Norma had leaned forward in the witness box and clutched the hem of her dress. "Well, it was like I told the detectives. The alarm wasn't on, so I figured Mr. Cullan was still home. He usually wasn't there when I got to work, so I'd have to turn off the alarm. He gave me the code 'cause he knew he could trust me, you know. I been cleaning people's houses since I was fifteen. Everybody gives me their alarm codes. I never had any trouble till that morning."

"What did you find when you went inside the house?" Ortiz asked.

"First thing I noticed was that it was freezing in that house. I kept my coat on, it was so cold. I went looking for Mr. Cullan to find out why the furnace wasn't working, and I found him lying facedown on the floor in his study. I turned him over and could see that he was dead. I called 911."

"Did you know that he'd been shot?"

"I saw blood. I didn't know what else to think."

Ortiz had placed the enlarged photograph of Jack Cullan's body on an easel. Cullan was lying facedown in the photograph, a dark pool of blood seeping around his head and out into the carpet.

"Does this photograph accurately depict what you saw when you entered the study?" Ortiz asked her.

Norma trembled and turned away, nodding her head. "He was a good man, always treated me fair."

"No further questions," Ortiz said as he sat down, leaving the photograph on the easel. The buzz from the spectators was like crickets on a summer night.

Norma had explained why she had assumed that Cullan had been shot, and Mason knew he wouldn't get anywhere chasing the slim chance she had killed Cullan. Instead, he walked to the easel, took the photograph, and leaned it, facedown, against the front of the jury box. Ortiz had used it for the press, not Norma Hawkins. Mason waited for Norma to gather herself before probing gently on cross-examination about minor matters, more for the purpose of blunting the emotional impact of the photograph than anything else. Norma admitted that Cullan often forgot to set the alarm. It was a small thing, but Mason knew that credibility was built on a foundation of small things. The more he could chip away at it, the more likely it would crumble.

Pete Kirby, resplendent in a dark green suit and cranberry vest, described the fight in the bar. When he quoted Blues's threatening to tear Cullan's head off and stuff it up his ass, a ripple of laughter cut through the audience, causing Judge Pistone's bailiff to rise and glare the offenders into silence. Kirby admitted on cross-examination that he hadn't taken Blues's threat seriously.

"Yeah, it was jive," Kirby said. "Except with Blues, it was real serious jive. The man was making a very heavy point"

Dr. Terrence Dawson, the forensics examiner, was the last witness. He was a thin man with a sharply angular face who had risen through the ranks of the police laboratory over twenty years to become the director of forensic science. He explained on direct examination how he had matched Blues's blood and tissue samples to those found under Cullan's fingernails, and how he had matched Blues's fingerprints to one that had been lifted from the corner of the desk in Jack Cullan's study.

Mason had not had time to pore over the technical details of Dr. Dawson's report, or to consult with any experts who might poke holes in his analysis. That would have to wait for the trial.

"Dr. Dawson, I assume that other fingerprints were found at the scene besides the ones you claim belonged to Mr. Bluestone?" Mason asked him.

"Yes. That's quite common."

"I'm certain that it is," Mason agreed. "Whose prints did you find?"

"The victim's and the housekeeper's, of course."

"Anyone else's?"

Dr. Dawson glanced at Patrick Ortiz. Mason also looked at Ortiz, who had suddenly become interested in a stack of papers on his table.

"There were a number of fingerprints found throughout the house; most of them were too smudged or incomplete for identification," he said after Ortiz failed to help him by objecting to Mason's question.

"But not all of them, right, Doctor?"

"That's correct. We were able to identify fingerprints belonging to Ed Fiora and Beth Harrell. We matched them with their fingerprints on file with the Missouri Gaming Commission."

"Where in Mr. Cullan's house were those fingerprints found?"

"Mr. Fiora's fingerprints were found in the kitchen. Ms. Harrell's fingerprints were found on the headboard of the bed in Mr. Cullan's bedroom."

His answer made Mason feel like a boxer wearing cement shoes. Patrick Ortiz had spent the entire day dancing around him, landing jabs to his midsection and uppercuts to his chin. Mason had been unable to get out of his way. Dr. Dawson had sucker punched him without knowing it. The press would draw every salacious inference possible about the relationship between Jack Cullan and Beth Harrell. Mason couldn't blame them. The image of Beth in Cullan's bedroom crowded his own memory of the embrace they had shared. He didn't have room for both.

The assignment of Blues's case to Judge Carter had been the last kidney punch of the day. Judge Carter, a former prosecutor, was a conservative Republican with a reputation for harsh treatment of criminal defendants, an African-American woman with ambitions to become a federal judge. Mason was worried that she would use Blues's case as a stepping-stone.

Mason studied the dry-erase board. In the last three weeks it had become a jumbled patchwork of lawyer's graffiti. He drew red circles around the key words and phrases-Cullan's secret files-pictures of Beth-blackmail by Flora- Blues' fingerprints-Harry and Blues-why kill me? He was convinced that the identity of the killer lay within those scraps. The last of them, the question about whether he himself would live or die, shook him more than he cared to admit. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe it was just that he was truly alone this time.

Mason went down the hall to Blues's office, using the key to his own office to get in. Blues had told Mason, when he signed the lease, that the locks on their two offices used the same key, and had asked Mason whether he wanted a new lock. Mason had declined, taking comfort in the connection.

Blues's office was furnished in strictly utilitarian metal- bookshelves, file cabinet, and desk. The floor was bare hardwood and the walls were decorated with a calendar. The only concession to emotion was the digital electric piano that sat against one wall. When Blues played, it was like decorating the room with a bucket of rainbow paint.

Mason closed the door behind him and turned on the ceiling light. He pushed the piano away from the wall, and used another key Blues had given him to open a small safe hidden in the floor. As he knelt on the floor, his back blocked the light and cast a deep shadow into the safe. He lingered over the contents of the safe, his hands sweating as he fought with himself. Shivering at the too recent memory of the river's cold grip, he reached into the safe and picked up the gun Blues had given him a little over a year ago.

"It's a.44-caliber semiautomatic with a nine-shot magazine," Blues had told him. "Fits in a holster that goes in the middle of your back. Wear a jacket or a loose shirt over it and no one will notice."

Missouri had joined the states that had made it legal to carry a concealed weapon. Mason had barely survived the death of his old law firm and, along the way, had shot a hired killer named Jimmie Camaya who was supposed to have added Mason to the law firm's obituary list. Camaya had been arrested, but later escaped. Blues had convinced Mason that he should carry the gun for his own protection. Mason had reluctantly agreed, and Blues had taught him how to handle the gun. After a few months, Mason had returned the gun to Blues.