her boyfriend last night. That's the only time she pulls a disappearing act. She hasn't taken off much lately, so I thought it was over. Maybe not, though. Guess they reconciled and she couldn't get out of bed."

"Love weaves a spell when you're young," Emil said, and back at the couch, Bennie wanted to throw up.

"Oh, this isn't love." The secretary leaned over confidentially and whispered, "I think he's married."

"No," Emil said, with genuine disapproval. He was the most traditional man Bennie knew, and she would have bet that he wasn't the one frying the grape leaves.

"Yes. I'm sure of it. In summer, she used to take off early on weekends. She'd come back tan and wouldn't say who she went with. She never brought back any pictures."

"Can she be reached? Who is this man?"

"Damned if I know." The secretary leaned over farther. "You know, I tried to find out once. I was curious and finally I just asked her, straight out. 'Are you seeing anyone?' I said to her. Just straight."

"Good. It's best to be honest and straightforward."

"Sure it is. I've worked for her for two years now, and we never talk or anything. You think she'd have lunch with me? Never. Anyway, know what she said when I asked her? She said, 'I don't discuss that with subordinates.' "

Emil's face fell. "How unkind."

"Tell me about it. 'Subordinates!' She said she was quoting somebody named Sun Zoo something. So I said to her, 'Who the hell is Sun Zoo? It sounds like a suntan cream or something.' "

Back on the couch, Bennie's ears pricked up. Sun Zoo? Where had she heard that lately?

"Sun-Tzu?" Emil said. "He was a Chinese philosopher. A general."

"That's right. That's what she said. I told her, 'I don't know from Chinese generals, honey, but I know common courtesy and you don't have any.' Imagine! I'm gonna transfer back to the prothonotary's office as soon as they post it."

Suddenly Bennie remembered. In the conference room at the office, when she was talking to Carrier and DiNunzio. What had Carrier said? If you spend any time with Elliot Steere, sooner or later he hauls out Sun-Tzu.

Bennie sat bolt upright on the couch. The picture came into instant focus. Jen Pressman had a secret boyfriend, but he wasn't married. He was Elliot Steere. She'd have to keep it quiet because he was the mayor's nemesis. In that moment, Bennie realized the whole scam. It wasn't exactly the way she thought. In fact, it was quite the opposite. But there was no time left. She jumped up and headed for the door.

"Bennie?" Emil asked, turning.

"Gotta fry some grape leaves, Emil," she said, and bolted out the door.

60

Judge Rudolph was presiding, though when he looked down from the mahogany dais he didn't see a packed courtroom, he saw a running track with hurdles. The finish line was straight ahead, marked by a fluttering red, white, and blue banner that read JUSTICE HARRY CALVIN RUDOLPH. At the defense table, Elliot Steere watched him intently, and the prosecutors looked alert. In the stands, all eyes were on him. Everyone was quiet and waiting for the starter's pistol. On your mark, get set, go! Crack!

"Gentlemen," the judge said, "I called you here because of an emergency that has arisen in the jury. One of the jurors has taken ill with a stomach virus and had to be sent to the hospital. The Court has been informed by another juror, acting as substitute foreperson, that the jury may be very close to delivering a verdict in this matter. The alternates have already been sent home, and by now have undoubtedly been tainted by exposure to publicity. Therefore, the issue before the Court is whether the jury should be permitted to proceed to verdict without the juror who has fallen ill."

Elliot Steere sat at the defense table and not a muscle on his body moved. His juror had acted. His acquittal was assured. His victory was complete. He breathed slowly, in and out, and his heartbeat thumped steadily. In his ears he heard the rhythms of his own life force. Sun-Tzu taught that victory goes to those who do not miscalculate, and Steere had not miscalculated. He had prepared for this victory and so it was at hand.

"Under Pennsylvania law," Judge Rudolph continued, "the jury in a murder trial may proceed to verdict with a vote of less than twelve jurors only if the defendant and the Commonwealth agree. The defendant had a constitutional right to a verdict by a jury of twelve, and such right can be waived. The Court is holding this hearing this morning in order to determine how the parties wish to proceed."

At the prosecutor's table sat Assistant District Attorney Tom Moran, and this time he was wide awake. The district attorney of the City of Philadelphia, Bill Masterson, was seated on his right, so close their padded shoulders grazed. Masterson was basketball-player tall, big-boned and ruddy-faced, with a thatch of gray-blond hair and fierce blue eyes. Nobody could sit next to Bill Masterson and be unaware of his power, especially a young father of twins who had already fucked up once. Tom needed his job, now more than ever.

