I stared at him and then at my secretary, Ellie, who had an amused expression on her face. She subtly pushed forward a card on her desk.

I looked at the card, swiveled my head to look at the man and then back at the card. swift & son, it read. real estate management. title insurance. mortgage brokerage. life and disability insurance. And then, in the corner, in tiny print: clarence swift, attorney-at-law.

“Mr. Swift?”

“Clarence, please,” he said, interrupting me. “Call me Clarence. There is no reason for you to be so formal with the likes of me.”

“Fine, Clarence. You were Wren Denniston’s lawyer?”

“More than that, sir. We were friends, the best of friends. We spoke constantly, hatched plots together. His father did business with my father, and that was a bond that kept us together. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Not an hour goes by where I don’t start to pick up the phone and only then remember.”

He pulled a giant handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, wiped the shine off his wide forehead, blew his pointed nose.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“Yes, thank you,” he said as he flicked the handkerchief back into his jacket. “It’s been a most traumatic couple of days. I am at sea, Mr. Carl, marooned on a floating piece of flotsam. Not even jetsam, sir, but flotsam.”

“Very understandable. Why don’t you step into my office?”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. That is quite extraordinary of you to make the time to see me on such short notice.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said as I gestured to the hallway.

When he was situated in a client chair across from my desk, I stepped out of the office for a moment and returned to Ellie.

“Any calls?” I said.

“A few,” she said, handing me my messages.

“I need to talk to Derek Moats, the defendant I represented yesterday. Can you try to find him for me?”

“I have his cell-phone number. Do you want me to set up an appointment for him here?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Not here. Just find out where he’ll be tonight. Tell him I have a job for him, if he’s willing.”

“Fine.”

I glanced down the hallway. “What do you think of our Mr. Swift?”

“Peculiar, isn’t he?”

“Yes. How would you feel if your life was in his hands?”

“Concerned.”

“I suppose you should hold all my calls.”

When I returned to my office, Clarence Swift was just closing the briefcase on his lap and locking it shut.

“Looking for something?” I said.

“Just consulting my scheduler to see what is next. A man of business must always keep himself busy, my father used to say.”

I sat behind my desk and stared for a moment at the strange-looking man before me. His chin was pointy, his pursed mouth was just the right size for his thumb. And his philtrum was extraordinarily deep. You know what a philtrum is, it’s that groove that runs from your nose to your mouth, that thing we never think about, but it was hard not to think about it with Clarence Swift. It was so deep he could have stored his loose change in there.

“I so appreciate your seeing me unawares like this, Mr. Carl,” he said. “I’ve heard much about you, in both the papers and from Wren. Poor old Wren was quite the raconteur, always quick with the telling jab and the illuminating tale. He’ll be so missed. And you’ll be gratified to learn, I am sure, that you were often a favorite subject.”

“Oh, I bet I was.”

“It is from my bond with Wren that rises my commitment toward Julia,” said Swift. “You must believe that I would do whatever is humanly possible for her. She is a fabulous woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Truly extraordinary.”

“I agree.”

“Wondrous in oh-so-many ways.”

I eyed him for a long moment. “Are you married, Clarence?”

“Engaged.”

“Good for you.”

“My fiancée, Margaret.”

He pulled out his wallet, opened it, dug deep until he pulled out a bent and spindled photograph of a large woman holding a gray cat. The woman was stout and hardy, with big-knuckled hands and floppy ears. Ouch.

“We often had dinner together with the Dennistons,” said Clarence, looking at the photograph with a depressed gaze before sticking it back into his wallet. “We were all so close.”

“So tell me, how is Julia holding up?”

“Hanging on as best she can, under the circumstances,” he said. “I think she has a slight cold.”

“A cold, huh?”

“Yes. It’s understandable, the tragedy weakening her defenses.”

“I’m sure that’s it.”

“It has rocked us all. But this is no time to be paralyzed by grief. We must put away our own personal anguish and sally forth. And so here I am, thrust into the role of defender, determined to do my best for poor Julia. Though, of course, I don’t expect my meager experience in such matters can compare with the achievements of your brilliant career.”

“It hasn’t been that brilliant,” I said.

“You’re being modest, but I would expect no less. It is a certified truth that the greater the man, the greater the humility. And you, Mr. Carl, are living proof.”

“I’m not that humble either.”

“Still, Mr. Carl. Still.”

“Call me Victor,” I said.

“That would be a privilege.” He bowed his head in gratitude, as if I were a lord granting some great favor to a serf. “One of the reasons I have come today, Victor, is that I am trying to understand all that Mrs. Denniston was doing on the night of the murder. A timeline, so to speak. That is what they always do in the television shows, is it not? And so I am quite interested in what she was doing at your apartment when the police finally found her. The police detective has already given me your statement. The handsome one-”

“Sims.”

“Right, Detective Sims. I much prefer him to the other one, the big Irish one, who comes off as quite a brute. But Detective Sims seems much more reasonable.”

“Oh, he’s a great guy, he is.”

“He’s actually been very helpful.”

“I bet he has.”

“So, Victor, do you have anything to add to what you told the police?”

“No, the statement is still operative.”

“Still operative. That’s a funny phrasing. Quite atypical, don’t you think? May I ask you straight out what is the exact nature of your relationship with Julia?”

“No.”

He sat back awkwardly, stared at me over his pointy nose. “It would help my preparations tremendously.”

“I don’t see how. And in any event it’s personal.”

“Personal? Oh, my.”

“If you want an answer, Clarence, simply ask your client.”

“Yes, well, she hasn’t been, how do I say this” – he leaned forward, lowered his voice to a whisper – “as cooperative as I would have hoped.”

I tilted my head a bit. “She’s not talking? Even to you?”

“No. Do you have any idea why?”

I did. We had made a deal, a deal she had kept but that I had violated at the first convenient moment.

“No,” I said. “No idea. But she is being smart not to talk.”

“I don’t think it is smart at all. I have advised her, of course, that she should cooperate completely with the authorities. That is simply what one does after a great tragedy. But she has sadly not taken my advice. Which is too bad. I’m afraid if she doesn’t talk to the police soon, they are going to become suspicious.”

“That boat sailed long ago.”

“But it is not too late to turn the tide. I was as surprised as anyone when Julia called from police headquarters, but since that moment I have been working like a demon. And you’ll be gratified to know, I’m sure, that I have poor Julia’s case well in hand.”

He pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose while staring at me, stuffed the handkerchief back in his jacket.

“Well in hand,” he repeated.

“That’s interesting,” I said, “because it appears from the papers that they are building an airtight case against her.”

“A flimsy case of circumstantial evidence only, Victor. A tissue of lies that I can, that I must, pull apart. And preparations are being made.”