“I had a court emergency.”

“What kind of emergency? When I was practicing law, I don’t remember any type of ‘court’ emergencies that would come up. I mean, court appearances, even trials, are well scheduled.”

“You never did personal injury work, I take it.”

“A little, but mostly entertainment law. I used to represent Forester Pickett.” I hated to use Forester posthumously to get cred, but Prince would have known him, and I knew Forester would have said, Go for it. Trot my name out there all you want.

“I knew Forester well.” Prince gave me an impressed nod. “And I’ll tell you, as a personal injury lawyer, I often have settlement conferences in the judge’s chambers, and I’ll bring in our clients and the representatives of the defendants, sometimes from around the country. In this case, one of my associates was handling the matter, but the judge was pushing him to settle for much less than we had anticipated, and he needed my counsel.”

It didn’t sound like much of an emergency to me, and I’d handled such settlement cases before, but I decided to move on. “Can I ask where you were on Monday afternoon?”

He frowned at me, the expression causing two deep lines between his eyes. “I don’t like your implication, Ms. McNeil. For your information, I’ve already talked to the police about this, and as I told them, I had a meeting with an expert witness in Highland Park at three Monday afternoon. I left my office at two that day. I met with my expert. His deposition started at four. It went until about six.”

“I met with Dr. Hamilton-Wood recently.”

Prince didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t make any kind of response. But then again, he was one of the best trial lawyers in the nation. It was his bread and butter to never, never let anyone see him sweat.

“Do you know Dr. Hamilton?” I asked.

“She’s acted as an expert of mine on occasion.”

“Well, Jane Augustine had spoken to Dr. Hamilton about a story,” I said. “It was one of the last stories she worked on before she died.”

He raised his silver eyebrows, adjusted the cuffs of his suit. “Interesting. What story was it?”

“I believe it was about the nature of class action suits and the way that plaintiffs are contacted, particularly in cases like Ladera.”

I wasn’t sure how much to reveal to Prince. On the one hand, I wanted to confront him with what Dr. Hamilton had told me, but on the other hand, I was hoping he would give me something before I scared him off. If I said too much, accused him of too much, he was sure to show me the door.

“I’m sorry.” He clasped his hands and leaned his elbows on the desktop. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this.”

“Had Jane contacted you about this story?”

“Not that I recall.”

I paused a beat, then two, my gaze never veering from Jackson Prince. Confronting him would have scared the crap out of me a month ago, but it was funny how much courage one could get from a potential murder rap. I wanted to ask him outright-Did you pay Dr. Hamilton to refer patients to you? Patients who had even minor heart conditions so you could represent them and make them part of the class action? Did your fear of being exposed cause you to do something about it?

But I knew from just sitting there with Prince that he was never going to admit anything. Why should he? I might have a better chance contacting the other doctors. And so it wasn’t fear that prevented me from asking. It was a calculated decision, and it felt good to be so clear-headed about something.

“So you’re not aware exactly what the story was about?” I asked.

“I have no idea. I certainly would have helped her if I knew. Jane was one of my favorite members of the media.” He said this last phrase like, She was one of my favorite pets.

I said nothing for a moment. Prince, neither. You could tell he was good at drawing out silences, waiting for moves he could react to. It was what made him a great trial lawyer.

The next thing I knew the secretary was back in the office. “Mr. Prince, don’t you need to leave for the golf course?”

“I do.” He stood and held out his hand. I had no choice but to follow suit. Prince clasped my hand a moment longer than he had on the way in. I tried to pull away, but still he grasped it, peering into my eyes and searching them, his own flicking back and forth. “Good luck to you on your employment situation,” he said. “Times like these can be very, very-” He gripped my hand slightly harder. “-challenging.”

A flash of Jane crossed my mind-her eyes wide-open and lifeless, that scarf too tight around her neck, the blood, the blood.

I yanked my hand away. “Thank you.” And I left Prince’s office.

66

I couldn’t go home and deal with the media. I drove, instead, to a Starbucks on Wells Street and lucked out by finding a sunny table by the front window.

I called Mayburn and told him about my meeting with Prince. “He says he has an alibi.” I explained about Prince’s meeting and deposition on Monday afternoon.

“Assuming the meeting with his expert happened and it started on time,” Mayburn said, “he had an hour to drive to Highland Park. An hour is enough time to stop by Jane’s house on his way. If you think Prince really did it, we should get the name of that expert and check out exactly what time he arrived there. But don’t forget, from what you’ve told me, Prince might not be the type to get his own hands dirty. He might have hired someone to pay Jane her last visit.”

The whole thing sickened me. Exhausted me. But I couldn’t slow down.

“Call you later,” I said to Mayburn.

I pulled out my BlackBerry and pulled up the contact information that Mayburn sent me for the doctors. I started with the first one. Dr. Trace Ritson in Charleston, South Carolina.

“May I ask who’s calling?” his wife said when I asked to speak with him.

“Isabel McNeil.”

“Are you a patient?”

“No, I’m calling from Chicago. I’m with Trial TV.” Used to be with Trial TV. It seemed a very white lie at this point. “I’d like to talk to him about some work he did for Jackson Prince.”

“I think it’s best if you call him at the office on Monday.”

“Could you please tell Dr. Ritson that Jane Augustine was killed a few days ago, and it might have been because of Jackson Prince?”

Silence. Then, “One minute, please.”

But it wasn’t a minute. Only thirty seconds later, Dr. Ritson was on the phone.

I managed to speak with not only Dr. Ritson, but four other doctors. I called Mayburn, told him what I’d learned and asked if he could contact the other doctors. Then I called C.J.’s cell phone and told her I had a story I wanted to work on, a story Jane had been working on before she died.

“Izzy, why are you doing this? We fired you.”

“I’m working on it for Jane. Because I think it might tell us who killed her. Because I know I didn’t. And most importantly, it was one of Jane’s last stories. I want to do this for her.”

Silence.

“Do you want me to take it to another station?”

A pause. “I’ll meet you at the station.”

When I pulled into the parking lot of Trial TV, I was as nervous as I had been my first day.

No news trucks, except for Trial TV’s own, sat outside. But then again, the news stations covering Jane’s murder probably had more than enough exterior shots of the place by now. And certainly no one expected me to come back.

The security guard frowned when he saw me, but my badge still worked. They hadn’t deactivated it yet. I walked down the linoleum hallway. The walls had been painted sometime this week, and although the smell of fresh paint lingered, file cabinets were pushed against the walls, white cardboard boxes on top.

The first person I ran into was Ted, the cameraman who worked with me that first day.