Judge Rudolph prepared to jump the first hurdle. "Mr. Steere, you are the defendant in this matter, and this court has at every juncture been careful to safeguard your rights under the law, especially since you have chosen to proceed as your own counsel. Do you have any questions so far?"

"No."

"Do you understand the question that is being put to you? The Court must determine if you wish to waive your right to a verdict rendered by a jury of twelve."

"I understand that, Your Honor."

"I will conduct the required colloquy to confirm that you understand your rights, but would you like to consult with an attorney before we begin? I see that Mr. LeFort of the Cable and Bess firm is in the gallery." Judge Rudolph acknowledged the expensive lawyer with a nod. "If you wish to consult with Mr. LeFort or one of his partners, the Court would be happy to recess for fifteen minutes."

"I do not wish to consult with Mr. LeFort, Your Honor. It's a straightforward question. I can give you my answer right now. I want my case to proceed to verdict as soon as possible, Your Honor, even if that means I accept the verdict of less than the full complement of jurors. I wish to waive my right to a verdict by a jury of twelve."

The gallery burst into excited chatter. Judge Rudolph's gaze slipped to the back of the courtroom and he banged the gavel. Crack! "I'll have none of that in my courtroom. Keep a lid on it, ladies and gentlemen, or there will be expulsions. Mr. Steere, do you understand that you have the right to ask for a mistrial?"

"Your Honor, I do not want a mistrial. I do not want any further delays in my trial. I have been in prison for a long time. I have a business to run when I am released."

"Thank you, Mr. Steere." Judge Rudolph imagined himself leaping over the first hurdle and landing on the other side without breaking stride. One down, one to go. The judge turned to the prosecution table. "Mr. Moran, I see that you are joined this morning by District Attorney William Masterson. Welcome, Mr. Masterson."

"Good morning, Your Honor," Masterson said.

Judge Rudolph acknowledged the powerful lawyer with a nod. The judge knew that the D.A. wanted his job and had kissed enough of the right asses to get it when the judge ascended to the Supreme Court. Without a word being exchanged, both men knew a baton would pass, but only if the judge won his final leg of the relay. "Mr. Masterson, will you be speaking for the Commonwealth this morning or will Mr. Moran be doing the honors?"

"Mr. Moran will," Masterson boomed. He grinned broadly and made a note on a legal pad. "I'm just here for the ride. Mr. Moran likes my company."

The gallery laughed and the reporters scribbled. Judge Rudolph smiled indulgently. Very funny. Take my job, please. "Fine." The judge prepared for the second hurdle. "Does the Commonwealth have any objection to this case proceeding to verdict with less than twelve jurors, in view of the circumstances, Mr. Moran?"

Tom was about to object when he felt a nudge at his elbow. He glanced over, and Masterson was looking thoughtfully at the dais, the flags, and the judicial seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. His hammy hand rested on a legal pad that said:

AGREE, TURKEY

Tom didn't even have to think twice. Fuck it. He'd worked his ass off on this loser. The mayor had gotten his indictment, but nobody had promised him a verdict. No matter that the Commonwealth had a chance of winning, Tom knew where the pacifiers were. He said without hesitation, "The Commonwealth has no objection to this case proceeding to verdict at this time, Your Honor. The Commonwealth is as interested as the defendant and the Court in bringing this matter to a swift and certain conclusion."

Judge Rudolph watched himself leaping the last hurdle. Sprinting for the finish line. Leaning into the tape. Splitting it like a spiderweb. The crowd roared. The banner flapped. He had won. It was over. Somebody handed him a flute of champagne.

And a brand-new robe.

61

Marta and Judy churned down the street, racing toward the Criminal Justice Center. Snow whisked from the sky and lay in a thick layer over sidewalks, buildings, and cars, as if someone had tossed a white comforter over Philadelphia. Stores and businesses were shut down. No one was outside. The stillness and silence were complete except for the whistle of the wind, a fluted note blown from the chill gray ether.

Marta panted as she ran in the heavy clothes, struggling to keep up with the younger and fitter associate; she was almost hyperventilating by the time they reached Broad Street. "Judy," she called weakly, and the associate ran back through the snow. Marta doubled over and braced her hands on her knees, trying to suppress the soreness in her torso. "I have to stop," she said, gasping. "I can't keep this up."

"You have to. We have to keep going."

Marta felt dizzy. Blood rushed to her head and it throbbed. She couldn't find the strength to straighten up. "Aren't there any cabs?"

"No. No cabs, no buses, nothing," Judy said, scanning the deserted street. She was panting, too, and her breath made large clouds of steam in the frigid air. "We gotta run for it."

"How much farther?"

"Five blocks." Judy squinted through the snow at the old-fashioned yellow clock atop City Hall, with its ornate Victorian hands. Her heartbeat quickened. "It's one-fifteen, Marta. We gotta go. Come on."

