“Gil,” he says. “Mr. Cheetam has just landed a six-figure deal with a New York publishing house for the book rights to Talia’s case. Seems they’re interested in the inside story-the death of a high court nominee.”

I look at Harry in disbelief. I can feel my face fall on the table. “You’re kidding.”

Brown’s voice goes up an octave. “Would I joke about something like this? Cheetam is a real operator,” he says. “Why not make the most of an opportunity?”

He looks over at the tangled mass of pages on the table in front of us. “Now tell me,” he says, “what little stones of wisdom have you two found?”

Harry’s seething. I can see the cords standing out on his neck like steel cables.

“Would I could put them in your kidneys,” he says.

“Emm?’ It has sailed over Brown’s head.

CHAPTER 15

By the time I arrive at Talia’s it’s nearly eight in the evening. I’ve called and asked for this meeting outside the office, where Cheetam and Skarpellos won’t interfere.

I ring the bell and discover that Talia has yet to learn the meaning of discretion. The door is opened by her young friend Tod Hamilton. The only thing brighter than the light over the front door is his broad smile. It seems he’s now providing comfort and support around the clock. I can feel the eyes of a thousand neighbors on us as we stand there. I am beginning to play the state’s game. I am wondering where Tod Hamilton was on the night Ben was killed.

Hamilton holds up a large brandy snifter, tea-colored liquid swirling in the bottom.

“Come in,” he says. “Something to drink?”

“Scotch if you got it. No ice, a little water.”

He leads me to the living room, where Talia is waiting. She’s wearing a pair of black lace lounging pajamas, sitting with her legs curled under her on the sofa, like the prized wife in some harem.

Tod brings my drink and sinks into the oversized wicker chair across from my own. We sit like two end pieces at an angle, facing Talia on the couch. Hamilton crosses a leg at the knee, a Boston loafer dangling from one foot, a button-down shirt open at the collar. He is in all respects the vision of preppiness. Here, I think, is a body well suited to a leopard-skin G-string.

Talia makes no pretence of sociability but instead goes straight to the core of our meeting, what I’ve found in the state’s evidence. I open my note pad and start at the top.

After my first question she thinks for a moment, then says: “Yes, it was a cute little thing.” She motions with the first finger of each hand, about three inches apart. “Ben bought it for me, white handles, very shiny. It was really quite beautiful.” This is how Talia describes the small semiautomatic handgun presented to her by Ben two years ago, when an assailant known as the “woolly rapist” terrorized the east side of town.

“What caliber?” I ask. This is important, since the fragment found in Ben may show signs of steel jacketing. This would mean a larger-caliber semiautomatic load, like a nine-millimeter. Maybe I can distinguish the round from the gun she owned.

“I don’t know. The bullets were very small,” she says. “Tiny.”

I guess a twenty-five caliber or a twenty-two. A woman’s weapon.

“Do you have the gun?”

“I haven’t seen it-it must be over a year now. We used to keep it up in the bedroom in Ben’s side table.” Harry’s got clairvoyance, I think.

“Ben moved it last Christmas. Some young children came to visit; his niece and her kids were here for the holidays. He thought it wasn’t safe to have the gun where the children might find it. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have known how to use it. He took me out to this shooting range one time, loaded it, and made me shoot it several times. I really didn’t think it was necessary. But you know Benjamin.”

“Did the police search for a gun the day they came to the house, the day after Ben was killed?”

“They might have. I didn’t pay much attention.”

“Did they have a search warrant?”

“I don’t think so. They rang the doorbell, asked if they could look around. I said sure. I was confused, upset with Ben’s death. Thought it best to cooperate. I had nothing to hide,” she says. “At least I didn’t think so.”

Ordinarily it would be good news for our side, the lack of a warrant. If they found anything it could be suppressed. But given Talia’s consent to the search and the fact that at that early stage, suspicion had probably not begun to focus on her, it is a moot point.

“Did they take anything from the house?”

“I don’t remember.” There’s a moment of pained silence as she thinks back to that day. “They left with a couple of small plastic bags, I think. I don’t know what was in them. No gun. I would have remembered that.” Talia’s now certain either they weren’t looking or, if they were, they didn’t find the gun. “I think they took some bullets from the study. Said something about wanting to compare them with the bullet from the gun”

“The shotgun?”

“I think so. I can’t remember. It’s been so long. You have to remember, I had a few other things on my mind.” She says this with more than a little sarcasm.

“Is it important?” asks Tod.

“It could be. I’d like you to look for the gun. If you find it, don’t touch it. There may be prints. Just call me.”

I think Talia’s right on this point. It is a virtual certainty the cops didn’t find the gun the day they searched the house. It hasn’t shown up on the inventory of evidence held in the police locker. Under the circumstances a missing gun is as good as one in the hand, as far as the state is concerned. The minute bullet fragment found in Ben is unlikely to be sufficient for any serious ballistics analysis. Given its size and the damage sustained by what is left of the round, a match to the gun would be next to impossible. But it may be enough to show that the fragment was indeed part of a small-caliber bullet. That, coupled with proof of registration showing that either Ben or Talia possessed such a weapon, fills an important gap in their case. It leaves us in the position of dealing with a double negative, that the bullet fired into Ben’s head didn’t come from a gun Talia can’t find. It is from just such deficits that jurors form damning conclusions.

“We’ll look for it,” says Tod. “I’ll help her.” There’s a genuineness in his tone. Tod is one of those souls who is either very slick or naive in the extreme. It’s difficult to tell.

“I assume that this gun is important or you wouldn’t be looking for it,” he says. “But …”

“But what?”

“Mr. Potter wasn’t shot with a handgun,” he says.

“You know that for a fact?”

He’s perceptive enough not to say the obvious-that it was in all the newspapers. “You have evidence showing that a handgun was used?”

The man is not naive, I decide. “Let’s just say that there may be some conflicting evidence. Right now we’re exploring a number of different leads, which takes me to the next point-an alibi. We need more information on your whereabouts the day of the killing. I know we’ve been through this before. But one more time.”

Talia’s getting a little testy on this. We have been over it so many times, but she humors me. “Well, as I’ve said, I was down in Vacaville, looking at property. I didn’t get home until around ten. The police were here at the house waiting for me when I arrived.”

There are knowing looks exchanged here, between Talia and Tod, the kind that make normal people paranoid and lawyers nervous. I tell myself it may be simply that they have realized the obvious. The absence of any plausible evidence confirming an alibi makes Talia the perfect defendant.

I gamble a little and press. “No, no. None of this,” I say. I look somewhat bug-eyed at them, exaggerating their glances. There’s more than a little aggression in my tone, and the message is clear: Don’t waste my time with lies. “Either you tell me the truth, all of it now, or I can’t help you.”