“I don’t want to talk about Norman Mailer!” I couldn’t help but raise my voice. But then I tried to swallow down the anger. Emotions had never helped me before when I was questioning people-in a deposition or on the stand. They certainly wouldn’t help now. “I want to know why you were stalking Jane.”

“You know what Norman Mailer believed?”

I wanted to scream in frustration. I said nothing.

“Mailer told me once that writing was a heroic enterprise, and writers were heroic figures.”

“Wait, Mailer told you once? I know you’ve got the gray hair, but aren’t you a little young to have been buddies with Mailer?”

“He was buddies with people I knew.”

“Who? Oh, wait…” Suddenly, his last name made sense. “Are you related to Beaumont Grenier?” Beaumont Grenier was a contemporary of Mailer’s, considered one of the best of his generation. My client, Forester, had loved his work.

“Something like that.” For the first time, Mick looked uncomfortable.

I thought about what I knew of Beaumont Grenier. After a few bestselling books, he’d left the literary limelight in New York and moved to Maine, where he had a summer house. He stayed there all year-round, even during the most frozen winter days, with only his wife and his son for company, because it was the only place he could write.

“Are you Beaumont Grenier’s kid?” I asked.

“Something like that,” he said again in a dry tone. “Look, what I was saying about Mailer was-”

“You were saying something about heroism. Are you sitting here telling me you’re heroic?” The anger of my earlier tone had been replaced by incredulity.

He shrugged minimally, as if to say he couldn’t change the things that were true. “Mailer also said that every woman was a culture unto herself, with all the roots and tendrils that make up a culture.”

“And?”

“He didn’t hate women. He just thought that being with a woman was like being in a new country.”

“I can’t even imagine why you’re telling me this. Is it because you thought Jane was a culture? A country?”

He smiled. “I think of it in broader terms than Mailer did. I think of all the subjects I write about as being their own enigmas, their own cultures. And as a writer covering those puzzling cultures, I have to find out everything I can about them.”

It reminded me of something Jane had said-that she stepped outside her marriage because every person she was with brought her something new.

But Mick was still talking. “When I get the chance,” he said, “I like to live in their skin.”

I recoiled. “‘Live in their skin,’” I repeated. “Live in their skin? Is that a reference to sex with Jane? You’re sick.”

“Why am I sick? She’s a beautiful woman.” His head dipped to one side. “She was a beautiful woman. And I was writing about her. I wanted to see any side of her I could. I wanted to be inside her, sure. I’ve always said that every writer would fuck some of his characters if he got a chance.”

I couldn’t hide my distaste. “You saw her as a character? And that’s how you justify stalking her and sleeping with her?”

“It wasn’t stalking. It was research.”

“So let’s see if I’m getting this straight-first, you were following her.”

Another bob of his head in a silent acknowledgement. No remorse on his face.

“And you’ve been scouring the Web for any references to her.”

Another nod.

“You cut out pictures and articles from magazines about her.”

“Right.”

“Did you get into her house somehow and leave those flowers and that noose?”

His eyes went a little wide. “No, but that’s brilliant. Did that happen?” He grabbed the notebook. More scribbling.

“You’re psychotic. You were at Trial TV on that Monday, the day she died.”

“Absolutely. I was doing background research on her. That network wants PR so bad, the president of Trial TV himself invited me right in.”

“Jane said she found notes you kept about what grocery stores she went to and where she got her hair cut.”

He was nodding. Still he looked unperturbed. In fact, he seemed quite proud of himself. “Let me save you a little time. I also hung out wherever I thought she would be. When she was shooting a promo for Trial TV in front of the courthouse, I was in that crowd. And I’ve been paying bouncers and bar workers to let me know when she was out in the city. And when a bouncer called on Friday saying you guys were at that place on Damen, I called my buddy and I was there in ten minutes. And yes, I slept with her, in part for research, and in part because what man wouldn’t?”

“She was married.”

“Not my problem.” Again, he looked so undisturbed by all this.

“What are you writing?”

He thought about it. He shrugged.

He sat back and crossed his legs. He looked over me for a second. “I’m writing about the news media, and in particular what happens when broadcasters become the news or when they become celebrities in their own right.”

“Jane wasn’t ‘the news’ until she was killed.”

“That’s not exactly true. She was a celebrity who people gossiped about. People in the biz have been talking about her affairs for the last few years. And recently, word got to the streets, and trust me, it was going to hit the public’s attention sooner rather than later. She was about to become news because of her personal life. I pride myself on being able to see those stories before they happen. She isn’t the only broadcaster I’m covering for this book.” A little smile, almost wistful, played over his mouth. “But she sure was the most entertaining.” The eyes shot back to mine. “So that’s it, counselor.” That maddening shrug again.

“If all this is true, why aren’t you more upset about Jane being dead?”

“Are you kidding me? With her dead, she’s even a bigger story.”

Again, I felt myself recoil. I crossed my arms over my chest, my mother’s thin cashmere sweater in that delicate pink making me feel even more vulnerable. “You’re a socio-path.”

“No. I just want to write the best stories, and now with Jane gone and everything I’ve already put into place for this story, I’ll come out on top. That’s all I care about. My publisher is pushing up the release of the book. I’ll work on it around the clock, and they’ll put it out.” He shrugged. “I’ll probably make a bestseller list.”

“Nice. And then maybe you can get over your complex about your famous father.”

Zing. I’d hit a sore spot. I could see the muscles in Mick’s neck tighten.

While I had him off-kilter, I kept going. “Have you heard about something called scarfing?”

He didn’t look confused at the term. Or surprised. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Did you do it with Jane?”

A little shrug. “She asked. And I like to give a girl what she wants.”

“Where were you Monday? After you left Trial TV?”

“You mean when Jane died? You want to know if I have an alibi?”

I nodded.

“You’re learning a lot from the police, huh? God, if you did kill her, it would be great for my book.”

“I didn’t kill her! Where were you that day?”

“What time did she die?”

“Sometime between three and six.”

“I was writing.”

“Here?”

“No. A place called Uncommon Ground. It’s up near Wrigley. I’m there all the time, and yes, I’m sure someone there will tell you they saw me that afternoon.”

There was a banging on the front door.

It opened with a slow creak.

And there was Vaughn.

He looked from Mick to me and back again, and I could see his eyes jumping, his mind leaping to connections even more absurd than the ones he already had.

“I came over when I saw his press conference,” I said before he could even open his mouth. “This is the guy who Jane was with on Friday night.”

Two uniformed cops stepped inside, behind Vaughn. Mick looked amused by the police inhabiting his place. He stood up and offered his hand to Vaughn. “Mick Grenier. Nice to meet you.”