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  Hunched over the desk, Kovich nodded in agreement. “That accident on Vine,” he said, but Brinkley stood up and stretched, almost as if he were bored.

  “Not every day we get somebody like you in here, Mr. Newlin. We get dope dealers, gangbangers, rapists. Even had a serial killer last year. But we don’t often see the likes of you.”

  “What do you mean, Detective? I’m like anybody else.”

  “You? No way. You’re what we used to call the man who has everything.” Brinkley rubbed his chest. “That’s what doesn’t make sense, Mr. Newlin. About what you’re telling me.”

  Jack’s heart stopped in his chest. Had he blown it? He forced out a single word: “What?”

  “You hated your wife enough to kill her, but you didn’t want to give her a divorce. That’s psycho time, but you’re no psycho. Explain it to me.” Brinkley crossed his slim arms, and fear shot through Jack like an electrical current.

  “You’re right,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It doesn’t make sense, if you look at it that way. Logically, I mean.”

  “Logically? That’s how I look at it, Mr. Newlin. That’s the only way to look at it.” Brinkley smiled without mirth. “People sit in that chair all the time and they lie to me. None of them look like you or dress like you, that’s for damn sure, but you can lie, too. You can lie better. You got the words for it. Only thing I got to tell me if you’re lying is common sense, and what you’re tellin’ me don’t make sense. It’s not, as you say, logical.”

  “No it isn’t.” Jack caught sight of Honor’s blood on his hands, and it was so awful, so impossible to contemplate, that it released the emotions he’d been suppressing all night. Grief. Fear. Horror. Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he blinked them away. He remembered his purpose. “I wasn’t thinking logically, I was reacting emotionally. To her shouting, to her insults. To the Scotch. I just did it. I thought I could get away with it, so I tried to clean up, but I couldn’t go through with it. I called nine-one-one, I told them the truth. I did it. It was awful, it is awful.”

  Brinkley’s dark eyes remained dubious, and Jack realized his mistake. The rich didn’t behave this way. They didn’t confess or blubber. They expected to get away with murder. Jack, who had never thought like a rich man and evidently never would, knew instantly what to do to convince him: “Detective, this interview is over,” he said abruptly, sitting up straighter. “I want to call my attorney.”

  The reaction was immediate. Brinkley’s dark eyes glittered, his mouth formed a grim line, and he fell into his customary silence. Jack couldn’t read the detective completely, but sensed that he had acted in character, in a way that comported with Brinkley’s worldview, and that would ultimately put his doubts to rest.

  In contrast, Kovich deflated at the typewriter, his heavy shoulders slumping, his big fingers stilled. “But, Jack, we can settle this thing right here and now. Make it real easy.”

  “I think not,” Jack said, turning haughty. He knew how to give orders from hearing them given. “I insist on my attorney. I should have called him in the first place.”

  “But all you gotta do is sign this statement. Once you do that, we’re all done here. It’ll be easiest on you and your daughter this way.” Kovich’s eyes burned an earnest brown. “I’m a father, too, Jack, and I know how it is. You gotta think about your kid now.”

  “No, I’ve said much too much already. I want my lawyer and we’ll take care of notifying Paige. I will not have you at my daughter’s home this late at night. It’s harassment. I’ll handle the notification through my attorney.”

  Detective Brinkley buttoned his jacket with nimble fingers. “Better get yourself a good mouthpiece, Mr. Newlin,” he said, his face a professional mask. He pivoted on a smooth sole, walked out of the interview room, and closed the door behind him.

  Once Brinkley had gone, Kovich yanked the sheet from the typewriter roll with a resigned sigh. “Now you did it. You got him mad, askin’ for a lawyer. After judges, there’s nothin’ Mick hates more than lawyers.”

  “But I am a lawyer.”

  “Like I said.” Kovich laughed his guttural laugh and turned to Jack as warmly as he had at the beginning. “You sure you don’t wanna talk to me? I’m the nice one. I like lawyers. It’s realtors I hate.”

  “No thanks,” Jack answered, and managed a snotty smile.

