TIME WILL TELL     

by Twist Phelan

            LaurenWinslow swept into my office a half hour after my secretary left, twentyminutes before Security came on duty downstairs. As slim as a fading hope, shewore a long sapphire sheath that was sexy but modest at the same time. She hungher wet umbrella on the coat tree next to the door and collapsed into herfavorite chair, the one closest to my desk.

            Iturned over the spreadsheet I’d been reviewing and put on a welcoming smile.“You’re looking lovely this evening, Madame Prosecutor. What’s the occasion?”

            “Annualjudges’ dinner at the Downtown Club. If I’d known the weather was going to bethis bad, I would have rented a tux.” She brushed off the raindrops thatspangled her hem, revealing a pair of satin slingbacks with vicious heels.“They’re roasting Galletti, so I have to be there. Would you please just killme now?”

            Lauren going to an event for Glamour BoyGalletti? “An evening of lawyers in white ties telling white lies—you’ll bein your element, Counselor.”

            Shechuckled, a low sound of genuine mirth. She had deep-set brown eyes, wavychestnut hair, and a dusting of freckles so fine I often wondered if I’dimagined them. “I think you’d hold your own, Tommy.”

            Laurenheaded up the Complex Crimes Unit for the regional office of the Department ofJustice. A dozen attorneys under Galletti were on a crusade against“sophisticated” criminals—corporate fraudsters, identity thieves, computerhackers, pay-for-play politicos, big-time polluters. “We’re not interested inordinary crooks,” Lauren had told me when we first met. “We go after the smartpeople who’ve gone bad, the ones who screw over widows and orphans.”

            Iheld up an almost-empty tumbler of whiskey. “Care to get a head start on the festivities?”

            Shedeclined, as she always did during her impromptu visits. Instead, she stood upand walked to the window, all fine-boned elegance and height. What began as anafternoon shower had turned into leaden rain. It was an ugly day, exactly asforecast.

            Iwondered why Lauren was here. Usually she dropped by to regale me with somecourtroom triumph—the defeat of a defendant’s motion to suppress evidence, aunanimous Guilty verdict, a plea thatsent somebody away for twenty-five years. Her stories hinted at rules she hadto bend, witnesses she had to bully into fatal admissions.

Tonight, though, she was different. There wassomething about her I hadn’t seen before; she was wired, so electric she nearlyset the air vibrating. I swallowed a mouthful of scotch, felt the warmth spreadthrough my belly, and waited.

            “HaveI ever told you what brought me to Seattle?” she asked, gazing out at the city.Her skin was pale against the darkness on the other side of the glass.

            “No.”Although Lauren was familiar with my background, she had always beenclose-mouthed about hers. I took another sip of my drink. In less than aweek, I’d be downing mojitos instead of single malt.

            Sheturned, and her dress pulled tight against her thigh. I glimpsed the outline oflace through the thin fabric and sucked in my breath. Lauren was the only womanI knew who wore a garter belt. Her legs were great, and outside the courtroomshe preferred short skirts to pants. During our first meeting she had leanedacross a table to hand a document to Nick, exposing a thin strip of smoothflesh at the top of her stocking. Nearly a minute had passed before I’d beenable to focus on her questions again.

            “Itwas four years ago,” she said, turning away from the window to reclaim herchair. I could smell her perfume. She always wore the same scent—subtle butcrisp, not too flowery. I imagined her touching the glass stopper to the hollowof her neck, dabbing it in between her breasts . . .

            Ifelt the heft of my new watch as I lifted the whiskey bottle from the deskdrawer and replenished my tumbler. Audemars Piguet—the only brand Arnold Schwarzenegger wore. Withits gold face and thirty-two diamonds rimming the bezel, the thing weighedalmost a pound. The black rubber wristband made it popular among the yachtiesin Boca.

            Laurennoticed my new hardware. “Check out the bling. I could hire another paralegalfor what that cost.”

            More like two, I didn’t say. Eightythousand dollars, no discount for cash.

            “Whathappened to the Rolex?” she asked. “Or was that aPatek Philippe in your briefcase?”

            I put the bottle back into the drawer, next to the minidigital recorder. I touched the square red button and left the drawer open.“I still can’t believe you snooped.”

            “Yourdriver shouldn’t have left the back seat door open. And briefcases come withlocks for a reason.”