"I'm too old for this." Marta panted heavily as she stood up. Her chest felt like it would explode. "You go ahead. Take my purse. The evidence is in it."

"No. They won't believe me without you, you're lead counsel. Come on. Straighten up. Move your ass."

"You just like bossing me around," Marta said, panting too hard to smile.

"That too," Judy said, and ran off toward the courthouse.

62

Bennie climbed the snowdrift to Carrier's stoop, brushed snow off the brass buzzer, and leaned hard on the black button to ring the associate's apartment. She buzzed and buzzed, but there was no answer. Damn. Bennie hit the buzzer for the ground-floor apartment. It was marked by a card that said HILL-SILVERBLANK, but the Hill-Silverblanks weren't in either.

Bennie banged on the front door in frustration. Snow shook from the door panels as she pounded. She had trudged all the way here to stop this kid. She wouldn't be turned away now. She banged harder, hoping Judy hadn't already done something stupid. She could land all of them in front of the disciplinary board and put Rosato & Associates in the toilet.

She stepped away from the door and looked up at Carrier's windows. They were empty and dark. Where could she be? Bennie climbed down the stoop and into the snow at the sidewalk. Then she saw them. Tracks in the deep snow, messy footprints that led from Carrier's stoop and down the sidewalk, then traveled beside a row of buried cars and disappeared around the corner.

Bennie peered through the blowing snow at the tracks. She could follow where they led. The footprints were easy to see in the deep snow. In some places it looked more like legprints than footprints. Bennie smiled. Lawyer tracks. Cloven pumps. They wouldn't get far on foot.

She clambered down the stoop, careful not to kick snow on the fresh footprints, when it hit her. There were four footprints, not two. Two people had left Judy's apartment— Judy and Marta. Either that or the Hill-Silverblanks, out for a stroll in a blizzard. Bennie knew in her bones which was more likely. She had a hunch Judy and Marta were heading for the Criminal Justice Center. She bounded after them.

The lawyer tracks ran down Twenty-fourth Street through the residential neighborhoods. Bennie picked up the pace, running directly through them. She hadn't slept all night, but she always enjoyed a run in cold weather. Her legs felt strong. Her wind came easily. Bennie hadn't rowed since the storm and she needed to stretch. It was the golden retriever in her. She got rammy when she didn't get to fetch the ball.

She followed the tracks down the snow-laden sidewalk and fell into an easy stride. Bennie had always been the fastest on her crew, and running the benches at Franklin Field every week since then had kept her in shape. She still regretted not trying out for the Olympics, but there'd been a mother to support.

Bennie checked the tracks as she ran into the snow. Deep trails marked the snowy sidewalk, like slugs. She would overtake them in no time. She had to, before they ruined all of them. Bennie picked up the pace in the next few strides and sprinted down the street.

63

"It's D day, troops," Ralph called to the other jurors. "Time to vote." Ralph was officially the foreman of the jury, but he felt more like an undertaker at a funeral parlor. He strode around the conference table, handing a sheet of legal paper to each downcast juror. They were in a funk since the scene with Christopher. It'd been like a soap opera, with Megan hugging Christopher while he flopped around on the floor like a hooked trout. Christopher kept trying to talk, but Megan had kept him quiet until the ambulance arrived.

Ralph had started pushing for a final vote as soon as the judge ordered them to resume deliberations. If Kenny wouldn't go with the flow this round, Ralph would get him next round. It was just a matter of time. Ralph handed a piece of legal paper to Megan. "Time to vote now, young lady. The sooner this is over, the sooner you can get to the hospital."

"Thanks," Megan said, accepting the paper shakily. She stared at the blank paper. She didn't want to convict Steere even if it meant disagreeing with Christopher. Poor Christopher. She did want to visit him, at least to make sure he was okay. Megan hurriedly wrote innocent on her paper and folded it up.

Mrs. Wahlbaum bent over her paper, with one last glance at Mr. Fogel, who was writing with a speed that didn't surprise her. He'd vote not guilty, and Wanthida, who sat beside him, would vote not guilty, too. Mrs. Wahlbaum tried to recall what Christopher had said after he changed his mind, but all she could remember was him writhing in agony on the stretcher. It must have been appendicitis. She wrote not guilty and turned her paper over.

Nick trembled at the lined sheet in front of him. His nerves were shot. Christopher's stomach attack was the last straw. What if Nick got a stomach attack, too? His belly was already burning him. He gulped down some water and didn't even care if his thumb showed. He wanted to go home before he caught whatever Christopher had. He couldn't stain again. Nick grabbed his pencil, clenched it tightly, and wrote INNOCENT.

