'Don't take it personal,' the captain said, as he came around and showed them the door.

A sea of reporters surged toward Mary and Paige the moment they set foot outside the Roundhouse. They had

undoubtedly picked up the news of the attempted shooting on police scanners and were waiting in force. 'Ms DiNunzio, any comment?' Paige, Paige over here!' 'Were there any injuries?' 'What did he look like?' 'Come on, gimme a break, Mary!'

There were TV cameras, microphones, steno pads, and handheld Dictaphones hoisted high above the crowd. Strobe lights seared through the darkness, temporarily blinding Mary. She felt paranoid, unsteady, and her eyes swept the crowd. Could Trevor be out there in the throng? Was he pointing a gun at them even now? He wouldn't be that bold, would he?

Mary grabbed Paige's arm and pushed their way through the parking lot to the curb on Seventh Street, where they ran into a wall of parked news vans. WPVI-TV. KYW. WCAU-TV. She couldn't see the street and shoved between two vans to reach it. She waved her arm frantically. They had no hope of getting a cab in this part of town and the buses ran few and far between this late.

'Mary, do they have a suspect?' 'Mary, who do you think it was?' 'Paige, does this mean the end of your career?'

Mary pumped her hand wildly in case a cab appeared in the traffic trickling onto the expressway. Suddenly a small dark car shot from the line and sped right toward them. Mary's breath stopped and she jumped back in fear. The car skidded to a stop right in front of her, and just when she was about to scream, she saw that it was a black man at the wheel. She wasn't afraid of black men, only white preppies. Then she recognized the driver, despite his cowboy hat and sunglasses, behind the wheel of an ancient black VW Beetle.

'Get in!' Brinkley called out. 'Now!'

Mary grabbed Paige and they ran around to the passenger side and practically leapt inside, with Paige hopping into Mary's lap. Strobes flashed as they slammed the door and sped off, with a news van giving chase. Reporters rushed to their vans and cars, taking off after them into the night.

'All right!' Brinkley shouted. The Beetle accelerated toward the expressway. 'Now where to, Newlin?'

'Let me think,' Jack answered, popping out of the backseat. 'The press is probably at my hotel and they staked out your house and Mary's office.'

'Dad! You're here! Hey, what happened to your face?' Paige turned around, grinding her back into Mary's nose, and Jack leaned forward in the speeding car to give his daughter a quick kiss. Mary hid her shock at his being there and tried to look attractive with a sideways nose. She couldn't see his face because of his daughter's back but she knew he was the handsomest beat-up guy ever.

'I'm okay. Had a small problem at the prison, but I'm fine now. I'm so glad you're safe, honey,' Jack said, but Mary figured he was talking to Paige.

'Thanks to Mary, Dad. She saved my life.'

Mary flushed, glad of the plug, then struggled for breath. Models were heavier than they looked. All that Evian weight.

'Hold the lovefest, people!' Brinkley said, as the VW tore up Callowhill. 'Where we goin'? Any ideas?'

'How about Jersey?' Jack offered. 'We can lose ' em in Cherry Hill. '

'Too far. I know where they won't find us/ Mary said, with difficulty, since her mouth was buried in Paige's leather coat.

'Where?' Brinkley asked, and Mary pointed around Paige.

'Turn left at the next light.'

'Yeehah!' Brinkley shouted, and the Beetle bucked forward.

50

Davis, still in running clothes, stared open-mouthed at the TV in his office, over his messy desk of documents and notes. The Chief had called him from a union dinner and told him about it. On the screen was a reporter with a perky hairdo, holding a microphone. In the background was the curved shape of the Roundhouse and the reporter was saying, 'A man in a ski mask reportedly chased the two women, Paige Newlin, daughter of the slain Honor Newlin, and her attorney, Mary DiNunzio, for several blocks, firing at them. Police are currently investigating to determine the reason for the shooting. Back to you, Larry.'

Davis switched the channels with the remote, catching as many reports as he could. Then he flicked off the TV with the remote, eased back into his chair, and downed the last of his Gatorade. What the fuck? Who could be shooting at the daughter? Davis thought about it logically, his brain humming since his run. It had helped him to plan the Newlin case and he'd returned to the office to go through the documents from Tribe 6- Wright. He had almost finished reading them when he'd gotten the call about the shooting.

He tossed the empty Gatorade jug at the wastebasket, but it missed. Who was the guy in the ski mask? It led to the next question. Well, who would want the daughter dead? Answer: whoever benefits from her death. Well, who benefits? Then Davis remembered something he had read before his run. It hadn't seemed significant at the time but it certainly was now.

He flipped through the papers on his desk, looking for it. There it was, at the bottom. The document describing the

trust fund that Honor Newlin had set up for her daughter. He yanked it out and flopped it on top of the stack. It wasn't long, maybe five pages, and its terms reiterated the fifty million Paige was set to receive, in scheduled increments. But there was one sentence that had caught his attention. Davis ran a finger down the smooth page until he found it: 'In the event that Paige Newlin shall die before receipt of any portion of her inheritance under the terms of this trust, the remaining amount shall revert to her surviving parents

Davis read it over and over. It was too good to be true. Follow the money, stupid! Under the mother's will, when the mother dies, the kid inherits. But under the terms of the trust, if the daughter died before she could inherit, the fifty million went to the surviving parent. In this scenario, that would be Jack Newlin. It didn't sound like the Honor Newlin that Videon had described, but she must never have thought it would happen.

Davis sat up in his chair, his foot wiggling with nervous energy. So the only way Newlin could get the wife's money was to kill the wife, then the kid. Then all of it, read all of it, comes to him. Davis clapped a palm to his forehead at the thought. Could Newlin have planned it this way? He'd have to! You'd have to be an estates expert to rig this result, will-to-trust. Fifty mil! God, this case was fun!

Davis grabbed the phone and his thoughts didn't break stride. Newlin was out on bail at the time the shooting occurred. Perfect! Motive plus opportunity! It had to be Newlin in the ski mask!

The phone rang on the other end and as soon as a voice picked up, Davis said, 'Gimme the Chief.'