            Iwas tempted to ask what part of nounreasonable searches and seizures she didn’t understand. “Next you’ll betelling me, if I carry cash, I deserve to have my pocket picked. You’re lucky Ididn’t think you were a carjacker.”

            Laurenlooked at me through her eyelashes. “What if you had, Tommy? Would you haveshot me?”

            “Jesus,how can you—”

            “Inever figured you for one of those big-watch guys,” she interrupted. “Bonusfrom a grateful client?”

            “Ifyou’re gonna keep asking questions, Madame Prosecutor, I want my lawyer.” Isaid it automatically. Not a big–watchguy. I turned my wrist so the diamonds wouldn’t show so much.

            Laurenmade a face. “Very funny, Tommy.”

            As hilarious asthe Fourth Amendment, Lauren. Bad guys aren’t the only ones who thinkthe end justifies the means. I pulled at my drink. Galletti knows it, too.

Outside, headlightswere yellow smears in the downpour, and a foghorn mooed. I knew I shouldn’tspill the beans, but I couldn’t resist.

            “Asa matter of fact, the watch is a going-away present to myself. Good-bye,perpetual rain; hello, eternal sunshine.”

            Laurentilted her head. “You’re moving? Where?”

            Ipicked up the Prada sunglasses from my desk—another recent purchase—and putthem on.

            “Nextweek I’ll be sitting on the private beach of one of the ritziest golfcommunities in Florida.” Harbour View or Vista or something like that. Harbourwith a u of course, and a gatedentrance even more pretentious than the name.

            Gated,alarmed, rent-a-copped. Drop-ins at the office were one thing, but I’venever been keen on clients—or anyone else—showing up at my house. “And I won’tbe back,” I added in my best Ahnuldimitation.

            Asmall crease appeared between Lauren’s brows. A big reaction, if you knew her.I took off the glasses, prepared to launch into my sun, beach, and golf riff.None of these things actually mattered to me, but the explanation had satisfiedeveryone else.

            Fewpeople ever surprised me like Lauren.

            “Soyou’re walking away before things are finished,” she said.

            “Whatdo you mean? The practice is all wrapped up. Not that there was much to do.After what happened to Nick, things went into the crapper pretty fast.”

            Whenmy partner got shot in our parking garage, the local news feasted on it for aweek. There was a lot of speculation—fueled by an anonymous source—that it wasa mob hit. That was enough to scare off old clients and keep away new ones. Iregarded Lauren. And with my other reason to stay in Seattle leaving, too . . .

            “I’mnot talking about your accounting firm,” she said.

            Ilooked at my watch, no longer giving a damn what she thought of it. “Aren’t yousupposed to be at Galletti’s roast?”

            Laurentossed back her prodigal curls. Usually she wore her hair in a ponytail. Idecided I preferred it loose around her face.

            “Iwant to arrive late.” Her tone turned coy. “Besides, don’t you want to hear whyI came to Seattle?”

            Itwas impossible to stay annoyed with her. Besides, this could be our lastevening together before I left. “Go ahead.”

            “Everplay Monopoly when you were a kid?”

            Youcould get whiplash trying to follow her train of thought. “Sure.”

            “Didyou know it’s the only game where going to jail is an accepted risk?”

            Iput on an Uncle Sam scowl and pointed at her. “Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

            Hereyes sparkled. “I used to really rub it in when my brother pulled that card.Sometimes I made him so mad, he’d kick me out of the game.”

            You’re still pissing off the other players,Lauren. “All I cared about was collecting rent,” I said.

            “Spokenlike a true accountant. So, Tommy, did Monopoly make us what we are today?”

            Iwasn’t exactly sure what she was getting at, so I sipped my whiskey and stayedquiet. The rain increased its patter on the windows. It sounded impatient, likea dealer’s fingers drumming on the felt.

            Laurenbroke the silence. “Private placement offerings put together by MerrillBache—coal mining deals. That’s what brought me here.”

            Shewas talking about PPOs. If the investment banks won’t touch you, they’re a wayto raise capital without jumping through too many government hoops. Lawyers andaccountants vet you and your numbers, then brokers sell the deal to“accredited” investors, rich people who’ve been around the financial block afew times.

            Ialways thought private placements were small-time. Give me a REIT any day. Youpool investor funds to buy commercial rental properties or mortgages—that’sserious money.

            “Idon’t remember hearing anything about coal.”

            Sincemeeting Lauren, I’d made a point of keeping up with local financial and legalnews. The deals must have gone down before I moved to Seattle.

