left a personal estate worth fifty million dollars. Now, as you know, that's separate from the Foundation's corpus, which would exist in perpetuity, even after her death. Only the fifty million descends under the will, and none of it was earmarked for charity.'

Davis smiled to himself. Only the fifty million. 'So Newlin gets the fifty mil.'

'No.' Whittier shook his head. 'Not at all. The daughter does. Paige inherits the fifty million.'

The prosecutor's mouth went dry. It couldn't be. His theory of motive flew out the window. 'Newlin doesn't benefit under the will?'

'Jack? Not a penny.' Whittier 's lips set firmly. 'He gets nothing.'

That can't be. Do you have the will? I'll keep it confidential and I did subpoena it.'

'I have it right here.' Whittier glanced at Field, pulled a thick packet with a blue backer from a folder in front of him, and passed it across the desk.

'Thank you,' Davis said, snatching the will from the table. Its pages felt smooth under his fingers, which almost itched as he thumbed through the document. How could this be? He speed-read the provisions, all corporate boilerplate, until he got to the relevant provisions, which clearly explained the bequest. It provided that Paige would inherit one-third of her mother's estate at age twenty-one, one-third at age twenty-five, and the final third at age thirty. There was no mention of Jack Newlin at all. Davis looked up, speechless, but Whittier had taken a sudden interest in the cityscape outside the window.

'You may want to talk with one of our other partners, if you have further questions,' he said casually.

'What do you mean?' Davis looked from Whittier to Field and back again. He didn't get what was going on. The will had thrown him off-balance. Were they trying to tell him something? And trying not to, at the same time? It was exactly what you'd expect from a law firm that wants to

shaft one of its own partners and avoid massive liability therefore. 'Who else should I speak with?'

'His name is Marc Videon. But you'll need a subpoena.'

I'll have it sent right over.'

'We'll need it before you speak with him.'

'Consider it done.' Davis felt urgent. Where was this leading? 'Who's Videon?'

'He's one of our more specialized lawyers at Tribe. Sui generis. A department unto himself.'

'What's this Videon do?'

'Divorce,' Whittier answered, and for a minute, Davis couldn't reply.

26

Follow that cab!' Mary told the cabbie and couldn't help but feel a little thrill.

The driver, a diminutive, dark-haired man with a curly mustache, turned around in the front seat. 'No Eeenglish,' he said, and Mary pointed at Trevor's cab, a trifle disappointed.

'Go! There!' she commanded. She kept her eyes on the cab ahead as it idled in the congested traffic on Market Street. The outline of Trevor's head was visible and he moved as if he were talking to the driver. In the next minute his hand emerged from the back window, halting a car that was trying to cut in front of them. He must have been in a hurry. Trevor's cab burst forward, going west, away from the city.

'Hurry, please!' Mary said. Trevor's school was behind them, so he wasn't going back to class. What was he up to? Something was going on; her lead hadn't been so dumb after all. Trevor's cab reached Seventeenth Street and took a left, a familiar jog that Mary took all the time, negotiating the one-way streets of her hometown. William Penn had laid out the grid two hundred years ago, and he hadn't taken cabbies and lawyers into account. She took a guess where Trevor was headed, and ten minutes later found out she was right.

Both cabs pulled up in the drop-off island at the Thirtieth Street train station, one after the other, as if unrelated. Both cab doors opened at the same time, and Mary left her cab only a split second after Trevor left his, and followed him into the station, keeping her excitement in check. Trevor hurried into the tan marble concourse past the left

wing of the station, bypassing the suburban trains. Mary tracked him as he threaded his way through the crowd of travelers getting off the train from Washington. Trevor made a beeline for the ticket counter, and she picked up her pace.

The lines were long at the ticket windows, and Mary got behind Trevor in line, a zigzaggy affair cordoned with black tape. She looked at him up close, to see what she could see. Was he the kid who had bumped into her in the hall at Paige's condo? She couldn't tell. His hair was a light brown color, expensively feathered around the ears, and he wore a thin gold hoop in his ear. His eyes were large and clear blue, and in profile, he had a straight nose with a suspiciously perky tip. His shoulders were broad in a brown bomber jacket with a white T-shirt underneath, and he was easily six feet tall. Trevor struck her as a young prince, a type Mary disliked. Maybe because she couldn't pass for a princess. If Paige was the delicate cycle, Mary was distinctly regular.

NEXT AGENT AVAILABLE read the white blinking letters, and the line advanced. It moved unusually swiftly, with four agents working away and nobody asking for a complete oral timetable for a change. Trevor seemed impatient, even jumpy. His hand wiggled at his side and he kept shifting his feet from one brown suede Doc Martens to the other. What was his problem? Why was he in a hurry?

The line moved forward again, and though Trevor was three travelers from the front, he pulled a wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open as Mary peeked. It was a thin calfskin billfold and on the left were four credit cards, including a gold American Express card, VISA, and MasterCard. Mary didn't get it. Even she couldn't qualify for a gold Amex. Did this kid pay these bills himself? Where would a student get bucks like that?

Mary made a mental note, and the line shifted forward. She thought it was Trevor whom she'd passed in the hall but wanted to make sure. She cleared her throat and

decided to shake his tree. 'Excuse me, I hate to be rude, but do you live at Colonial Hill Towers? I have a friend who lives there and I think I've seen you there.'

'No.' Trevor shook his head, jittery. 'I live in the subs. Paoli.'

'But have you been there? At Colonial Hill?'

The line shifted forward, putting Trevor at the front. NEXT AGENT AVAILABLE, blinked the sign. He turned to the ticket counter, and one of the agents waved him forward. 'No,' he answered, over his shoulder. 'Never.'

'Oh, sorry.' Mary watched Trevor hustle to the agent. So he had lied; he had obviously been at Colonial Hill. Why would he lie about it? Or did people who lied lie all the time? And where was he going? She tried to overhear him at the ticket counter but it was too far away. Then the lighted sign started blinking again and an agent at the other end was waving her forward. Damn. She wanted to know where Trevor was headed. She stalled, trying to hear what he said to the agent.

'Lady, you goin' today?' a man behind her asked irritably, and Mary walked to the ticket counter.

'I don't really need a ticket, I have a problem,' she said, when she reached the window. The Amtrak agent was an older woman in a red-and-blue uniform. Her eyes were overly made-up behind glasses with swirly gold-metal frames, and her smile was lipsticked a rosy red.

'Problem?' The ticket agent cocked an eyebrow penciled like a half-moon, and Mary inched closer to the glass.

'I'm in love.'

'That's a problem.'

'That guy over there. I just got in the ticket line because I thought he was so cute. Do you think he's cute?'

The agent's gaze slid sideways to Trevor and back again. 'For a guy with a nose job.'

'You think?'

'I know.'

'I hate that. Why is it okay when women are vain but not men?'