sourdough and shot Seeley a kid brother's look. “You're not afraid of her, are you?”
Leonard had always gotten on well with women. Where Seeley's reflex as a boy was to fight back, Leonard navigated the brutalized household through manipulation, using first Seeley, then their mother as a shield. While Seeley was acquiring the habit of solitude-he could be completely alone even in the middle of football practice- Leonard was practicing the social skills that drew people to him. Maybe this was why women had always liked Leonard. He was attuned to their thoughts and moods in a way Seeley knew he would never be.
“I don't know why you need me to babysit your wife.”
For the first time since they left the courthouse, Leonard lost his bounce. “Renata drinks when I'm away. Sometimes I'll call, and I can hear it in her voice. It's eleven or twelve at night and she's slurring her words. Five, six hours later she's prepping for surgery. I worry about her.”
“I'd think you'd worry about her patients.”
Leonard shrugged. “You're a single man. Marriage is complicated.” He chewed at the bread, then remembered something. “I'm sorry.” He watched to see if Seeley wanted to talk. “I'm sorry about your divorce. I never met Clare.”
Seeley was thinking not of his former wife, but of Gabriela Vega and Lionel Kaplan, the witness she was preparing for tomorrow afternoon. Other work, too, waited at the office. He caught a passing waiter's attention and signaled for the check.
“It's funny,” Leonard said, “talking with you about women. We never did that.”
“There's a lot of things we never talked about.” Seeley put two twenties on top of the check, and stood up to leave. “If I get some free time, I'll try to call her.”
It was already dark by the time Seeley got to his office, and Tina had left for the day. The light was on, and a slender man, compactly built, was in Seeley's chair, his feet up on the desk. A zipper ran up the side of the black ankle boots. One of Pearsall's illustrated steno pads was on the desk in front of him and there was a smell of tobacco in the room. The man swung his feet off and reached across the desk with a business card.
Seeley looked at the card. Lieutenant Herbert Phan, San Mateo Police Department, along with an address and telephone number. On the reverse, the information was in Spanish.
Seeley nodded at Pearsall's notebook. “That's an unlawful search.”
“We're all looking for the truth about Robert Pearsall's death, aren't we? His secretary said I could wait for you here.”
Tina wouldn't have let him in. Phan had probably impressed the thirty-seventh-floor receptionist with his badge and made his way up to the thirty-eighth floor by himself. The lieutenant nodded at the client chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
“You're sitting in it,” Seeley said, remembering at the last moment to smile.
Phan's own smile parted a narrow, neatly trimmed mustache. He drummed his fingers on the armrests. The thick wrists and muscular fingers of a laborer were a contrast to the trimly tailored outfit and carefully barbered graying hair. Phan rose, came around the desk, and took the client's chair.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Seeley remained standing, so that Phan had to look up at him.
“Ah, yes, lawyers bill by the hour.” The voice was nasal, fl at. “You called us about Robert Pearsall. We thought maybe you knew something that you might want to contribute.”
“Robert Pearsall didn't kill himself.”
“What do you know about that?”
For the first time, Seeley heard an inflection of interest in the detective's voice, but it didn't surprise him. The police have no duty to disclose the scope of their investigation to anyone. They'll tell the grieving widow that her husband's death was suicide even though in fact they think it may be murder.
When Seeley didn't answer, Phan said, “It doesn't happen every day, but a white man of late middle age walking in front of a train happens often enough that it's statistically predictable.” The lieutenant didn't sound convinced.
“How do your statistics explain his being a successful lawyer, in good health with no financial difficulties?”
“Our job is to screen out possibilities until we're left with probabilities. You still haven't told us what you think.”
“Maybe someone knocked him out and dragged him to the railroad tracks.”
“Who would have a reason to do that?”
There was no emotion or even movement in Phan's dark eyes. This was how police investigators talked to civilians, as if they knew their most shameful secrets. In Seeley's experience, they never did.
Phan took a small leather notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped through the pages. “His adversary in this case he was working on”-he rested a thick forefinger on a page-“St. Gall. Would they have a reason to kill him?”
“This is an important case, but a drug company doesn't kill a lawyer to win a lawsuit.”
“Maybe Pearsall stuck his nose in somewhere it didn't belong.”
“And you think that's my problem, too.”
Phan pushed back from the desk. Even in the harsh fluorescent light, his skin was as smooth as caramel. “Over the years, Mr. Seeley, we've found that anytime an outsider like you starts asking questions about the way we conduct our investigations, he's got something bothering him.”
“And that's the reason for the visit.”
Phan rested his palm along a tight jaw. “Do you have any enemies?”
“None in California, that I know of.”
“But now you've taken over Robert Pearsall's case.”
Phan was settling in for a long interview, and Seeley was impatient to join Gabriela Vega in the conference room. He also needed to tell Judy Pearsall that the police were considering possibilities other than suicide. He took Pearsall's notebook from the desk. “I've got work to do. Turn out the lights when you leave.”
“We'd like to know if anyone warned Mr. Pearsall before he died.” When Seeley moved to the door, Phan said, “Have you received any warnings, Mr. Seeley? Any unusual incidents?”
“Your receptionist told me you're a busy man, Lieutenant.” Seeley nodded toward the switch by the door. “As I said, please turn out the lights.”
THIRTEEN
It was twenty minutes after Judge Farnsworth's regular starting time, and Palmieri's witness, Yelena Chaikovsky, was not in the courtroom. At regular intervals the Stanford economist telephoned Palmieri to say that she was caught in a traffic jam; that she had been stopped by the highway patrol for speeding; and that she was again stuck in traffic.
Palmieri said, “She'll be here in less than half an hour, Your Honor.” He and Seeley were in front of the bench with Thorpe and Fischler. The jury box was still empty.
“This is why lawyers put their witnesses up in a local hotel.” The judge's eyes were tired and her makeup looked as if it had been applied hurriedly.
Seeley had instructed Tina to make hotel reservations for all the witnesses, but Chaikovsky apparently told Palmieri that she slept better in her own bed.
“Do you have another witness you can put on, Mr. Seeley?”
“He's in the city, Judge, but he won't be here until one.”
“This comes out of your twenty-four hours, Counselor.” When Farnsworth nodded for the lawyers to leave, Fischler pivoted sharply, preening. Thorpe followed, stepping briskly, as he regularly did when he was out of the jury's sight.
At counsel's table, Barnum was livid, his thick hands clenched and white at the knuckles. Seeley steered Palmieri away. “Call Chaikovsky and tell her you'll be waiting at the bottom of the plaza. I'll send Ed out to park her car.”
Barnum's voice, when Seeley took his seat next to him, was a hoarse whisper, the kind that carries. “I want