            “Itwas a pretty standard fraud. The geology was faked—there wasn’t any coal. Theinvestors got stuck with worthless holes in the ground.”

            Ishrugged. “So a few of the privileged class spent the summer at their lawyer’soffices instead of the beach.”

“Not so privileged,” Lauren said, her voice likeice. “The brokers sold units to anyone who walked in the door, even if theyweren’t accredited. Retirement savings, college funds, cushions against medicalemergencies—they took in millions, tens of millions.”

            Althoughwe’d never talked about it, I sensed that Lauren took investors’ lossespersonally. I wondered if there was private history.

            “Themoney was gone, of course.” I tried to sound sympathetic.

            “Ifollowed the funds through three banks before the trail went cold. As usual,nothing was left stateside. Rich crooks don’t need walking-around money.”

            “Promoterdisappear, too?”

            “Assoon as the deal went south, he followed it.”

            Iswirled the scotch in my glass. “So you were left with the professionals. Iassume you picked the obvious target.”

            Shenodded. “The brokers who peddled the deal. You know how I hate white-collartypes who think the rules don’t apply to them. When these guys tried to playgames during discovery, it really ticked me off. I wasn’t going to settle for afine after that. I wanted them in prison.”

            “Anydefense?”

            “Theusual.” Her voice became singsong. “Each investor received documents describingthe risks, the brokers had no way to know the attorneys hadn’t done the duediligence or that the accountants had inflated the numbers, it wasn’t theirfault unqualified investors bought into the deal, blah blah blah blah.”

            “Didthe jury buy any of it?”

            “Notafter it took the head broker a full five minutes to locate where the lawyershad buried the risk disclosures in the offering memorandum. The printing was sosmall, he couldn’t read it without borrowing the judge’s glasses. Meanwhile,the projected returns were smack dab in the middle of the first page, intypeface as big as the top line on an eye chart.”

            “Itake it you won.”

            “Don’tI always?”

            Thathad been true for as long as I’d known her. Lauren was a real buccaneer. Shetried cases other prosecutors would have passed on, and she was willing to dowhatever it took to win, even if it meant sailing to the edge of legalboundaries, or beyond. I get the message,Lauren.

            Itook a long pull from my tumbler. “A criminal conviction makes a civil suitpractically a slam-dunk. I bet some class-action attorney had a complaint onfile the same day your jury came back.” I could feel my neck getting red.

            Sheplucked at a thread on her sleeve and looked bored. “Probably.”

            “Whatdid the investors finally end up with? Ninety, ninety-five cents on thedollar?” I heard the edge in my voice, so I gulped some of my drink. I had tochoke back a cough as the whiskey scorchedmy throat.

            Laurenhitched up her dress so she could cross her legs. “A little more than ahundred, actually. The jury was generous with punitive damages.”

            Iforced myself to look away from her slender ankles. “I bet you went after theattorneys and accountants, too.” I set the tumbler down hard on my desk. Amberliquid sloshed over my hand.

            “Thelaw allows—”

            “Tohell with the law! The investors got back morethan they put up. And they’re no less greedy than the professionals you’re sohot to put in prison. Most people wouldn’t go near these deals if they didn’tthink they’d get a big tax write-off, plus beat the market. Why not bereasonable? Dial it back after things are more or less even again, go after real bad guys.”

            “Ido! Lawyers and accountants are supposed to be the watchdogs who make sureofferings are legit. And the ones in these deals did more than look the otherway. The promoter was smart, but not that smart. He couldn’t have put the fraudtogether without professional help.”

            Imade a calming motion with my hands, I was determined not to argue with her.Besides, it was an old debate. “Okay, okay, theselawyers and these accountants weredirtbags. You have my blessing to prosecute them.”

            Shegrimaced. “Easier said than done. I barely had enough evidence for a searchwarrant. By the time it was executed, they had shredded all the documents. Ineeded the promoter’s testimony that the attorneys and accountants were in onthe scam from the get-go.”

            Irubbed a thumb against the rubberized band of my watch. “Those guys can be hardto find once they’re in the wind.”

            “Thecoal mines were in Kentucky, so I started there. I went to the town, talked tothe guy’s landlord, the people who leased him office equipment, even thewaitresses at his favorite diner. Wasn’t hard—I was raised in a place likethat. Turns out the guy’s Norwegian, grew up working on a family fishing boat.He immigrated to the States about ten years ago with plans to make it big.”