Lucky Seven hunched over his paper, feelin' like he used to feel in grade school when they gave tests. Everybody was writing and he wasn't. He could hear them all, scribblin' away. Everybody was finishin' before him, foldin' up their papers, handin' them in. It was like they had all the answers. Well, this time he had the answer.

Lucky Seven was feelin' bad for Isaiah and his girl, and he was gonna stand up for what he thought no matter what Kenny said. Hell, after this case was over, he'd never see the dude again. It wasn't like they'd be hangin'. Lucky Seven wrote not guilty on the damn sheet just as quick as he could. He wasn't even the last one finished.

"Everybody done voting?" Ralph asked, taking his seat at the head of the table. He slapped the pad in front of him and casually wrote NOT GUILTY. Like it wasn't worth $100,000 to him. Then he looked up.

"I didn't vote yet, man," Kenny Manning said evenly, at the opposite end of the long table. All the jurors looked at Kenny, except for Lucky Seven, who looked pointedly away.

"That's okay," Ralph said. "Hold your papers, people. Don't pass 'em in yet. Kenny's entitled to take his time." He glanced at his watch. 1:25. "Take all the time you need, friend."

Kenny picked up his pencil and looked out the window. He didn't need their shit. He could take his own goddamn time. Didn't need no Ralph Fuckin' Merry to tell him that. Didn't need no go-ahead from that pig face. Kenny made them all wait, lookin' out the window and watchin' the goddamn snow. Takin' his own damn time.

* * *

At a hospital across town, Christopher lay agonized on a gurney as it sped down a corridor. He kept trying to tell the doctors to call the cops, but the nurse and an emergency room doctor ran with the gurney on either side, ignoring his grunting. Pain ripped through Christopher's bowel but he kept trying to talk.

"Nuh… grr… stop," he managed to say, but they hustled the gurney into a cold white room. Everybody was rushing around in half-masks and gowns. The gurney lurched to a stop under a blinding beam of light.

"No… wait… whoa," Christopher grunted. He put his arms up to shield his eyes. A doctor held his wrist and started to put a plastic mask over his face. No. They couldn't put him to sleep. He had to call the police. He had to save Marta.

"I said whoa!" Christopher shouted, and marshaling all his strength, grabbed the startled doctor by his white lapels and wrestled him onto the table beside him. Nurses gasped in shock as the two men fell to the cold tile floor and Christopher screamed in the doctor's face, "Call the police! Now!"

64

Marta got her second wind as soon as she spied the Criminal Justice Center through the driving snow flurries. The building was modern with Art Deco touches, trimmed in gray marble and tan. Fresh snow outlined its geometric ledges and decorative windowsills. It was a beautiful building and she'd take it by storm. Marta panted with exertion and excitement as she ran.

Judy knew without a word what Marta was thinking. They were on the same page. They had the evidence against Steere. They would turn it over to the court. Judy ran faster. The ethical problem nagged at her, but every time she felt a doubt she thought of Mary lying in the snow. Bleeding almost to death. Mary might not survive, and Judy couldn't even be with her at the hospital because of Elliot Steere. She owed him exactly zip. Judy hugged Marta's purse under her arm and kept her legs churning.

But something was wrong. Odd. The heart of town should have been deserted. City Hall and the Criminal Justice Center were closed because of the blizzard, except for the Steere case. The street should be as dead as the rest of town, snowed in for the duration. But it wasn't.

* * *

Bennie squinted through the snow as she ran. She had lost their tracks when she reached the business district and followed her hunch the rest of the way. Three blocks ahead of her, two figures were running down the sidewalk past Market Street toward the Criminal Justice Center. Judy and Marta. Bennie recognized Judy's bright yellow shell. The associate was a rock climber with a full wardrobe of pricey gear. Besides, who else would wear a color like that?

Bennie took it up for a few strokes, running hard. Power strokes, at the beginning of a race. Cranking up the stroke to launch the scull smoothly, then taking it into full stride, full bore. She narrowed the gap between them. Two blocks, then one. She watched Judy and Marta reach the Criminal Justice Center and the fringes of a crowd collecting there. There was activity. Commotion. Oh, no. Bennie took up the stroke until the scull began to fly.

Judy was aghast as she ran. People were collecting at the mouth of Filbert Street. Something was happening at the Criminal Justice Center. News vans with colorful logos had parked crazily in the plowed snow. Blue-and-white police cars thronged at the corner of Filbert Street. "We're not too late, are we?" Judy asked anxiously, panting as she ran. She looked over at Marta, whose expression showed strain and alarm.

"No. We can't be."

