They didn’t know I’d left the building this afternoon, I decided. They thought I’d been in my office until I walked to my car and drove home just now. I would be free to move about, when necessary, without their knowledge. It was one of the few advantages I had.

Among many disadvantages. Lightner was right: Even if I could put the murder of Griffin Perlini on Archie Novotny, I still had to find Smith. I still had to figure out who he was working for.

The smart money said Smith was representing the family of one of Griffin Perlini’s victims. But it wasn’t the Drurys, and I didn’t think it was Archie Novotny. And beyond that, I couldn’t name another victim of Griffin Perlini’s sexual crimes.

How could I find this family?

SMITH DROVE to see his client, Carlo. His dealings with Jason Kolarich had been disappointing, though not entirely unexpected. Kolarich was a contrarian, a trait which had probably served him well in his life but was utterly unhelpful for present purposes.

No deal, Kolarich had said. But surely he didn’t mean it. Surely, he’d be willing to play ball if it meant coming to the aid of his only remaining family, his brother.

Before getting out of his car, Smith popped a pill, something for his stomach the doctor had prescribed. He’d had recurrences of the problem over time, but now, with this thing with Carlo, his stomach was in full revolt. He’d been through a lot with Carlo over the years, had guided him through a number of tough times, but this thing—this was unique. It was unique because they had so much to lose, and because Jason Kolarich was unpredictable.

At Carlo’s door, Smith was led into a large room where Carlo sat, stroking the hair of his daughter, Marisa. Smith stood at the threshold, not wanting to intrude, uncomfortable as he heard the soft moans and sobs of Marisa. Carlo, he thought, would not want Smith to encroach on this moment. Carlo was fiercely protective of his family, particularly of Marisa, who was slow—the term Carlo always preferred, a gentler term than retarded, which probably was closer to the truth. All the time Smith had known the family, he’d never known exactly how Marisa had been diagnosed. She was fairly functional, physically capable as well, but she was still a child intellectually and emotionally. All in all, a sweet woman who just needed some help to get along.

Smith still remembered vividly everything from way back when—God, it was well over twenty years ago now. Marisa had been a complete wreck. Carlo had gone so far as to move Marisa out of the house, away from the city, to another home he purchased downstate. Carlo’s wife had recently passed, so he spent nearly all of his time downstate with Marisa for several years. A tough stretch for the entire family.

But they had bounced back. In her mid-fifties now, Marisa and her daughter, Patricia, now lived next door to Carlo in a house he’d purchased for them. He kept them close and provided for them in every way, but now everything was slowly coming undone. It was hard enough for a woman with Marisa’s disabilities that she had to cope with a daughter who was growing sicker by the day, but now everything that happened back then was returning to the fore.

Still caressing his daughter’s soft brown hair, Carlo turned one eye to Smith. Carlo nodded and whispered into Marisa’s ear. He kissed her on the cheek and left the couch.

He moved past Smith in silence; Smith followed him down the hall to his study. Smith felt his pulse race.

“Give me something good,” he said, after he closed the door.

Smith delivered it straight and concise. It would only anger Carlo more if he let it out tidbit by tidbit. “The lawyer understands his brother’s vulnerability,” said Smith. “I think he’ll work with us now.”

“You think. Okay, you think.” Carlo gathered his shoulders, growing introverted. He scratched his arm absently.

“How’s Patricia?” Smith asked.

Carlo shook his head. The news was obviously not good. “And you saw Marisa in there,” he said. “She’s a mess. I don’t even know what to tell her.”

Smith nodded. Carlo had a lot on his plate right now.

“My family needs me right now. You understand that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“This trial with this guy, Cutler. This can’t be a problem for me. I’ve got enough problems right now. You understand I’m counting on you.”

“I do, Carlo. I’ll make it right.”

“I know you will.” Carlo’s eyes bored into his lawyer. “I know you will.”

29

PETE HAD ACTUALLY cooked dinner when I got home, chicken pan-fried and sliced up for fajitas with sautéed peppers and onions, corn tortillas, and refried beans. “I have to do something,” he said to me. “I’m going crazy here.”

I was surprised at my hunger and I downed three fajitas in the space of five minutes. I had a beer, as did Pete, which I thought was not his first of the day. Afterward, we went into the family room with fresh bottles.

“Talked to Dan today,” said Pete, referring to his boss. Pete’s job du jour was a sales gig, selling medical products to retail outlets. It seemed like a pretty easy job to me, selling aspirin to a grocery store, but apparently the bigger issue was getting preferable product placement in the stores. Anyway, Pete was suited for sales, that personal touch, a dose of charm, and I’d hoped this might be the right career move for him.

“I told him,” Pete said.

“You told him—about the arrest?”

He shrugged. “What, I’m gonna be sick for six months? He’d find out, anyway.”

“No, he wouldn’t, Pete. You don’t have to tell him un—”

Pete gave me a sour smile and finished my sentence. “Unless I’m convicted,” he said.

“You’re not going to be convicted.”

Pete pushed his hair back, sighed, looked up at the ceiling.

“You’re not going to be convicted, Pete.”

Pete nodded, but it was a sarcastic gesture. A cop had arrested him at a crime scene with a mountain of cocaine and a crate full of stolen firearms. His defense was that the whole thing was a coincidence, a misunderstanding. He wasn’t liking his chances at trial.

I had to tell him the story. He had to know how this whole thing came to be. “This is my fault,” I said. “You were set up, like you said. But you were set up because of me.”

I ran through the whole thing for him, told him about Smith, his interest in my defense of Sammy Cutler, his proposed trade—I do what he wants and he fixes everything with Pete’s case. My brother listened with rapt interest, but where I was expecting him to haul off and take a swing at me or something, instead he seemed, of all things, to be somewhat relieved. I had underestimated how much he was beating himself up over this arrest, how embarrassed he was to have to turn to me. In some way, circumstances notwithstanding, my role in this affair exonerated him. This wasn’t a fuck-up entirely of his own making.

He’d always seen himself that way—the lesser of the two Kolarich boys. The one without the physical ability, without the drive. The one who took his father’s abuse, not avoided it. The one who couldn’t hold down a job, who partied too much and even got pinched a couple of times by the law, making it harder still to secure quality employment—a cycle I had seen firsthand as a prosecutor and defender of the lower ranks of society.

“I’ll make this right,” I said. “I’m going to figure out who’s behind all this. Shit.” I finished off my beer and wiggled the empty bottle. “I’ve got three weeks, little brother. Three weeks to figure all this shit out.”

“Saving the world. That’s my brother.” Pete drained his beer and fetched some fresh ones for us. He handed me one and dropped back on the couch. “You know, Jason, they couldn’t have done this to me without some help. Some help from me. Nobody made me go score some blow that night. Maybe you should be pissed at me for making your life more difficult. Maybe Sammy should be pissed at me, too.”