“He’s smart, Sam, and he’s trying to help.”

“He’s not that smart. Why would I kill Mark, for God’s sake?”

“For the executor’s fee? The billings?” I felt like a jerk for even explaining, Sam looked so nonplussed.

“Come on, girlfriend! I need billings as much as the next lawyer, but I wouldn’tkill Mark for them. I wouldn’t killanybody for them.”

“Grady says there’s a trustee’s fee, too. It adds up to a million dollars.”

“So what? Are you asking me for real?” His eyes narrowed, but I told myself to stay the course.

“Let’s just get it over with, Sam. If we’re friends, we can talk about anything.”

“We’re friends, so you can insult me? Bennie, listen, I don’t need the money, I have plenty of money. ‘I’m rich! I’m wealthy! I’m comfortably well off,’ as Daffy would say. I don’t need to kill my friend for a fee.”

“I thought so,” I said, backing off, but he leaned toward me, angered.

“You want details, I’ll give you details. I own my condo at the Manchester. My firstborn, the Porsche Carrera, is one year old next week and I bought him with cash. I take only one vacation a year, to South Beach, and I don’t have any dependents except for that Cuban waiter at The Harvest. I was with him on the night in question, by the way. If you want to check it, I’ll give you his number.”

“No, I don’t mean to get personal-”

“As for my assets, which Ramon tells me is my best feature, I’m taking almost four hundred thousand this year, not including the bonus from the First Federal bankruptcy. It’s in eleven mutual funds and some very frisky tech stocks.”

“Okay, Sam. I get the picture.”

“However, I do have a confession to make.” He held up a palm. “I confess, I’m too heavily into Microsoft, but I want Bill Gates so much I can taste him. Can you blame me?”

“Sam-”

“Except for that hair. If he washed it from time to time, I’d be in Redmond in a heartbeat.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. Enough already. Sue me. Shoot me.”

“Apology accepted,” he said curtly. He slouched back into his chair, but he didn’t look like himself. Or maybe he wasn’t looking at me the way he always did.

I wondered if he ever would again.

Grady had me barricaded in my office with an amazingly good cup of coffee and the large wipe-off chart we use for jury exhibits. The chart rested on an easel and contained the names of all of R amp; B’s associates, with a grease-pencil grid to the left. I took one look at it and saw what Grady had learned, but he wanted to explain it to me anyway.

“Are you listening, Bennie?” he asked. Wielding a long, rubber-tipped pointer, in his violet-covered necktie and fresh white shirt, Grady looked more kindergarten teacher than lawyer.

“Of course I’m listening,” I said, but I wasn’t, because I already had a chart of my own in my head. I needed him for the legal end, not for this. I was the one who had to find Mark’s killer.

“You don’t look like you’re listening.”

“No, I am. I’ll be a good defendant, I promise.” I smiled in a way I hoped was convincing and took another sip of coffee. I felt stronger since I had eliminated Sam as a murder suspect, and the coffee was tasting better and better. “Who made this? It’s good.”

“I did, I cross-examined each of them on the phone. I finished the last phone call, with Renee Butler, at one thirty. Except for Wingate, I went over and talked to him. He’s real upset.”

“Why? He didn’t even like Mark. I meant the coffee, though. Who made it?”

“I did. Look at this.” He pointed to Jennifer Rowland’s name. “Jenny says she was working at home the night Mark was killed, editing a section of the brief in theLatorno matter. She said it was for you and it was due next week. Is it?”

“Yes. Did you use the Maxwell House?”

“Whatever was there.” He made a neat check with a grease marker in the blank marked ALIBI. “I want to see Jenny’s time records, though she could have lied on them, too.”

“She wouldn’t be the first lawyer to write fiction.” I wanted to ask him how much water he put in, but it would be futile. The coffeemaker at work was a Bunn, the one at home was a Krups; it would never translate, English to German. At least not when I spoke the language.

“Amy here,” he said, pointing to the line that saidAMY FLETCHER, “was with Jeff Jacobs that night. It checks out from both sides. They’re seeing each other, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

He made purposeful checks byFLETCHER andJACOBS. “They could both be lying to me, but I don’t think so. Wingate says he was online in the Grateful Dead chat room. Do you know he goes in the teen rooms and tells them he’s Jon Bon Jovi?”

“Perfect. And I pay this kid?”

“He said he logged off at two in the morning the night Mark was killed. I’d like to check the AOL records, but Wingate has two housemates and they could have logged off for him.” He made a question mark in theWINGATE box, next to a “WW” in Renee Butler’s box.

“What’s WW mean, in Renee’s?”

“Weight Watchers. She didn’t want to tell me at first. She took Eve with her, to get her out of the house. Eve’s taking Mark’s death pretty hard, you know. She’s convinced you did it.”

I ignored the twinge and gulped my brew. “What kind of filters do you use, Grady?”

He sighed, his gaze running up and down the chart. “That’s everybody. They all have some sort of alibi, but I have to double-check Wingate’s.”

“Except for the secretaries and Marshall. Did you call Marshall?”

“Marshall? You suspect Marshall?” He looked surprised behind his glasses.

“No, I don’t suspect any of them yet. I go slow before I point a finger, especially now. Tell me which filters. I bet you used the brown ones.”

His eyes widened in frustration. “Lord, you are the strangest woman! I couldn’t find the filters, so I used a paper towel, all right?”

“Apaper towel? Is that even possible?”

He dropped his pointer, so I shut up about the coffee and let him go on, repeating everything and pointing with his pointer. When he ran out of lecture, he went to see if Marshall was in yet. And I went to the heart of the matter.

The computer.

Sitting right in front of me, next to my traumatized jade plant. The police would probably take the computers when they came back today, if last night’s seizure at my apartment told me anything. I didn’t have much time.

I stopped, fingers poised over the whitish keyboard. As I saw it, I had to know what Mark had been doing lately to understand why anybody would want to kill him. I thought I knew, but evidently I didn’t, since I was completely blindsided by his desire to break up R amp; B. But the computer knew.

I hitLIST FILES. R amp; B’s files-time records, correspondence, memos, briefs, client information, and our personal files-popped onto the screen. The police had taken hard copies of R amp; B’s client and time records, and I could reprint them if I needed to, but I didn’t need to. Mark kept his own cyber-daybook in a hidden file and generated a cleaned-up version of his time records from that. It was secreted under his password: Mook. What his father always called him. Thank God for pillow talk.

I typed it in and revealed the hidden files:CALENDAR, DAYBOOK, CHECKBOOK. The same directories as always, he hadn’t changed them yet. I had Mark’s most intimate information at my fingertips and I didn’t have to leave my coffee. Our old firm investigator used to say anybody who thinks sleuthing starts with a magnifying glass is behind the times. It happens in front of microscopes and computers, in labs and test tubes. You could get cellulite from detective work nowadays.

I highlightedCALENDAR and hitENTER. A grid appeared on the screen, this month’s calendar with the appointments typed in. Mark used our old Grun code; CO stood for conference out of the office; CI for conference in the office; CD for client development; and TC for telephone call. Entries with notations filled the days, ending abruptly the day Mark was killed. I tried not to think about it and looked at the first week of the month.