"The TV stations are here. The cops. Maybe it's the verdict."

Marta shook it off. "It could be the jurors, arriving from the hotel."

"But it could be the verdict. They could have delivered it already."

"No!" Marta shouted hoarsely. "We're not too late! Now run!" She gritted her teeth and ran harder. She wouldn't be beaten by Elliot Steere, not after last night. Not after the guards, and Mary.

Judy peered through the snow flurries at the scene. The crowd got closer and closer. They dashed past the shadow of City Hall and rushed down the block to Filbert. At the back of the mob stood black-jacketed cops and reporters in green parkas and snow ponchos. The noisy crowd was dotted with black police hats, baseball caps, and golf umbrellas. A hundred people filled the narrow street, talking excitedly, their breath making a collective cloud in the cold air.

"I can't see anything, can you?" Marta shouted, out of breath. She was at the edge of complete exhaustion.

"No. The crowd's too big." Judy peeked from behind an overweight cop. "Officer, what's happening?"

"Just got here myself, lady," the cop said. His nose was red and leaky. "They called for crowd control."

Marta yanked down her hood so she wouldn't be recognized and shoved past a reporter in her way.

* * *

Bennie dashed the last hundred feet to the crowd. It was the final kick. She gave it all she had. Her legs hurt. Her lungs ached. She reached the Criminal Justice Center just in time to spot Judy's yellow hat disappear midway through the crowd, with Marta pushing ahead of her.

65

Marta stood near the front of the crowd, riveted at the sight. Elliot Steere was free. He stood joking with reporters on the sidewalk in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Cameras snapped his fake grin. TV lights bleached his features white as a cadaver. He was free. She was too late.

Judy pushed next to Marta from behind. "Oh, God," she moaned, instantly sick at heart. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body sagged with defeat. Steere had gotten away with murder. Judy wiped her eyes with a wet, snowy mitten.

Marta was too horrified to speak. She could see only her own fury. The man had used her. Used the court. Killed people. She seethed as he smiled for the press and raised his arms in victory. Steere would go free and prosper. It couldn't happen. It couldn't be permitted. Then Marta remembered.

The pritchel. A long iron spike with a tip as lethal as a dagger. Did she still have it? She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the cold metal. The pritchel. She held it, feeling its heft even through her glove. It struck Marta as the perfect solution. She was already ruined. She had already killed. She had nothing more to lose. She stepped forward in a sort of trance, leaving Judy and the world behind.

Back at the middle of the crowd, Bennie began pushing harder. "Excuse me!" she said, elbowing past a cop. She spotted Steere at the front of the crowd, being interviewed by reporters on the sidewalk. So he'd been acquitted. At least Marta and Judy hadn't been able to interfere with the trial. But where were they?

Bennie scanned the crowd and spotted Judy's yellow ski cap among the black police hats. Where was Marta? She would be furious at seeing Steere walk. Bennie felt panicky without knowing why. She jostled her way forward from the right side where the reporters were fewer.

Marta stopped two rows from Steere. Snow fell on his fine overcoat and sprinkled his padded shoulders. She was so close she could see the hand stitching on his lapels. She gripped the pritchel in her pocket. Her heart pumped in her chest. Adrenaline pounded in her ears, drumming behind Steere's voice.

"I always knew the jury would find me innocent," Steere was saying to a TV reporter holding a black bubble microphone. "Never doubted it for a minute."

Bennie pushed through the crowd and finally spotted Marta. There. Right near Steere. Marta was standing still, a faraway look in her eyes. What was she doing? Bennie would have shouted to her but the crowd was too loud. "Comin' through!" she said, pushing her way to Marta.

Marta stood a foot from Steere, her face obscured by her hood. She imagined the pritchel piercing his chest. Staining his camel-hair topcoat with hot red blood. She waited for the right moment. The TV reporter was still in the way. Marta inched forward, the drumming louder in her ears, waiting for the reporter to move.

Bennie saw it then. What was happening. Marta was closing in. She must have a weapon. Would she really kill Steere? Oh God. She had to be stopped. She couldn't do that. Bennie couldn't let her. She bulldozed through the crowd.

The TV reporter moved suddenly aside. Steere looked around for the next interview, smiling. The path in front of him was momentarily clear. Marta's world froze. The crowd stood still. The reporters fell mute. The motor drives stopped whirring. The only sound was the drumbeat pounding in Marta's ears. She stepped into the breach and drew her hand from her pocket.

"MARTA, NO!" Bennie shrieked.

The scream broke Marta's trance. The world came screaming back to life. What had she been thinking? Was she crazy? Strong arms grabbed her. It was Bennie, alarmed. She wrenched the pritchel from Marta's hands and searched her eyes for sanity.

