"It's noon. I'm on my lunch break now. Come back at one o'clock," she said.

Mason watched helplessly as Margaret carried the forms back to her desk, dropping them on her chair as she walked past, never looking back.

He returned exactly sixty minutes later. Seventy minutes later, Margaret presented him with both files, neither of which had been off-site or on microfilm. He filled out additional forms to check out the files, which meant that he could take them into a small adjoining room and look at them. He would have to fill out another form to request copies, and he could not under any circumstances, Margaret explained in the severest of tones, remove the files from the clerk's office.

Mason read Beth's divorce files, filling in some of the statistical blanks in her life. The files were one-dimensional ledgers of dates and dollars, the final accounting of dead relationships. He thought about his own marriage, about the passion and pain that had swept both him and Kate along for three years until Kate called it quits, depriving him of the choice to fight or surrender. There was no exuberance in the dry recitation of the dates of Beth's marriages, and no regret in the hollow entries of the decrees of divorce. It was history without humanity. Irreconcilable differences were the code words for hearts empty and broken.

Beth Harrell had married Baker McKenzie shortly after graduating from law school. She was twenty-five and he was twenty-five years her senior. They had met when Beth worked at McKenzie's firm during the summers while she was in law school. The file was thin, the grounds the ubiquitous irreconcilable differences. The marriage had lasted two years. There had been no children, and she hadn't sought alimony or any of his property. He had wanted out, and she had settled for the restoration of her maiden name.

She had waited five years before marrying Al Douglas, an architect fifteen years older than Beth. She had kept her maiden name, and they had signed a prenuptial agreement that prohibited either of them from seeking any monetary settlement from the other in the event of a divorce, with the exception of child support if they had a family. Irreconcilable differences had again been diagnosed, like a recurring cancer. The court had entered the decree of divorce on their fourth wedding anniversary.

It was impossible to draw any conclusions about Bern 's marriages from the information that had been presented to the court other than that they had had a beginning and an ending. What had taken place in the middle was not a matter of public record. Mason would have to ask Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas to find out which one of them was the shit bag.

Mason had learned one thing about celebrity. It cleared a lot of scheduling conflicts. Both Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas agreed to see him that afternoon. He started with McKenzie.

Baker McKenzie was the third generation of McKenzies in the firm his grandfather and Matthew Strachan had founded seventy-five years earlier. None of Strachan's heirs had followed their ancestor in the law, though no later generations of interloping partners had suggested removing the Strachan name from the door. McKenzie & Strachan was the oldest, and largest law firm in the city, its bloodlines were the bluest, and its stockings were woven of the finest silk.

Baker McKenzie sat comfortably at the top of the firm, worrying more about his putting stroke than the firm's clients. He had hidden mediocre legal skills and a civil service work ethic beneath the legacy of his grandfather and father. Mason had run across him once or twice in cases where the client had expected the name partner to show his face. McKenzie had shown it just long enough to make certain he didn't get it dirty before begging off because of pressing matters in the case of Tee v. Green. He was a society-page regular who never left home without a beautiful woman on his arm, though not one so beautiful as to detract from his own shining countenance.

McKenzie greeted Mason as if they were asshole buddies. "My God, man! How the hell are you? I swear to Jesus that you are turning our profession into one dangerous contact sport."

McKenzie gleamed as if he'd just been washed and waxed. His artificially whitened teeth sparkled, as did his blond hair and silvery temples. His eyes glistened, making Mason wonder if McKenzie was wearing special contact lenses. Even his skin had a ruddy, glowing patina, as if a shoeshine man had just spit-shined his forehead and chin. McKenzie was Mason's height, though broad where Mason was lean. His suit was Italian and cost at least two grand. McKenzie was fit for his age or any other, and shook Mason's hand vigorously enough to make that point.

McKenzie led Mason back to his private office on the forty-first floor of the Citadel Building, the tallest office building in Kansas City. McKenzie & Strachan occupied fifteen floors in the building. McKenzie's office was on the top floor, and had windows on three sides that offered panoramic views of the city.

"You've got a helluva view, Baker," Mason said.

"Hell, I can see from here to next week," Baker answered, permitting himself a hearty chuckle even though he'd obviously used the line a thousand times. "It's really something at night, especially during a lightning storm. I'm telling you, Lou, it's like standing next to Zeus throwing thunderbolts. It electrifies women of a certain erotic sensibility, like their nerve endings get supercharged and they've just got to plug something into all that current."

"I'll bet you know how to throw the switch," Mason said to humor him.

"I could light up a Christmas tree, my friend."

McKenzie's desk was an oval of smoky glass, devoid of a single piece of paper. A bold, brilliantly colored abstract painting hung on the wall behind his desk. Two sleek, low-backed chairs were paired with a small table in front of one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. A sofa adorned with plush pillows and bathed in soft light beckoned only a few feet from a well-stocked bar that also housed a Bose sound system. The door to a private bathroom was barely discernible against the mahogany-paneled walls. Mason thought it was more fuck pad than law office.

"I'll bet those are some moments to remember," Mason said.

"Indeed they are. Indeed they are," McKenzie repeated to be certain that Mason knew what he was missing.

Mason said, "All that excitement, it must be hard to remember one woman from another. You ever keep any souvenirs?"

McKenzie's boasting gave way to suspicion. "You didn't really tell me why you wanted to see me, Lou. I'm sure it wasn't to hear about my love life. What's on your mind?"

It had taken Mason only a few minutes to bait Baker McKenzie and less time to hate him. McKenzie was, Mason decided, the kind of man who would mistake diplomacy for deference. Mason was not good at either.

"Beth Harrell says she was being blackmailed with some dirty pictures either you or her other ex-husband took and later gave to Jack Cullan. If that's true, she's a murder suspect and the ex-husband is a shit bag, although there's no law against being a shit bag. I need to know if the pictures are real, and I need to know if you're the shit bag, Baker."

McKenzie was standing next to the center panel of glass, six steps from Mason. He looked out over the horizon for a moment before turning toward Mason, his face besotted with angry blood. Without saying a word, McKenzie closed the distance between them before Mason realized that he wasn't coming to shake his hand again, and launched a right cross at Mason's chin. Mason couldn't get out of the way, and he spun around once before toppling at McKenzie's feet.

" Dartmouth boxing team, light-heavyweight division," McKenzie said as he stepped over a stunned but conscious Mason and opened the door to his office. "Call maintenance," McKenzie said to his secretary. "Tell them to clean up the shit bag on my floor."