  2

  Mary DiNunzio smoothed a strand of dark blond hair into her French twist and slumped in a swivel chair beside a conference table cluttered with manila folders, trial notes, and stamped exhibits. It was after business hours, but Mary was still at the law offices of Rosato & Associates, watching her friend Judy Carrier work and feeling sorry for herself. The Hemex trial was finally over and its aftertaste had left Mary hating her job again. Being a lawyer was even worse than people thought it was, if that were possible. “You sure I can’t be a pastry chef?” she wondered aloud. “I like cake better than law.”

  Judy tucked a manila folder into an accordion file. “Are you going to help or are you going to whine?”

  “What do you think? Besides, right now I’m busy supervising. That folder doesn’t go where you put it. That’s a notes folder, so it goes in the notes accordion.” Mary pointed at the accordion standing at the far end of the table. “There. Number eleven.”

  “Oh, really?” Judy picked up another folder and dropped it into the same accordion. Her lemony hair, cut like a soup bowl when she stood upright, hung down when she lowered her head, reminding Mary of a dinner plate. It didn’t help that Judy wore silver earrings made of spoon handles. Mary was getting hungry until she noticed her friend slide another folder into the wrong accordion.

  “That’s wrong, too. That’s Gunther deposition exhibits, so it goes in number ten. And aren’t you going to fix the other one?”

  “No. See? This is a folder of draft contracts, so it belongs in the second accordion.” Judy dropped another folder into the accordion. “I put it in the fifteenth. Ask me if I care.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not in the least.” Judy looked up and smiled. Her bright blue eyes smiled, too, emphasized by the cobalt of a large corduroy smock that billowed around her tall, sturdy form. Judy climbed rocks and engaged in other activities Mary found self-destructive, but she was still shapely to Mary’s eye, though she dressed to hide it. And Judy’s fashion sense wasn’t the only thing about her that mystified Mary.

  “Why are you messing up the files, girl?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter. That’s the great secret in law firms, even one as cool as ours. Once you send the file to the records room, it doesn’t matter if it’s out of order. Nothing ever happens.”

  “That’s wrong. People look at the file again.”

  “For what?”

  Mary had to think. “To prepare the bill, for one thing.”

  “Nah, they just make that up. You know it and I know it.” Judy crammed the next folder into the thickening accordion. “See? I file at random. I put the folder wherever there’s room. I always do it this way after trial. Nobody ever came after me. The world didn’t end.”

  “You mean all this time we’ve been packing up after trial, you haven’t done it right?”

  “Never.” Judy grinned. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I always finished ahead of you?”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. “I thought it was because you’re smarter.”

  “I am, and this is an example of it. It’s dopey to put them away right.”

  “But you’re supposed to.”

  “Oh, you’re supposed to.” Judy misfiled another folder. “It’s like permanent records.”

  “I don’t want to hear anything bad about permanent records. My permanent record was spotless.”

  “Well, mine wasn’t and we ended up in the same place, which proves my point. Permanent records and mattress tags. Nothing ever happens. They’re just lies they tell you to keep you in line.”

  “Like heaven.”

  “I knew
you would say that. For a lapsed Catholic, you’re not that lapsed.”

  “Mea culpa.” Mary crossed her legs and fiddled idly with cultured pearls that peeked from an ivory blouse she wore with a fitted gray suit. She was on the short side, but had a neat, compact figure and avoided lots of great ravioli to keep it that way. “Maybe we should go get dinner. Have a nice salad.”

  “Girl food.” Judy reached for an empty accordion. “Let me finish disorganizing the file, then we can celebrate our victory in the most boring case of all time.”

  “Don’t jinx it. You don’t know that we won.”

  “Yes I do. We were less boring than they were. Bennie couldn’t be boring if she tried.”

  “Bennie Rosato, our boss? Are you kidding? Ever hear her talk about rowing?” Mary gestured at the walls of the conference room. One wall was glass, facing the elevator bank, but the end walls, of eggshell white, were decorated with Eakins prints of rowers on the Schuylkill River. Beside them hung photographs of Penn crews rowing past Boathouse Row, the bank of colorful boathouses lining the river. “She’s boring as hell when she talks about rowing. Also golden retrievers. I’m sick of golden retrievers because of Bennie. If she could put a golden retriever in a boat and row it around, she’d have it made.”