            “Let’shear it for the American dream!” I took a mouthful of scotch and let it sizzle onmy tongue. I was feeling good again. “He must have played Monopoly when he wasa kid.”

            Laurenglared at me. “I expected him to go back to Europe. But Immigration didn’t havea record of him leaving.”

            “Howabout Canada?”

            “Theysaid he wasn’t there either. So that left Seattle.”

            “Seattle?What made you think—”

            “Whenwe went through his office in Kentucky, we found a bunch of blank Seattlepostcards and some country-western CDs in the back of a desk drawer. Apparentlyhe missed them when he cleaned out the place.”
            “Youthought he came here because of some postcards?”

            “Don’tgive me a hard time, Tommy. It was all I had to go on. The databases—”

            “Iwas wondering when you’d get to those.” I heard that edge in my voice again.“Do you feds even bother with warrants anymore? Or do you just whisper the wordterrorist and wait for the sysop tohand over the master password?”

            Lauren’sexpression told me she wasn’t in the mood for my privacy-rights rant. “Oh, wegot the password all right, but the databases were a bust. There was nothing inthe computers—no driver’s license, no address, no credit cards.”

            Iwas impressed by Lauren’s quarry. Despite disposable cell phones, falseidentities for sale on the Internet, and banks that were more interested infees than references, it was harder than ever to live off the grid. “So whatdid you do?”

            Sheflashed that luminous smile. “Drove around in the rain, hyped on caffeine. Iwent to bars, hotels, used car lots—anywhere he might have gone or donebusiness. Nada. It was as though he’dnever been here.”

            Despitemyself, I was getting interested. “Why not give up?”

            “Ialmost did. I was running out of places to look. But I knew—I just knew—he was here. The local Norwegiancommunity, the climate, the fishing, the postcards”—she ticked each one off ona finger—“made Seattle the most logical place for him to go to ground.” Sheshook her head. “Thank goodness for clams.”

            “Whatdo clams have to do with this?”

            “Iwas eating lunch at this tiny joint downtown—”

            “Theone next to the bridge? You ever have the chowder?”

            “EveryTuesday. White, with extra crackers.” She ducked behind a grin. “And an ElysianFields Pale Ale, no glass.”

            A noontime beer should be the least of yourworries, Lauren. For half a second, I wondered if she would go to lunchwith me. Maybe if I called it a bonvoyage thing . . .

            “Anyway,I was eating on the patio when the ferry came in from Bainbridge Island. That’swhen it hit me.”

            “Aboat,” I said.

            “Aboat,” she repeated, clearly relishing the memory. “And I had five days to findit before I had to start working another case.”

            “TheState of Washington must have a hundred thousand registered vessels. How didyou think you were going to come up with the right one in time?”

            “Makethat three hundred thousand, plus transients.” Lauren flicked invisible lintfrom her dress. “Still, it was no problem.”

            “Okay,I’ll bite. How did you find the needle in a third of a million boats?”

            “Didyou know the DMV is in charge of maritime registrations? It handlesthem just like cars. I sat in a back office and scrolled through the listingsfor vessels over thirty feet—the DMV guy said that would be the minimum sizefor someone to live on. I found it the second day.” Her tone was only slightlysmug.

            “Hecouldn’t have been stupid enough to put his name down as the owner.”

            Laurenlooked offended. “Of course not. Besides, I didn’t look at the owner registry.I figured title would be held by some offshore corporation. I went through thelist of boat names instead.”

            “Boat names? Why would you do that?”

            “Becausemen aren’t sentimental, except when they are.” She looked at my watch. “Theycan’t hide the things that matter to them.”

            Itugged my cuff over the gold dial. “So did he go for a name from the oldcountry? Or something dumb, like OtherPeople’s Money or Sucker Bet?”

            “Wrong,and wrong. But I knew I’d found the right one as soon as I saw it.” Shegrinned, and I half-expected to see canary feathers sticking out of her mouth.“The Loretta Lynn.”

            “Isn’tthat a country-western singer?”

            “Yougot it. Born and raised in Butcher Hollow, Kentucky.”

            “Whywould this guy name his boat after her? He’s Swedish.”

            “Norwegian.”Lauren hugged herself happily. “Remember when I told you the coal mines were inKentucky? Well, guess what town they’re in.”

