'No. I'd imagine not. Me, neither, actually.'

Dooher's voice softened. 'I'm sorry about your girlfriend. I feel if it hadn't been for me…'

'No, it's not you, Mark. It was her. It was me.'

'So go back and tell her you're sorry. Leave me out of it. I can get another lawyer whose life I won't ruin.'

'You're not ruining my life, and I am your lawyer.'

'Just so you're sure.'

'I'm sure. I'm sure you didn't do any of this.'

'That's good to hear, because I didn't.'

'Well, then, here's to the old-fashioned idea of friends standing by each other. And to hell with the rest of 'em.'

'Amen to that,' Dooher said, 'and thank you.'

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

The conference room at McCabe & Roth had seen more somber moments, but not since the downsizing layoffs. And this may have been worse than any of those.

It was five o'clock on this Monday evening, one day shy of two weeks from the day of Sheila's death. Mark Dooher waited until the room was full before having Janey page him and tell him it was time.

Dooher lingered one last moment outside the room, aware of the muted tones within These people were worried. He had returned to work the previous Wednesday, enduring the sympathy of his partners and staff, taking individual meetings with key people for the rest of the week, reassuring one and all that life would go on, he was fine, the firm's client base was solid.

And then Sunday's Chronicle broke the story with the front-page headline – Local Lawyer Suspected in Wife's Murder.

'Sources at the Hall of Justice have confirmed that the Grand Jury is considering an indictment on a prominent San Francisco attorney, Mark Dooher, for the murder of his wife, Sheila.' The long article went on to include all the other details that the unnamed 'sources' provided – the other allegations, from the rape of Diane Price to the murders of Victor Trang ten weeks earlier and Andre Nguyen in Vietnam.

Dooher and Farrell had spent all of the morning denying everything. They had held a press conference in Wes's office. Yes, they were planning on suing the Chronicle and the police department. No, he had never raped anybody. He'd never killed anyone in Vietnam or anywhere else. This was a carefully orchestrated character assassination… political overtones… despondent, desperate Police Inspector… blah blah blah.

They'd hit all the high notes, and the media had gone into its fandango. All the local stations were carrying it by the noon broadcasts, radio talk-shows picked it up. The office had gotten calls from Newsweek and Time and USA Today. Clearly, it was going to turn into a circus.

He opened the conference-room door and all noise ceased. He went to the chair at the head of the table and stood a moment, meeting the eyes of his people one by one. He came to Christina and gave her an almost imperceptible extra nod. Finally, he cleared his throat.

At his earlier request, Janey had placed a copy of the Sunday Chronicle in a folder at his place. Dooher picked up the folder, opened it, and withdrew the paper, holding it up so that the headline fairly screamed. He, by contrast, spoke with great control, quietly. 'I did not do any of this,' he said. 'I will fight these charges until the day I die.'

No one said a word.

He scanned the room again, the sea of faces staring back at him, rapt. The current of tension was palpable, underscored by the barely audible sibilance of heavy breathing. Janey and three of the other women in the room were crying.

He continued: 'I wanted to meet with all of you, face to face, and tell you this. I want to sit here and answer any questions you might have. We're a room full of lawyers and you'll notice I don't have my lawyer present in here – he's sitting in my office, waiting until we're finished. I don't have anything to hide.' He glanced a last time at the newspaper, then put it back in its folder. Sitting down, he clasped his hands in front of him on the table. 'I am at your complete disposal.'

Glitsky and Thieu, armed with their warrant, stood in the empty reception area for a couple of seconds, wondering where everyone was. That odd, red evening light seemed to shimmer in the moted air and the place appeared absolutely deserted.

'This is spooky,' Thieu whispered.

'Dooher's office,' Glitsky said. 'I know where it is.'

They walked the long hallway through the center of the building, offices to either side, all of them empty, the light blessedly shaded in the interstices between them.

The area opened up again in front of Dooher's office – Janey's area, the view again, the light. Glitsky knocked on Dooher's door and sensed the movement inside. He put his hand on his gun and the door opened on Wes Farrell.

'We've been expecting you,' he said.

Still with his staff in the conference room, Dooher looked over and stood when the door opened. 'Excuse me,' he said to the silent table in front of him. He came outside to meet them, closing the door behind him. 'You're making a terrible mistake, Sergeant,' he said.

'You have the right to remain silent,' Glitsky began, while Thieu – more or less gently – took Dooher's arm and placed a handcuff over one wrist, turning it behind his back.

'Is that necessary?'

The door opened again and Thieu put out a hand against it. 'Just a minute, please. Police.'

But the door got pushed open anyway. Roughly.

'Sergeant Glitsky!'

Glitsky stopped his recital. He remembered her now, no problem. Stunning in the sepia light, her color high, eyes flashing. 'Ms Carerra,' he said. 'I'm sorry, can I ask you to please wait back inside?'

'No, you can't! This is outrageous!'

Farrell stepped forward. 'Christina…'

She jerked her arm away, faced off on them all. 'What's the matter with you, Sergeant? Can't you see what you're putting this good man through? Look at him. He didn't do anything. Goddamnit, look at him, would you?'

But Glitsky was looking at her.

'Christina, it's all right,' Dooher said.

Thieu had snicked the other cuff on Dooher and now he was advancing on Christina. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to get back in there, ma' am. Right now.'

Glitsky said, 'Paul, it's okay.'

'It's not okay!' Christina's hands were clenched. Tears of anger were beginning to gleam in her eyes.'This isn't right. Why are you doing this?'

'Christina,' Dooher repeated. Softly, almost like a lover. 'They can't prove it. It's all right.' Then, to Wes, gently, 'Take care of her, would you?'

Christina looked pleadingly at Dooher. He met her eyes. She started to reach a hand up, but Wes Farrell took it. Some profound energy, unmistakable, flowed between them.

Glitsky saw it, and suddenly knew that the very slim chance that he might in fact be wrong had disappeared. They had inadvertently given him the last piece, the elusive key to the whole puzzle – a motive.