  Judy stopped misfiling. “If you actually got off your butt and did a sport, you’d understand why Bennie likes to talk about hers. As for the dog stuff, I see that too. Bear’s a good dog. I’ve been baby-sitting him for a week and he’s fun.”

  “Good. Have a great time, just don’t tell me about it. Or show me dog pictures.”

  “You like dogs.”

  “No, I like ravioli, and I’m still pissed that you screwed up our files.”

  Judy ignored it. “My family had Labs and goldens growing up and they were great. I’m thinking about getting a puppy.”

  “Wonderful. See it between trials. Pat it on the head.” The phone rang on the oak credenza, and Mary looked over. “Do I have to get that?”

  “Of course.” Judy gathered a stack of folders and dumped them into an empty accordion. “I’m busy wreaking havoc, and you’re closer.”

  “But it’s after hours.”

  The phone rang again, and Judy scowled. “Get it, Mare.”

  “No. I’m beat. The voice-mail’s on.”

  Brring! “Get it!” Judy said. “You’ll feel guilty if you don’t. Don’t you feel guilty already?”

  “Shame on you, guilt-tripping a Catholic. How low will you go?” Mary grabbed the receiver. “Rosato & Associates … I’m sorry, Bennie’s out of the country for the entire month. Yes, there are associates of hers here.” She slipped a small, manicured hand over the phone and caught Judy’s eye. “Man needs a criminal defense lawyer. Should I tell him wrong number?”

  “Very funny. Ask him what the charge is.” So Mary asked, and Judy read the hue of her friend’s face. “Tell him we’ll take it,” she said quickly, but Mary’s brown eyes flared in alarm.

  “A murder case? You and me? By ourselves? We can’t do that! We don’t have permission, we don’t have authority, we don’t have expertise, we don’t have any of the stuff you’re supposed to—”

  “We’ll apologize later. Tell him yes.”

  “But we don’t know what we’re doing.” Mary’s hand stiffened over the receiver. “We’ve only done two murder cases and in one we almost got murdered.”

  “I thought you grew up last case.”

  “Two steps forward, one step back.”

  “You told me you weren’t afraid anymore.”

  “I lied. I was born afraid.”

  “Tell him we’ll take it, dufus!” Judy dropped the file and crossed to the credenza. “Gimme that phone.”

  “No!” Mary clutched the receiver to her chest. “We can’t do it! We’re not smart enough!”

  “Speak for yourself,” Judy said, and snatched the phone away.

  Ten minutes later, they were in a cab jostling down Market Street toward the Roundhouse. The rain had stopped, but the streets were wet and the gutters full of cold, rushing water. Leftover Christmas garlands wreathing the streetlights blew in the wind, and the lights from the Marriott, The Gallery mall, and the shops lining Market reflected on the slick asphalt in colored orbs, like Christmas lights. To Mary, the city seemed shut down, with everybody recovering from the winter holidays. Even the cab driver was unusually quiet, but Mary and Judy more than made up for him. They had yammered since they left the office. Only God knew how many trial strategies, settlement conferences, and oral arguments had been discussed in the backseats of the city’s cabs. By now cabbies could have law degrees, set up practice, and improve the entire profession.

  Mary slumped in her trench coat. “I’ve never tried a murder case, first-chair.”

  “So what? We were second-chair to Bennie.”

  “He called Bennie,” Mary said.

  “No, he didn’t. He called the firm. You and me have more criminal experience than anybody at the firm except her.”

  “Two criminal trials? Please. This is bait-and-switch, with lawyers instead of air conditioners.”

  “So tell him.” Judy shrugged, the gesture buried in a white down coat that encircled her like a sugar-frosted doughnut. “Let the man make his choice. He wants another lawyer, he can get one.”

  “I will tell him,” Mary said, as if Judy had disagreed. She looked out the window and watched the city sleep. “How did we get into this?”

