Amanda’s mouth opened in surprise. “If that was meant to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”

“I’m afraid you’re too easily impressed. One of my assistants Googled you. I obtained that piece of information from an interview you gave to one of my competitors after the Cardoni case.”

“That was a few years ago.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”

Amanda laughed. “No, Mrs. Brice, and your offer of blueberry pancakes has served its purpose. I’ll need the carbs to get me through the day, since I’m going to be sleep-deprived.”

“Come to the Flightcraft FBO at eight.”

“FBO?”

“It means fixed base operator. Think terminal. Jennifer Gates, my administrative assistant, will be waiting in the lounge and she’ll escort you on board. One more thing. Don’t tell anyone about our meeting.”

“You don’t want anyone to know you’re coming to Portland?”

“That is correct. You’ll understand why when I tell you about the case,” Brice answered just before she broke the connection.

Amanda flopped onto her back so she could gather the strength to get up and get dressed. She found Mike lying on his side, watching her. As chief criminal deputy in the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, Mike had led many of the county’s high-profile murder cases and they’d met when he prosecuted the Cardoni case, which almost cost Amanda her life. They’d had an on-again, off-again relationship ever since. If they weren’t so busy, she and Mike might have had time to figure out where that relationship was going.

Mike had blue eyes, curly black hair, and a shaggy mustache. Because he was a bulky six-five, he was frequently mistaken for someone who played college football or basketball-sports in which the cerebral DA had never engaged. Instead, Amanda’s boyfriend competed in chess tournaments and was good enough on the tenor sax to play professionally.

“I guess we’re not eating breakfast together,” Mike said.

“Sorry,” Amanda said, “duty calls.”

“A new case?”

“Yup.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t know, and I can’t tell you the identity of the client, so don’t ask.”

“Mrs. Brice must be rich,” Mike said with a grin.

“Please forget you heard that name or I will not have sex with you until the next millennium.”

Mike laughed.

“And how did you know she was rich?”

“Yours truly knows what an FBO is. Don’t forget, I practiced law in LA. So, she’s flying in on a private jet, huh.”

“Mike,” Amanda warned.

Greene laughed again. Then he looked at the clock on the nightstand. “What time do you have to be at the airport?”

“Eight.”

Mike snaked an arm across Amanda’s stomach. “I’m going to have trouble getting back to sleep,” he said as his hand moved slowly to Amanda’s breast.

Amanda rolled toward Mike. Being jerked out of sleep always jangled her nerves and she did have plenty of time to shower and dress.

“All men are pigs who only think about one thing,” she said.

Mike grinned and answered with the most valuable phrase he’d learned in law school: “Assuming that’s true, what’s wrong with it?”

IT WAS HOT for a Portland summer and Amanda had the air conditioning cranked up as she drove along the freeway to Airport Way, the road that led to Portland International Airport. Just before the road curved toward the parking garage for the main terminal and the arrivals and departures areas, she saw a sign that read BUSINESS AVIATION and turned into a parking lot that fronted the Flightcraft FBO, a one-story steel-and-glass building that acted as the terminal for private aircraft. Inside were a few rows of seats and a check-in desk. When Amanda entered, an attractive brunette with bouncy, shoulder-length hair stood up. She was wearing a blue pinstripe pants suit, a white silk shirt, and a strand of white pearls and looked very businesslike as well as very elegant.

Amanda was good-looking, but no one would call her elegant. Years of competitive swimming had given her broad shoulders and a muscular build she kept hard by continuing the workouts that had made her a PAC-10 champion and given her a shot at an Olympic berth. Her figure was nothing like that of a fashion model, but it still attracted men.

“Ms. Jaffe?”

Amanda nodded. The woman held out her hand and they shook.

“I’m Jennifer Gates, Mrs. Brice’s assistant. Mrs. Brice is waiting for you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jennifer. Lead on.”

A sleek white Gulfstream G550 with the World News logo stenciled on its fuselage waited on the tarmac a short distance from the terminal. Amanda climbed a set of steps and walked into an interior unlike that of any plane in which she’d ever flown. The floor was covered with a deep beige carpet you’d expect to find in a Manhattan penthouse and the walls were paneled in dark wood. There were fourteen roomy seats upholstered in tan leather, one of which had been converted into a neatly made bed. Midway back from the cockpit was an oak conference table with a single place setting consisting of a monogrammed linen napkin, a crystal glass filled with ice water, another glass for the orange juice in a crystal pitcher, and silverware that Amanda was willing to bet was real silver.

Amanda had gone to college in the Bay Area and law school in Manhattan, so she wasn’t totally ignorant of fashion, but the woman sitting across from the solitary setting was obviously an expert. She wore black Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps, black crepe pants, and a gray tweed Donna Karan belted jacket with black trim. A gold link necklace graced her neck, gold earrings dangled from her ears, and she told time on a Cartier tank watch. Next to her on an empty seat was a large black leather Prada hobo bag. Brice’s nails were manicured, her makeup was perfect, and her hair looked as if a stylist had just worked on it. No one would ever guess that she’d flown a redeye cross-country.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Jaffe,” Brice said.

“Nifty wheels,” Amanda answered as she completed her survey of the Gulfstream’s interior.

“I like it. Can I offer you orange juice, coffee?”

Amanda slid into the seat with the place setting. “Orange juice would be great, and I bet your chef can whip up a latte.”

“Single or double?” Brice asked as an amused smile creased her lips.

Amanda smiled back. “A double, please.”

Brice looked up at Jennifer Gates, who poured Amanda a glass of orange juice then walked to the back of the plane to place her order for a latte.

“Now that I’m suitably impressed, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Do the names Gabriel Sun or Charlie Marsh mean anything to you?”

“Satan’s Guru! Of course I know who he is. The trial of Sally Pope was my father’s biggest case.”

“Mr. Marsh is returning to Oregon to face the charge that he murdered Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. I would like you to represent him. You’ll be paid a five-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. If the retainer is insufficient to cover your time, additional fees will be provided.”

Amanda had been given some large retainers, but nothing like this. It took all of her courtroom training to keep her excitement from showing.

“Why is World News willing to fund Gabriel Sun’s defense?” she asked.

“It’s not. Do you remember Mr. Marsh’s best-seller?”

“The Light Within You? Of course. I was in college when my father defended Sally Pope. I’ll bet every student at Berkeley read that book.”

“I’ve negotiated a contract with Charlie’s old publisher on his behalf for a new book; an autobiography that will take up where his first book left off. Charlie will tell all about the shooting at the Westmont Country Club, his flight to Africa, his life in Batanga, and his trial-the trial you will conduct.”

Brice leaned forward slightly and locked eyes with Amanda.

“There’s no question that Charlie’s new book will be a best-seller. Everyone in America will read it, and you will become the best-known criminal defense attorney in the country. Are you interested, Ms. Jaffe?”