Suddenly sirens blared at the edge of the crowd. Cops shouted. Reporters yelled. Cameras clicked. Video cameras whirred. A phalanx of cops and detectives charged through the crowd toward Steere. "Mr. Steere!" shouted one of the detectives, pointing. "We have a warrant for your arrest."

Steere started to edge away, but a ring of black-jacketed cops blocked his path. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, at least for the time being. His expression remained composed as they shackled him, and the cacophony of the reporters drowned out his requests for his lawyer.

66

It took Emil Gorebian all day to interview lawyers, police, and the employees at the election commission. He sat tapping at his keyboard in the press room at City Hall. It had finally stopped snowing. Leftover sun struggled through the dirty window next to him.

Emil was hardly tired even after such a long day. He wasn't old enough to retire, he was still going strong. He had the entire story in his head and it poured out as smoothly as olive oil. It would be all over the front page in the next edition. His first exclusive in ten years.

Emil tapped away. Elliot Steere and Jen Pressman had been lovers. They used the organ donor scheme to file absentee ballots with forged signatures. They paid Eb Darning to forge and file the ballots, but Eb began blackmailing them and had to be silenced. Emil had spent all day reading election records and reviewing absentee ballots filed in the last election. There had been at least two others who were paid to file the fake absentee ballots, and he figured there were many more. Gorebian would explain the scheme in a sidebar, so readers could understand.

Emil kept tapping. The best part of the story was that the forged votes hadn't been filed against the mayor, they'd been filed in his favor. Almost ten thousand votes filed on his behalf. Elliot Steere and Jen Pressman were trying to set the mayor up, so they could leak the driver's license file right before the election and pin the voter fraud on him. Pressman had planned to betray the mayor and go her merry way. Steere would have defeated his biggest enemy and the price of historic properties would soar. The Philadelphia Renaissance would never blossom.

Emil sipped tea as he skimmed the half-finished story on the computer monitor. He would emphasize in the conclusion how the lawyers had worked to bring Steere to justice and how Bennie Rosato had risked everything to protect a client. The story would take the cloud off Bennie's law firm and show her to be a hero. The young Turks called it spin, but that wasn't what Emil called it. He called it truth.

Emil finished the story, tying up the loose ends. He imagined winning a Pulitzer and would settle for reinstatement to the day shift. Emil always knew he was a better reporter than Alix Locke. Sneaking into the chief of staff's office and stealing her purse. Using Pressman's keys to get into Steere's beach house. Emil shook his head. No one had any morals anymore, any scruples. That was the problem today.

Emil hit the PRINT key and sighed happily.

* * *

John LeFort watched the telephone lights blinking from his desk chair in his office at Cable & Bess. Sunlight poured through the windows and glinted off the Waterford tumbler in his hand. LeFort never drank during the day, but today was an exception. He heaved a short sigh and picked up the phone. "Hello?" he asked, as if he didn't know who it was. As if he didn't know who any of the blinking lights were.

"John, Mo Barrie. I'm at home watching television. Did you see? Did you see it on the news? Steere's been rearrested. Conspiracy to murder, for hiring a hit man. Vote fraud, trying to rig the mayoral election. It's a scandal."

"I know. I was there."

"We're calling the notes, John. We're calling the notes right now. All of them. Those properties are for sale as of this minute. I'm ringing the city right after we hang up."

"I understand," John said. He sipped his drink. Mo could be as hysterical as Bunny. How foolish. It was only business.

"All of them, John. Consider them sold, John. As of now. Right this instant. It's a house of cards, John, and it's about to come tumbling down."

"See you in court, Mo," LeFort said, and hung up. He took another sip before picking up the next call.

* * *

Elliot Steere sat behind the wired glass across from his new criminal lawyer. The glass was scratched and smudged, and the interview room at the Roundhouse was far dirtier than the one at the Criminal Justice Center. Steere's surroundings didn't matter to him right now. "You'll plead me innocent of all charges," he said to his lawyer, who wore costly rimless glasses and a Zegna suit.

"But they have an excellent case for conspiracy in the murder of the security guards. They found Bogosian's magazine, and there were papers in his apartment linking him to you. They'll get his phone records and bank accounts."

"Bogosian will never testify against me."

"Bogosian is dead. The New Jersey police found his body on the beach."

Steere paused. "All the better. Then he can't testify."

"But Richter will. Carrier will. They have a computer file from your beach house. They're impounding your boat. They have records from Darning and a suspect in the DiNunzio shooting. He used a stolen car." The young lawyer consulted his notes. "I expect indictments on vote fraud and election rigging. They're talking about obstruction of justice, but I don't know if they can prove it."