            “You’vegot to be kidding. I still don’t seehow the hell you made the connection with Loretta Lynn. I didn’t think you werea country-western buff.”

            “I’mnot. But the CDs he’d left in his office were all hers, except for—here’s thegood part—the soundtrack from CoalMiner’s Daughter, the movie they made about her life.”

            Thepride in her voice was beginning to grate. “So then what did you do?”

            “Therecords said the Loretta Lynn was aconverted trawler. The DMV guy said that meant it ran on diesel. I calledaround to the fuel docks until I found the one that knew the boat. The gasjockey ID’d an email photo of my guy, and the Harbor Patrol took me out there.Two days later, I was waiting when he showed up with empty tanks and a grocerylist.”

            “Isuppose you called the media for the perp walk,” I said into my glass. Thetumbler was almost empty again, and I considered refilling it.

            “Ofcourse.” She almost purred the words. “You know I love the look of a man in amonogrammed shirt and handcuffs.”

            “Yeah,those initials come in real handy when it’s time to sort prison laundry.”

            Thecorner of her mouth twitched. “Always the clever one, Tommy.”

            Lookingout the window, I could see the interior of my office reflected endlesslyacross the skyline, illuminated boxes filled with bland furniture,screen-savered computers, and generic wall art. As I scanned the warren ofother buildings, I half-expected to see someone like me looking back. It mademe uncomfortable, and I pulled my gaze back to Lauren.

            “Sowhy did you stay?” I fiddled with the thick clasp on my watch—opening it,snapping it shut, opening it again. The diamonds winked at me. “In Seattle, Imean.”

            Herreply was quiet, measured. “I met you, Tommy.”

            Istopped playing with my watch.

            Laurengot up from her chair.

            “Assumingthat ridiculous sundial on your wrist is correct, I better get going,” shesaid. “One of the secretaries let slip that part of tonight’s program includesa small celebration in my honor.”

            Thewords jumped out before I could stop them. “A celebration?”

            Hereyes drilled into mine. Anticipation shimmered off her.

            “I’mleaving Seattle, too.”

            Ifelt something flutter in my chest, forced my eyebrows up in feigned surprise.

            “You’relooking at the new DOJ liaison with the local SEC office.” Lauren leanedforward and placed her hands flat on the desktop. Her fingers were long andtapered, the nails filed into perfect ovals. “In Boca Raton.”

            Thechange in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Damn. Sooner or later, we always came to this point in theconversation.

            “Youmay be clever, Tommy, but you’re not clever enough.” Her voice was as soft ascashmere, but underneath I could feel the chill of steel. “I’m going to getyou. Three years left on the securities fraud SOL. And, of course, there’sNick. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

            Evenwhen I held the winning hand, she still made me feel like I was chasing thepot. Had I refilled my glass twice or three times? I passed a damp palm over myface.

            “Thisisn’t one of your coal deals.” My tongue felt slightly too big for my mouth.“For starters, the REIT investors’ lawsuit was tossed.”

            Laurenblew out a dismissive breath. “Plaintiff’s lawyer jumped the gun. Doesn’taffect the criminal prosecution.”

            “Lack of evidence—that’s what the judgesaid when he granted my lawyer’s motion to dismiss. If the plaintiffs didn’thave enough proof to get past more likelythan not, how are you going to make it all the way to beyond a reasonable doubt?”

            Thedetermination was plain on her face. “I’ll find the evidence.”

            By any means necessary. I tapped mywatch. “You know as well as I do, the more time that passes, the more memoriesfade, the more documents are lost, the more people decide to put all thisbehind them and move on. As for what happened to my partner . . .” I put on thesad expression I’d used for the reporters. “Carjacking gone wrong. Realtragedy.”

            “Fourthousand investors lost everything in your REIT, Tommy. Four thousand. Already there have been two suicides, plus God knowswhat other damage—divorce, derailed retirements, ruined careers—” Laurenpaused, bit down on her lip.

            But it wasn’t my fault, I wanted to tellher. I’d been in hock up to my eyeballs to those deranged Russian bookies. They“let me” pay off my marker by washing their gambling profits through the REIT.I didn’t know they were going to rip off the investors, too.

            “Andwe both know Nick wasn’t killed by any carjacker.” Her voice had dropped to awhisper, and I had to lean forward to hear her. Our faces were so close, Icould see the pulse beating at her temple and smell her perfume. Definitely grapefruit. Maybe a littlecypress?

