Show of Evil

the airport in St Louis,' Flaherty told Stenner. 'Got to hurry, my plane's loading. I'll be there at seven-oh-five.'

'I'll pick you up. Get anything?'

'A lot. I think we need to talk to Martin and Jane Venable tonight. It's the same perp, no question about it. Victim even has the symbol on the back of his head. Let me give it to you, maybe Harve can run over to the library and check it out. Got a pencil?'

'Yes.'

'It's R41.102.'

'R41.102,' Stenner repeated. 'We'll get on it right away.'

'Good. See you at seven.'

Twenty-one

Jane Venable leaned over the spaghetti pot and, pursing her lips, sucked a tiny sample of the olio off a wooden spoon. Pretty good, she thought, and sprinkled a little more salt in it. She looked over at the table. Earlier in the day the florist had brought an enormous arrangement of flowers with a simple note: 'These cannot compare to your beauty. Marty.'

For the first time in years, Jane felt she was beginning to have a new life outside of her office. She had made a fortune, but it had cost her any semblance of a personal life. Now, in just a few days, that had changed. She stared at the flowers and wondered silently, My God, am I falling in love with this man? And just as quickly she dispelled the idea. It's just a flirtation, don't make more of it than it is.

'I didn't think you really cooked in this chef's fantasy,' said Vail. 'Where'd you learn to cook Italian spaghetti? You're not Italian.'

'My mother was. Born in Florence. She was a translator at the Nuremberg trials when she was eighteen.'

'Ahhh, so that's where that tough streak came from.'

'My father was no slouch, either. He was a government attorney at the trials - that's where they met. And after that a federal prosecutor for fifteen years.'

'What did he think when you quit prosecuting and went private?'

'He was all for it. He said ten years was enough unless I wanted to move up to attorney general or governor. I didn't need that kind of heat.'

'Who does? There's damn little truth in politics.'

'I don't know,' she said. 'When I was a prosecutor I honestly believed it was all about truth and justice and all that crap.'

'I repeat, there's damn little truth in politics, Janie.'

'You know what they say, truth is perception.'

'No, truth is the fury's perception,' Vail corrected.

'Does it ever bother you?' she asked. 'About winning?'

'What do you mean?'

'Some people say we're both obsessed with winning.'

'It's all point of view. Listen, when I was a young lawyer I defended a kid for ripping off a grocery store. The key piece of evidence was a felt hat. The prosecutor claimed my boy dropped it running out of the store. I tore up the prosecution, proved it couldn't be his hat, ate up the eyewitnesses, turned an open-and-shut case into a rout. After he was acquitted, the kid turns to me and says, 'Can I have my hat back now?' It bothered me so much that one night I was having dinner with a judge - who later became one of my best friends - and I told him what had happened. Know what he said? 'It wasn't your problem, it was the prosecutor's. Pass the butter, please.' '

She laughed softly. 'So what's the lesson, Vail?'

Vail took a sip of wine and chuckled. 'Nobody ever said life is fair - I guess that's the lesson, if there is one.'

'That's a cynical response, Counsellor.'

'There are no guarantees. We give it the best we got no matter how good or bad the competition is. It isn't about winning anymore, it's about doing the best you can.'

'I suppose we could practice euthanasia on all the bad lawyers in the world and try to even the playing field. That's the only way we'll ever approach true justice in the courtroom. Does it ever bother you, Martin? When you know the opposition is incompetent?'