"I am innocent of all charges against me."

"You'd be lucky to be offered a deal."

Steere smiled, amused. "Luck has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Did you ever hear of a general named Sun-Tzu?"

67

In an anesthetized sleep, Christopher dreamed he was cantering a horse across a snow-covered field, under a warm sun and a crisp blue sky. A fog hovered over the snow, so the horse appeared to be cantering on a bed of clouds. In anyone else's dream the horse would have been white, an Arabian, but Christopher thought white horses were for show-offs, so it was a brown quarter horse. A large gelding with a white blaze, over sixteen hands high.

The horse's hooves crunched through the snow as its canter accelerated without warning to a gallop. Though Christopher hadn't kicked the horse to gallop him, he didn't object to the change of pace until horse and rider were racing toward a wooden rail fence that appeared from nowhere. The fence was high, almost four feet, and Christopher didn't know if the horse could jump it.

The horse's hooves reached farther into the snow as it galloped full tilt, nostrils flaring, straining against the bit. The fence raced toward them. It was crazy to jump at this speed, but if Christopher halted he'd fly over the horse's neck. He lifted into position and tightened the reins, but the leather slipped from his hands and flapped against the horse's wet neck. The jump zoomed up to meet them. The horse leapt into the air. They'd never clear the fence.

"No!" Christopher shouted, waking up. He looked around him. Everything was white, but it wasn't snow, it was a hospital room. He wasn't crashing into a fence, he was lying on a hospital bed. And the touch on his hand wasn't a loose rein, it was a woman. Megan Gerrity, the redhead from the jury, was sitting at the edge of his bed. Christopher blinked, groggy, and cleared his parched throat.

"It's all right, Christopher," Megan said. She squeezed his hand, and Christopher squeezed back, easing into the soft pillow with a sigh.

* * *

"You almost stabbed Elliot Steere! Do you realize that?" Bennie said as she stormed down the long hospital corridor. The late afternoon sun glowed through the large windows, but its residual warmth was lost on Bennie. On either side of the hall hung polished plaques listing the names of hospital benefactors, but she couldn't have cared less. Bennie was walking so fast she didn't notice anything and was so angry she didn't care if Marta could keep pace.

"I agree, it never should have happened," Marta said, bedraggled, as she rushed along. Her boots squashed and her snowpants rustled with every step. She felt whipped, out of gas. She had spent a long day at the Roundhouse being questioned by the cops, and the night before that had been eventful even for a criminal lawyer. "I'm sorry. Sorry for all of it."

"Sorry?" Bennie didn't break stride. "For attempted murder?You can't say you're sorry for attempted murder. There are lots of legal excuses for attempted murder, but saying you're really really really sorry isn't one of them. If the cops had known what you were up to, you'd be in the slammer right now. And if I hadn't palmed that fucking knife—"

"Pritchel."

"Gesundheit."

"No. It's a pritchel, not a knife."

"What? What the fuck do I care?" Bennie fumed, her jacket flying as she charged ahead. "What the fuck difference does it make? You tried to stab the man!"

"I wouldn't have gone though with it. I didn't, did I?"

"Oh, please. Only because I stopped you. You could have stabbed me!"

A passing nurse glanced over nervously and quickened her pace. Marta whispered, "I didn't even know you were there. How did I know you'd jump in front of him?"

"I wasn't gonna let you kill him." They reached the elevator bank and Bennie punched the up button. "You could have known that, couldn't you? First rule of solo practice. Do not kill the clients. They don't come back, for one thing."

"I already said I'm sorry. What else can I do? Open a vein?"

"I should've left you in jail. In another hour they would've brought out the rubber hose. I would have brought out the rubber hose."

"I said, "Thank you.' " Marta rolled her eyes. "Listen to me. "Thank you.' 'Sorry.' 'Please.' I'm like a fucking Hallmark card."

Bennie started hitting the elevator button like a video game. It made a clikclikclik sound. "I should've let you rot there." Clikclikclik. "Let you wait for a public defender." Clikclikclik. "Thrown you to the press." Clikclikclik. "Sent you up for Bogosian."

"That was self-defense. They knew it, they were just working me over."

"And what about the jury tampering, huh? You owe me big-time on that. Community service?" Clikclikclik. "You know what, I'm charging you. I'm billing you for my fucking time." Clikclikclik. "Where is the goddamn elevator?"

"Okay, fine. Bill me, no problem. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Marta said, meaning it. She'd have a lot of time on her hands in the next few years. She might buy a house, fix it up, and actually live in it. But she'd need to do a little legal work on the side, if only to prevent ring rust. "You know, I've been thinking that you might need help getting the firm back up on its feet."