  “We like to have fun.”

  “I hate fun. I hate rowing and goldens and fun of all sorts.”

  “Buck up, Mare. We can handle it. Just use your common sense. Now, who’d Newlin kill? Allegedly?”

  Mary blushed, suddenly glad it was dark in the cab. “Uh, I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Smooth move.” Judy laughed, but Mary didn’t.

  “You could’ve asked him.”

  “I thought you knew already.”

  Mary closed her eyes, briefly. “I’m not competent to do this. I’m screwing up before I meet the client. Is that even possible?”

  “It’s a land speed record,” Judy answered, without rancor. “You and me, we get it done, don’t we?”

  Mary couldn’t smile. Malpractice wasn’t funny, and murder even less so. She looked out the window as the cab pulled up at the Roundhouse. The rain began to fall again, a freezing downpour, and somehow Mary wasn’t completely surprised.

  3

  Paige Newlin had finally stopped crying and snuggled against the chest of her boyfriend, Trevor, in the folds of his gray Abercrombie sweater. It was scratchier than her own cashmere sweater set, but she needed the comfort. Paige was still tweaking, trying to come down from the drugs. It was the first time she had tried crystal and she never thought it would make her so crazy. It felt like she’d been electrocuted, super-charged. She had hoped it would get her through dinner with her parents. She had been wrong. Her head was still a mess. MTV was on the flat TV across the living room, but Paige could barely focus on the screen.

  She shivered though the elegant apartment was warm and the white couch cushy with goose feathers. She had a body that could only have belonged to a young model; rope-slim in a black sweater set and black stretch jeans that made her long legs look like licorice sticks. She had impossibly narrow hips and high, small breasts. Her crying jag had left her azure-blue eyes glistening with tears, tinged her upturned nose pink at its tip, and caused her soft, overlarge mouth to tilt downward.

  “You’re still shivering a little,” Trevor said, holding her on the sofa. Trevor Olanski was a tall, strapping young man with thick, wavy black hair, round greenish eyes, and now, a troubled frown. His jeans were sliced lengthwise down the thigh and he wore brown Doc Martens. “You want me to turn up the heat, or get you a blanket?”

  “It’s taking too long to come down, Trev.” Paige fingered her long ponytail, a deep red color and straight as a line. The ponytail was her trademark, the signature look that her mother thought would
put her over the top. Her mother. What had happened? Paige’s head was pounding. “I don’t need a blanket, I need more Special K.”

  “No, you’ve taken too much already. Get hugged instead.” Trevor held her closer, which she liked, though she kept eyeing his black Jansport book bag on the coffee table in front of them. Out of the unzipped partition had slid his algebra book, a graphing calculator, and a clear vial of Special K. Ketamine, a veterinary tranquilizer that was supposed to mellow her out from the crystal.

  “More K would help, Trev. With the hug. Like a side order.”

  “Be patient, honey. You were so high, it takes time. That’s how crystal is.”

  “You should’ve told me that.”

  “I did. You insisted, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, maybe you did. I don’t remember.” Paige’s thoughts jumbled together like colored glass in a kaleidoscope, and her muscles relaxed with the K. “I still can’t deal with what happened. With my mother.”

  “Don’t think about that now. You’ve been through too much tonight, way too much.” Trevor cuddled her in his arms. “You want something to drink? Some water or something?”

  “No.”

  “How about I turn the TV off? Or make it louder? You like Pop-Up Video.” Trevor gestured at the TV, but Paige still wasn’t able to focus. It looked like Smash-mouth doing “Dancing on the Sun,” but it could have been any white guys jumping around in knit caps.

  “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “You’re not hungry or anything? I can make grilled cheese.”

  “Too fattening.” Paige shook her head and felt the K finally cooling her out. The fight with her mother had been the worst one since she’d moved out. She had been so angry, she had screamed at her mother. Then she’d reached for the knife, on the table. No. She couldn’t get the pictures out of her head. She felt chilled to the bone. “Trev, can’t I please have another bump?”

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, babe.”

  “I do. I think I need two.”