Padolino would try to patch that up on redirect, Ben well knew. But at least it gave him an exit line.

As Glancy had predicted last night, Opportunity had arrived. Coupled with Motive, the prosecution had made their case. They’d given the jury everything they needed to convict. For all intents and purposes, the burden of proof was now on Ben-and if he failed, Todd Glancy was a dead man.

It was overkill, Ben thought, and the flaw with overkill was not just that the jury would get bored but also that eventually some witness might make a mistake that would undermine everything. Padolino had made his case; the only sensible thing to do was rest. But instead, he opted for the anticlimactic introduction of character assassination. For what purpose? Ben wondered. What character was there left to assassinate?

Ben did his best to exclude all such witnesses, but Herndon ruled that it went to the issue of both motive and the likelihood that Glancy might leave a meeting to engage in “inappropriate relationships.” So it came in. Padolino put a succession of three women on the stand-all of them young, all of them pretty.

The first, a senatorial aide, claimed that during a meeting of the Atomic Energy Commission, Glancy put his hand under the conference table and between her legs. According to her, when she looked at him, shocked, he whispered, “My dear, you’re as cold as ice. Would you like to conduct a little science experiment? Let’s see if we can generate some spontaneous combustion.” The second, a member of the Senate secretarial pool, claimed Glancy had stumbled into her elevator late one evening, drunk as a skunk, belched, put his hand on her breast, and slurred, “Sssorry. I missstook you for a doorknob.”

Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Am I the only one who’s like, ickk?”

“No, I’m pretty sure there are others,” Ben whispered back. “Sixteen of them, to be exact. And they’re all sitting together.”

Glancy remained quietly impassive throughout the testimony.

The most damaging was the third, which was undoubtedly why Padolino had saved her for last. She claimed to have been interviewing for an intern’s position in Glancy’s office, the position later held by Veronica Cooper. This put it in the realm of employment-related sexual harassment, which was not only contrary to federal law and actionable in civil court, but also grounds for immediate expulsion from the Senate, as Senator Packwood had learned several years before.

“He kept saying, ‘Hiring is so difficult. You can’t make an informed decision unless you’re aware of all the candidate’s talents.’ And then he unzipped his fly.”

“Did he… make a request?” Padolino asked.

“He didn’t have to. It was obvious what he wanted. I told him I wouldn’t have sex with a stranger just to get a job. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Hey, it’s not like it would be real sex.’” She pursed her lips. “Obviously, he was a Democrat.”

Ben didn’t bother asking his client if any of these incidents actually happened. They didn’t directly pertain to the murder. And Ben didn’t really want to hear the answer. He was much more concerned about what was going on at the prosecution table. Padolino had effectively completed the day with what at best could be called filler witnesses. Damaging, perhaps, but not that damaging.

If this was the best he had left, he would’ve ended with Tidwell. Which led Ben to an inescapable conclusion. There was something more. Someone more. Some killer witness Padolino had saved so he could end with a bang. But who could it be? What could there possibly be left to say?

The question troubled him deeply. Because as every good attorney knew, the key to a successful defense was anticipation. No matter how bad the testimony, if you can see it coming, you can come up with some way to deflect it, to undermine it, to deflate it, to make it seem less than it at first appeared to be.

But if you didn’t know what was coming, you were like a floundering fish waiting to be speared. Dead in the water.

Loving stared at the young woman bearing both the determined expression and the crossbow aimed at his chest. “Have I… uh… done somethin’ to offend you?” he asked.

“Your very existence offends me, Dracula.”

Loving furrowed his brow. “I think you may be confused.”

“Am I?” She was so close now the tip of the crossbow bolt was barely a foot away. “How do you figure?”

Loving pointed to Daily. “He’s Count Dracula. I’m Renfield.”

Daily spun around. “Now wait a minute-”

“You think that’s funny?” She pushed the tip of the bolt to his chest, right over his heart. “You won’t be laughing once I send you into instant cremation.”

Loving held up his hands. “Look, lady, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not vampires.”

“I suppose you were in there just for the free crudités.”

“I was in there as part of an investigation. That’s my job. I’m a private investigator.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I was watching you. I saw that rouged-up Vampirella bite your neck.”

Ah. Now Loving was beginning to understand where the woman was coming from. “And why do you care?”

“Because that’s my job,” she spat back. “I’m a vampire hunter.”

Loving and Daily exchanged a look. “Did you say what I think you just said?”

“Don’t get smart with me!” She jabbed him with the tip of the bolt. “I won’t take any crap from a reanimated corpse.”

Loving held up his hands. “Lady-do you have a name?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I’d just like to know who I’m talkin’ to before you, uh, slay me.”

She hesitated, her narrowed eyes spewing anger. “You can call me Shalimar.”

“And you’re a… vampire slayer.”

“Hunter! Not slayer!”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is this is real life, not some TV show.”

“Fine. Vampire hunter.” He paused. “Do you need a hunting license for that?”

Her teeth clenched together. “Wiseass undead hellspawn. I’m taking you down.”

“Look, Shalimar, I’m not a vampire. You fire that bolt, you’ll be committin’ murder.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How do I prove I’m not a vampire?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’ll follow you home.”

“What? Why?”

“If I can sneak into your place without an invitation, that means I’m not a vampire, right?”

She raised the crossbow higher. “I warned you-”

“Or we could get Italian. After you see how much garlic I put on everythin’-”

“Cut it out!”

Loving tried another tack. “You got a cross on you?”

She hesitated. “Several.”

“How did I guess? Gimme one.”

“Why?”

“So when I don’t burst into flames or cower or hiss or anythin’, you’ll know I’m not undead.”

Slowly, Shalimar reached inside her Windbreaker and produced a small wooden cross. She held it out to him. Loving took it into his hand…

And screamed. “Aaaaaah!” He dropped the cross and pressed his hand to his chest.

Shalimar jumped, crossbow at the ready. “What? You monstrous-”

Loving held up his hands. “Jokin’, jokin’.” He picked the cross up off the pavement and squeezed it. “See. Nothin’. I’m not a vampire.”

Shalimar pursed her lips, furious. “Him, too.”

Daily took the cross, didn’t joke around, didn’t turn to flames.

Slowly Shalimar lowered her crossbow. “I guess you’re clean. You should be more careful about who you make out with.” She shrugged. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“Think nothin’ of it,” Loving replied. “Happens every day. But lemme tell you-there’s nothing in there but a lotta pathetic whack jobs tryin’ to convince themselves they’re special by copyin’ scenes from bad horror movies. I didn’t see anyone who didn’t reflect in the mirror over the hearth.”

“More pretenders.” She released the bolt from her crossbow and slowly edged it back into the quiver on her back. “Damn.”