Lewis Gottlieb was cordial with me but cool. The lawyer rose from behind his imperial desk and gave me his large freckled hand to shake. “Mr. Malone. I understand you are back on board.”

“So I’m told.”

As I took a seat, Gottlieb addressed his younger colleague. “What does he know?”

“Fritz knows nothing,” Peter said. I thought I detected a slight smirk, but I might have been mistaken. Gottlieb stared at me for several seconds.

“The foreperson,” he said at last.

“Nancy Spicer. What about her?”

Gottlieb steepled his large hands and lowered his chin onto them. “You vetted her for us.”

“I vetted all of them. What about her?”

Gottlieb raised a frosty eyebrow. The watery brown eyes moved to Peter, who cleared his throat. “Mrs. Spicer had a nervous breakdown. I don’t mean since she’s been on the jury, though she’s cruising in that direction. This was six years ago. She lost it completely, Fritz. Took a real dive. She spent thirty days in an institution.”

I let out a low whistle. “We don’t like that.”

Lewis Gottlieb agreed, “We don’t, Mr. Malone. We don’t like it in the slightest.”

I asked, “Does the defense know?”

Peter answered, “Not yet.”

“How did you find out?”

“It’s complicated,” Gottlieb said. “And not relevant. We can go into that later.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what else to say. I ran everyone down as best I could. Something like that should have been flapping in the wind. It should have hit me in the face.”

“Spicer’s husband had it suppressed,” Peter said. “You would have had to dig for it.”

“That’s what you were paying me-”

Gottlieb interrupted, “That’s not important right now. You’re not in here for a scolding.” He looked again at Peter and nodded.

“Lewis doesn’t like the husband,” Peter said. “Bruce Spicer.”

I remembered Spicer. Vaguely. He worked as a clerk in a hardware store on Third Avenue. I remembered swinging by and talking to him in his cherry-red vest. The vest had made more of an impression on me than the man. “What don’t you like about him?”

Gottlieb answered, “He’s born-again. A Bible thumper.”

“A born-again Christian,” I said. “Is that really a basis to not like someone? I mean, in a professional sense?”

“I’m not anti-Christian,” Gottlieb said flatly, lowering his hands to his desk. “What I’m saying is that the man is unstable.”

“I thought it was the wife who was unstable.”

“Both of them, Mr. Malone. Our jury foreperson has been institutionalized and treated with depression medications, and her husband has thrown a handful of chicken livers at a doctor who was on his way into the office.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms on his chest. In case I had fallen asleep during any part of the last ten seconds, he repeated, “Chicken livers.”

Peter spoke up. “Bruce Spicer was arrested six years ago as part of a group of anti-abortion protesters outside a clinic that performs abortions. In Livingston, New Jersey. Same year as his wife’s breakdown. Big year for the Spicers. Spicer’s arrest has been expunged from the record. It was part of a plea arrangement.”

Gottlieb said, “Mr. Malone doesn’t need to know the details. The point is, Bruce Spicer is a lunatic. And his wife wants off the jury.”

Peter added, “In a big way.”

“Along with eleven of her peers, from what I understand,” I said.

Gottlieb waved his hand dismissively. “Our twelve peers good and true can go hang themselves from the Brooklyn Bridge when this is all over, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t give a damn about them. The point is, I want this to be over before they do it. Now, Mrs. Spicer wants out, but Sam Deveraux isn’t having it. The lemmings would all try to follow. I’m letting Sam take care of that. What we have here, Mr. Malone, is a related but separate issue that concerns us all on a more profound level.” He paused. “Peter? I will let you do the honors.”

Peter took a breath. “Lewis wants us to consider that Bruce Spicer is responsible for the murders of Robin Burrell and Zack Riddick.”

“Spicer?”

“It’s just a theory. But you remember that whole big fuss when Zack brought up Robin Burrell’s abortions. It sounds far-fetched, I know. But think of it for a minute. Nancy Spicer’s been in there bawling her eyes out to get off the jury. Bruce Spicer is no big fan of people who get abortions; he’s got a history of being very much an in-your-face person when it comes to that issue. Hard to call this a motive for murder, but hang in there. We’ve also got Zachary. Riddick’s playboy reputation isn’t exactly the kind of thing that endears the born-agains. What Lewis is saying is you’ve got a situation here where a person like Bruce Spicer could have been looking for some creative ways to get this trial tanked, free his wife, and rid the earth of at least two infidels.”

“Infidels?”

“I’m just saying Lewis wants us to take a strong look at this. Face it, someone is killing these people. Someone is royally pissed off. Where the hell do we start?”

I pulled out my notebook. Gottlieb demanded, “What have you got there?”

“A list of people I want to talk to in connection with Robin Burrell and Riddick.”

Gottlieb aimed a fat finger in my direction. “Put Bruce Spicer at the top of that list. Do you hear me? Chicken-liver-tossing son of a bitch. Go after him first. Born-again bastards like that should choke on their own intestines, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got no goddamn time for those people. Him. You go get him.”

PETER ACCOMPANIED ME downstairs. There were several other people in the elevator with us, so we didn’t say anything. The moment we were outside, Peter spoke urgently.

“This is tricky territory, Fritz. Very tricky. I’m sure you understand that. We’ve got a real balancing act to figure out here. Lewis has said categorically that we are not taking his theory to the police. It’s not the most ethical call, but that can’t be helped. It’s a matter of containment. We don’t want word getting out about Nancy Spicer’s mental health problem or about her husband having been arrested. Nancy shouldn’t be on the jury-that alone would provide the defense with some serious artillery to push for a mistrial-so we don’t want them to know. But here’s the other thing. If Bruce Spicer gets approached by the police or, for that matter, by you, he could blow the whistle himself. If he simply lets the papers know that he is under suspicion of any kind for these murders, it all explodes in our face. Husband of the foreperson? There’s nothing even Sam Deveraux would be able to do at that point. The trial would be officially out of hand. Everything would collapse.”

“But if Spicer actually is the killer, he’s not going to go blabbing to the press.”

“We have no idea what he would do. Maybe it’s a catch-22 and maybe it isn’t. The point is, there’s nothing but risk involved no matter which way you look at it. It’s certainly possible that Spicer isn’t the killer. I admit, it’s a wild hunch. Then again, Lewis Gottlieb didn’t become Lewis Gottlieb with bad hunches. That old man’s got an awesome track record.” Peter glanced around, as if afraid that someone might be listening in. “Look, I know Lewis tried to whip you into action just now. And I’m not necessarily countermanding his orders. But if you’ve developed any leads on these murders that you really like, it wouldn’t bother me if you run after them first. I’m not officially chasing you off Spicer. Like I said, Lewis has a phenomenal instinct.”

“He’s also got a phenomenal hatred of born-again Christians.”

“It’s not even that. Do you remember that abortion doctor in Albany who got gunned down a few years ago? He got all sorts of threats and there was all this vilification on different right-to-life websites? You remember that?”

I did. The doctor had been shot at point-blank range as he was leaving his clinic. The shooter didn’t even try to escape. Some passersby grabbed him, but he offered no resistance. He just stood there holding a damn placard and waited for the police to come.