“Except for Seamus Dent,” I said, “your crucial eyewitness.”

“Not so crucial, but still, nice job on that, I must say. I was almost impressed.”

“We aim to please.”

“And, Beth, your argument was quite solid. I spoke to the boss about you. We have an opening in the law department if you’re interested.”

“And leave Victor? I couldn’t do that.”

“Silly me, I thought leaving Victor here was the main inducement of the offer.”

“Speaking of Dent,” I said. “What’s happening with Detective Gleason?”

“Nothing sweet,” said Torricelli. “You lit him up but good, Carl. They took away his gun, put him on the front desk at the auto squad until Internal Affairs finishes its investigation of the shooting. Don’t know if he’ll weather it. The dead guy’s mother just filed a civil suit against the city. Wrongful death.”

“Of course she did.”

“I was shocked when I saw the pleading,” said Mia Dalton, a smile slipping onto her face. “Shocked that your name wasn’t on it, Victor. You’re slipping. Time was, you would have been the first one knocking at her door, contingency fee agreement at the ready.”

“I’m getting old,” I said. “Or maybe I believed the detective when he said he had no choice. He tried to do something good for that kid, Dent. It didn’t work out, but still.”

“Without the eyewitness,” said Mia, “we’re going to concentrate more on the motive evidence. The prickly divorce. The fight over custody and assets. The girlfriends.”

“Excuse me?”

“Detective Torricelli has been busy. Your client had a number of affairs. It will be detailed in our trial memo.”

“You care to give us the names now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Darcy DeAngelo?” said Beth. “The girl from the restaurant?”

Dalton’s eyes widened.

“He told us about her,” said Beth. “He told us everything, including that he didn’t kill his wife.”

“Well, it won’t be the first time,” said Torricelli.

“The first time for what?” I said.

“The first time a client pulled your chain,” he said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Anything else?” said Mia Dalton.

I took a document out of my briefcase, gave it a quick scan, and then tossed it across her desk. “I have a question about this.”

She looked it over. “An inventory of what was seized during the initial search of Mr. Dubé’s apartment. The search was done with the defendant’s consent and incident to a valid arrest. What of it?”

“What happened to my client’s stuff?”

Torricelli stepped forward and took hold of the document. “Everything we wanted, we took and inventoried,” he said. “Besides the gun, the bloodied shirt, the bloodied boot, there wasn’t much else of interest. We just left it there. I assume your sleazeball client took care of it.”

“Apparently the landlord sold it off,” I said. “But some stuff appears to be missing, even in your initial notation of what you found in the apartment. There’s computer cables but no computer. There’s a full-size video camera, with a tripod and lights, but no videotapes. And there are no toys.”

“Toys?”

“Yes, toys.” Mrs. Cullen had mentioned toys outside the courtroom, but none had been found in Dubé’s apartment. Not even kid toys for the daughter.

“I don’t know about no toys,” said Torricelli. “Maybe he wasn’t a toy kind of guy. Maybe he pawned off what he had to raise biscuit for his legal beagles.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” I said, grinning. “That’s no way to prosecute a murder case.”

“What we saw, we noted,” said Torricelli, tossing the paper back onto Dalton’s desk. “What we took, we inventoried.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. We did it by the book. End of story. Don’t be making a mountain out of a dung heap, you gap-toothed worm.”

“But that’s my job.”

“Let me straighten you out on something, my friends,” said Mia Dalton. “The district attorney herself won this case before her election to be my boss. She expects me to win it again. You have never seen her when she is disappointed. Her nickname, ‘The Dragon Lady,’ is well earned. When disappointed, she eats the furniture, she flies around terrifying small dogs and grown prosecutors, she breathes a blue-hot flame. I do not intend to get a faceful of fire.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning don’t expect any favors from me on this one. You had better come into that courtroom with more than a heartfelt plea of reasonable doubt, because I have every intention of serving that murderer’s ass up to the jury on a silver platter. If you’re going to have any chance in that courtroom, you better bring your A game.”

“I don’t think I have an A game,” I said.

“That’s what cheers me in the late hours of the night,” said Mia Dalton. “I don’t think you do either.”

28

Dawn shambled up the dark city street like an arthritic old man, arms pumping, gums working, a lot of action but not much forward movement. Yeah, sure, the metaphor is strained, but just then so was my bladder.

I was sitting in my car waiting for the day to break, and I was in pain. I had asked Phil Skink, my private investigator, if he had any tips on staking out an apartment. “Other than paying someone with half a clue to do it for you, mate?” he said. “Yes, Phil,” I said, “other than that.” Pro bono, Latin for “on the cheap.” So this is what he told me. Make sure there is no way out the back door of the building. Check. Use a car that fits in socioeconomically with the neighborhood. Check. Reconnoiter the neighborhood to find the best place to set up. Check. Park in front of a store or a bar. Check. Sit in the front passenger seat so it looks like you’re waiting for someone. Check. Sit low. Check. Have a cover story in case a cop or neighbor gets curious. Check. Buy your coffee small. Well, there was maybe where I might have messed up.

I started early, well before old man dawn even put on his surgical socks, and so a small cup of coffee was simply not going to do it for me. Grande or venti? What about big? Whatever happened to just plain big? Give me something big, I said to the barista, who was not young, pierced, and rude but was fat, Greek, and rude, who worked the counter of my diner, and who would have punched me in the face if I called him a barista. Something big, I had said, and now I was paying for it.

I jiggled my leg, thought about dry things, kept my eye on the door beside Tommy’s High Ball on Daniel Rose’s West Philly street. I was parked across from his building and down a bit, in front of a still-closed bodega. Nothing had yet gone in or out that door, but I knew, I just knew, that the instant I left that street to empty the soggy, storm-tossed sea that was my bladder, the door would open, the mark would exit, the morning would be lost. So I waited and watched and jiggled my leg and thought of desert sands, of camels and Bedouins, of all manner of desiccated things. Which was when I started comparing the dawn to Horace T. Grant.

I wasn’t good at this, I was not the patient type, I wanted to go home and pee, but Julia Rose had said her boyfriend had moved out. I didn’t believe her, and I didn’t believe that she was lying because she wanted to. She was lying because someone else wanted her to lie. Daniel had said his name was Randy. Julia had said Randy didn’t want to be involved. But he was already, wasn’t he? If I was going to get a grip on Daniel’s situation, I needed to learn what I could about Randy. His workplace was a start. Hence my stakeout.

It was a little after seven-thirty when the door beside Tommy’s High Ball finally opened. The man who came out was medium height, thick-shouldered, with glasses and short blond hair. He wore a blue work shirt with a name stitched over the pocket and matching blue pants.

Outside, standing now in front of the door, legs spread, he shook a cigarette from a crushed pack, lit it, inhaled, picked a piece of tobacco from his teeth.