I was tired, and thinking about a cup of coffee from the shop downstairs, when my intercom buzzed. Marie, through the speaker: “Mr. Smith to see you.”

Smith. The last person I felt like seeing. But something inside me told me that I wanted to take this meeting.

My door, which I’d uncharacteristically closed, opened, and Smith walked in. “Afternoon, Jason.” He looked as polished as last time, a gray double-breasted suit with a charcoal tie, hair sharply parted. But as he moved across my small office, seating himself in front of my desk, I sensed that he was less tentative, more self-assured, than he was at our last meeting.

“Tell me your name,” I said. “Your real name.”

“I was hoping for an update on the case,” he said, not answering my question.

“Hope is a dangerous thing.”

He forced a smile. “You’re being paid well. Very well.”

“So are you. Who’s paying you? Maybe we can share information.”

At this point, it seemed clear that Smith was representing a family that had been subject to Griffin Perlini’s predatory appetites in some way or another. I could understand the desire for discretion, and really, Smith wasn’t my problem. I didn’t care who was paying. My loyalty was to Sammy only, and if someone else wanted to bankroll the defense while cloaked in anonymity, I wasn’t sure I cared.

On the other hand, I’d assumed that the people tailing me since the day Smith first appeared in my office were connected to him. On the scale of things I cared about, that issue rated a few notches higher. He was keeping tabs on me, and I didn’t know why.

“There are four aspects to Mr. Cutler’s case,” Smith graciously informed me.

At least he was capable of counting. The four areas of concern were the eyewitnesses who had Sammy running from the scene of the crime; the convenience store videotape that caught his car parked down the street from Perlini’s apartment; the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene; and Sammy’s statement to the police.

“From what little I’ve been able to gather,” said Smith, “it sounds as if you have one potentially favorable witness. I don’t recall the name. Butler, was it?”

Butcher, actually. Tommy Butcher. Again, no need to help him with information.

“Apparently a black man was spotted near the crime scene,” he continued. “Has Mr. Butler given you a description of this man beyond that?”

As luck would have it, after I had applied a healthy dose of sympathetic grease, Butcher had seemed willing to go along with the brown-jacket-green-cap story I had pitched him. But Smith didn’t know that, and I wasn’t going to illuminate him. I shook my head and opened my hands.

“I’m going to help you with that, Jason. The empty chair.”

Someone to point the finger at, he meant. Someone who was not sitting in the courtroom, who didn’t have a lawyer to defend himself, who didn’t have any constitutional protections. And he was right, of course. If I could place at the scene of the crime a black guy who had any hint of a motive or criminal background, I might have something to show the jury.

“You’re going to find me the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene, Smith?”

His head inclined ever so slightly. “I am, yes.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks. And what about the eyewitnesses? Perlini’s neighbor, and the elderly couple that ID’d Sammy running from the building?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he answered.

I didn’t like the sound of that, neither the words nor his icy delivery. “Explain that.”

“Don’t worry about the eyewitnesses. They’re my problem.” He could read the expression on my face, no doubt, so he elaborated. “It’s not what you’re thinking, Jason. It’s just that—memories are a funny thing. Sometimes, if you think back, it wasn’t the way you thought it was. Right?”

“You’re just going to help them with their memory.” Even as I said the words, careful to show my disapproval, it occurred to me that I had just done the very same thing with Tommy Butcher. I’d fed him all sorts of information to bathe my client in a sympathetic light and then spoon-fed him a description of the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene.

But that was a little different, I gathered, from what Smith had in mind for the other eyewitnesses. “If any harm comes to any of them, Smith, you’re going to answer to me.”

He stared at me, losing any trace of a smile. “Don’t ever threaten me, son.”

“Don’t think I’m going to sit idly by while you murder witnesses.”

He regarded me for a moment, then a chuckle escaped his throat. “There are ways short of physical force, my friend. Everyone has a pressure point. Everyone. Including you.”

“And you,” I volleyed.

He slowly nodded. “Believe me when I say, you don’t want to find it.”

I didn’t answer.

“Jason, one of your best friends is on trial for murder, and I’m gift-wrapping an acquittal for you. I’ll find you a scapegoat, and I’ll help you with the eyewitnesses. The only things that remain are the videotape placing Mr. Cutler’s car at the scene, and the statement Cutler gave to the police. Those are the only things that require your help. You’ll need to find a way to finesse Cutler’s incriminating statement, and you and I will have to come up with an innocent reason that Cutler’s car was in the vicinity at the time. Those two things are your only assignments. Anything beyond that is a waste of time and a distraction.”

I nodded. I thought I understood now. “You’ve been watching the news today.”

“I have, and I don’t see what you can possibly gain from the discovery of bodies behind a school. What do you intend to prove? That Griffin Perlini killed Cutler’s sister? The judge has already ruled that evidence off-limits.”

“For now,” I said.

“For now. For now.” He fell back in the chair. “Don’t make this harder than it is. The trial is only about three weeks away. There is no time for red herrings. This will end in an acquittal if you follow my directions. If you start playing Lone Ranger, you could screw everything up.” He held up two fingers. “Two items, Jason. Cutler’s incriminating statement and a reason why he would have been near the scene of the crime. The confession and an alibi. You’re expected to give us explanations on those two items and nothing more. Nothing,” he repeated, “more.”

Smith let his speech sink in for me. He was probably wondering why I hadn’t taken notes. This guy, I could see, was accustomed to giving out orders and having people follow them. He shot his cuff links and fixed his tie and said, “Good. We have an understanding.”

I watched Smith walk to the door before I answered.

“With just one caveat,” I said. “You will shove your retainer up your ass and go crawl under a rock. I will do whatever I think is best for Sammy and we’ll never talk again.”

Smith’s face dissolved into a frown.

“Tell me your real name, whom you represent, and why,” I said. “Or you’re out of the picture as of right now.”

My mysterious benefactor thought for a while, weighing the pros and cons, before answering. The fact that he was even considering responding meant something, I just wasn’t entirely sure what.

“Obviously, Jason, my clients are a family, or families, who have a particular interest in seeing that Mr. Perlini’s murder go unpunished.”

“Someone whom Perlini assaulted. Or her parents, or family.”

He waved a hand.

“Victims who testified against him in court?” I asked. “Or victims the police never knew about?” Smith didn’t answer, so I added to my question: “Victims who were buried behind Hardigan Elementary School?”

It had occurred to me, but never so keenly as now: Smith might be representing someone who killed Griffin Perlini, for the same motive Sammy had—a bitter parent, or sibling, of a child Perlini molested or even killed.

Was Smith here to steer me away from the real killer?

Was Sammy innocent?