            “He’sdead because he decided to take the immunity offer and testify.” She nearlyspat the words. “Against you.”

            Also not my fault. Since when did mypartner the schmoozer ever bother to look into the mechanics of a deal? Nick’sjob was to bring in the business, not run it. When he stumbled onto the moneylaundering, I had no choice. Otherwise the Russians would have left me lying onthat cold concrete floor.

            Laurenpushed herself off the desk. “Run to Florida, run halfway around the world. Itwon’t make a bit of difference. You’ll never be able to put enough distance—ortime—between us. More search warrants, new witnesses—I’ll plant the damnevidence if I need to—I’ll get theproof I need. Then it’ll be like that hideous watch of yours was turned back toyesterday.”

            Herlook of distaste stung. I dropped my eyes to thedigital recorder in the drawer. I imagined I could hear its motor humming. Everybody’s onthe run from something, Lauren. Or should be.

            “I’llsee you in Florida, Tommy. Don’t get too comfortable in your new place. Beforeyou know it, you’ll be moving to another gated community—the kind where Securitycarries pump shotguns instead of cell phones, and the bars on the windowsaren’t just for show.”

            Witha rustle of blue silk, she was gone.

            I’ll see you in Florida, Tommy.

            Theblack October rain beat against the window. I checked my watch, drained thelast of the scotch, and pushed back my chair. Ipicked up the recorder from the drawer, turned it off, and dropped itinto my pocket.

            Theirony of where I was headed hit me in the hallway, and kept me laughing all theway to the elevator. I punched the Downbutton.

            Gallettiwouldn’t have offered a talk-and-walk on the Russian thing if he suspectedanything about Nick. Lauren must have been keeping her cards close. Made itsweet for me. Once her overeager—or dumb—boss put blanket immunity on thetable, I had my Get Out of Jail Freecard. If I took his deal, I’d be untouchable for the murder.

            Asthe elevator doors slid open on the parking garage, I thought back to thatnight. I hadn’t expected Nick to struggle, let alone rip the watch from mywrist. The Rolex had fallen into a crack in the cement floor beside one of thesupport beams, wedged out of reach. I averted my eyes as I walked past thespot. What the hell had possessed me to engrave the damn thing?

            MyDNA, Nick’s blood . . . The feds had already been over the scene. But Laurenwas talking about a new search warrant. If she found the watch before Idisappeared into witness protection, my deal with her boss would evaporate. I’dbe facing the needle instead of twenty years.

            The gray Buick was parked next to the exit ramp, its enginerunning, in one of the spaces with a good view of the main entrance. Theair was thick with the stink of exhaust. I could heartires swishing through the puddles at street level.

            Islid into the back seat and rested my head against the plump leather. Gallettieagerly twisted around in the driver’s seat. No doubt he’d seen Lauren leave.Jesus, the guy had it in for her so bad, he was going to be late to his ownroast.

            Ourlast meeting had not gone well. He’d moaned about my coming up empty-handedagain. I’d dropped the bomb about my Florida move.

            “Weboth know witness protection is gonna stick me in some place like Oshfart,North Dakota,” I’d told him when he finished squawking.“I want to see sun and beach and girls in bikinis one last time. Besides, isn’tthis all moot, like you lawyers say? If Lauren’s moving to Florida, she’s notyour problem anymore, right?”

            Hehadn’t been able to hide the ambition and spite in his hooded eyes. Gallettiwasn’t gunning for Lauren because she crossed theline. He wanted to take her down because every month she won more cases,more headlines, more fans. She wouldn’t be the first prosecutor to parlay thoseinto a glory ride. But it was a trip her boss wanted to take himself.

I let my eyelids closeas his voice once again bore into my skull, more excruciating than thehangover I knew I’d have in the morning.

            Heasked me the question.

            Howmany had it been this time? Two—no, three—counts of prosecutorial misconduct,any one of which was enough to deliver Lauren’s head—and career—to Galletti ona silver platter.

“Nothing.” I shifted inthe seat. The recorder jabbed me in the rib. “Didn’t even get a chance to turnit on.”

            Igot out of the car and went back to my office. I sat down at my desk, took thewhiskey bottle out of the drawer, and poured slowly until my glass was fullagain. I thumbed the Rewind button onthe recorder and turned up the volume so I could hear her voice over the rain.

I’ll see youin Florida, Tommy.

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