Clikclikclik. "If I even have a firm anymore."

"You do. You will."

Clik. "Hmph."

"Maybe I can make it up to you. Help rebuild Rosato and Associates. It's the least I can do. Draft briefs. Teach the associates." The elevator arrived and the doors slid apart. "Behind the scenes, you know."

"You?" Bennie's mouth dropped open. "You? Stay in Philadelphia?"

Marta began to laugh as the doors closed, and the sound of her laughter echoed all the way up the shaft.

* * *

Marta and Bennie stood at the threshold to Mary's hospital room. The associate had been moved out of intensive care and her condition was finally stable. Mary looked drawn against the thin hospital pillows, and an IV snaked to a shunt in her arm. The DiNunzio family surrounded her like an embrace, and Judy sat among them. She grinned tiredly when she saw Bennie and Marta. "Hey, guys, isn't this cool?" Judy said. "Mary's alive."

Bennie smiled with relief. "Wonderful. That's how I like my associates. Breathing."

"It's the only way they get any work done," Marta said, leaning against the doorjamb. "By the way, they are hired back, aren't they?"

Judy held her breath. Mary blinked.

Bennie thought a minute. What ran in her veins, ice? "If they got a license, they got a job," she said, and Mary smiled to herself.

It's not a job, it's an adventure.

Acknowledgments

Rough Justice is a work of fiction, but a number of people helped enormously with the research and I want to thank them here. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

First and very special thanks to Mayor of Philadelphia Ed Rendell and his former chief of staff, David Cohen. I am a huge fan of these two men, who have worked wonders for my favorite city and inspired all of us. They permitted me access to the mayor's office and to other areas of City Hall for this book, and David Cohen gave generously of his time, energy, and intelligence, as is typical of him. Thanks, too, to Robin Schatz, for the insider's tour, and to Ginny Kehoe.

Thank you to Larry Fox, president of the Litigation Section of the American Bar Association, who helped with the ethical questions herein, and thank you to criminal defense experts Frank DiSimone, Glenn Gilman, Burton Rose, and Mike Trigani for their on-the-spot advice.

Thank you to the detectives of the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department, who continue to help me in so many ways and gave me the coolest sweatshirt ever. Thanks to Mark McDonald of the Philadelphia Daily News, who took me through the lovely press area in City Hall and spent time teaching me about newspapers and how they work. Thanks to Dr. Andrea Hanaway, an emergency surgeon who taught me the details of some truly heinous injuries.

Thank you to Richard Clark, Jr., a farrier who answered all my stupid questions while trying to reset the shoe on a cranky mare. Thanks to all at Thorncroft Equestrian Center, for all of their good work, and especially to Diana Johnson, who teaches me about horses and life.

Thank you to Kevin Sparkman of the DVTO, who helped me a great deal. Also, thank you, Chuck Jones, for your friendship, hunting advice, and general expertise. I also want to acknowledge a fascinating translation of Sun-Tzu by J. M. Huang, which served as a source for Rough Justice.

Equally important as the research is the writing, and I had experts to help with that, too. Heartfelt thanks to president and CEO at HarperCollins, Anthea Disney, to my editor, Carolyn Marino, and to my agent, Molly Friedrich of the Aaron Priest Agency. I marvel constantly at the brilliance, talent, and generosity of these women, who are like literary Power Rangers. They improved this manuscript in countless ways, and supported me throughout all. I am the luckiest author in the world to be able to tap their time and expertise. I can't thank them enough and won't bore the rest of you by going on longer here.

Thanks, too, to Paul Cirone, Molly's assistant, for his hard work and terrific sense of humor, and to Carolyn's assistant, Robin Stamm, who understands the importance of the comma. Special thanks to production editor Andrea Molitor, who cared enough to get it right.

Thank you to Gene Mydlowski, associate publisher, for his efforts and eye, and to Laura Leonard, publicity manager, who, besides being a dynamo on her job, is one of the sweetest people in the world. Thanks to Laura's assistant Caroline Enright, too.

Personal thanks and love to my family and friends, as well as my husband, Peter, and daughter, Kiki. They had to put up with pizza for dinner while I wrestled with this book and, worse yet, they had to put up with me.

About the Author

Lisa Scottoline is a New York Times best-selling author and former trial lawyer. She has won the Edgar Award, the highest prize in suspense fiction, and the Distinguished Author Award, from the Weinberg Library of the University of Scranton. She has served as the Leo Goodwin Senior Professor of Law and Popular Culture at Nova Southeastern Law School, and her novels are used by bar associations for the ethical issues they present. Her books are published in over twenty languages. She lives with her family in the Philadelphia area and welcomes reader email at www.scottoline.com.