Wellroth Chemical Trial.

I went backwards a week. Wellroth Chemical Trial.

A month earlier, and the picture changed. I scanned the screen. Lots of COs at Wellroth, lots of CIs with Dr. Haupt and E. Eberlein. Then a flock of CD, client development, with E. Eberlein and an array of area drug companies. SmithKline, Wyeth, Rohrer, McNeil Labs, and Merck. They were all there, in meetings that usually lasted an hour. Apparently, Mark had been pitching them during the day and courting them over dinner at night. It would be worth plenty of business, but it wasn’t planned to enrich R amp; B’s coffers. It was planned for Mark’s new firm.

I sat back and tried not to feel entirely betrayed. He hadn’t breathed a word, nor had he put it on his official time sheets where I would have seen it. I bit my lip and punched the page up key, scrolling backward in anger.

I stopped at another surprise entry. CO G. Wells. Mark had a conference out of the office with Grady? It was listed on last month’s schedule. I searched the other calendar pages under Grady’s name. Another CO popped up the week before Mark was killed, but there were no explanatory notes with it. I couldn’t imagine why Mark would be meeting with Grady. They never worked together. Grady worked for me and the high-tech clients he was developing himself. He had a growing corporate practice with the new software companies out by Route 202, in the suburbs.

My coffee sat untouched, growing cold. Why was Grady meeting with Mark? For an hour at a stretch, at the end of the day, out of the office? I squinted at Grady’s grease-pencil chart. There was no Wells listed on it. Where was he the night Mark was killed? I trusted Grady, but it nagged at me.

I didn’t have time to puzzle it out. I got out of theCALENDAR file and printed it, then hitPRINT for each of the other hidden files. I hated to make a hard copy of something only I knew existed, but I couldn’t count on having the computers a minute longer.

Then it occurred to me. How was Mark funding all this client development? It had to cost thousands, yet I hadn’t noticed any irregularities in the books or in any memos from Marshall, who managed them.

I highlighted Mark’sCHECKBOOK file and a new menu materialized;R amp;BACCOUNT andPERSONAL ACCOUNT. I hitR amp;B first. A check register appeared on the screen, its entries machine-neat. I skimmed this month’s withdrawals. Nothing unusual; DHL, FedEx, Staples, Bell Tel, Biscardi Enterprises, the holding company that owned the building. Everything was in order, strictly kosher. I remembered Mark’s will with a pang. It wasn’t my money he wanted. I pushed my emotions aside and got out of the R amp; B file, then hitPERSONAL ACCOUNT.

The entries were to Acme Markets, Bell Mobile, and the like. Small amounts, frugal amounts. Mark never spent money on anything, which is why I never knew he had any. Then I saw them. Payments to American Express and Visa in three and four thousand dollar amounts, starting about the time the client development had. So it was true, and he’d funded it himself. Next to the credit card payments were bills posted to a local printer and graphic designer, undoubtedly for new business cards and a hipper logo. I spotted a payment to Philoffice Realty, in the amount of twenty thousand dollars. Earnest money for my sunny new office space.

Then another entry caught my eye. Cash. The withdrawal was for two thousand dollars, last week. The memo line readSAM FREMINET, for legal fees.

What? Sam? In cash?

I scrolled backwards to last month. A list of routine entries, and another one to Sam. Cash, two thousand dollars. Three weeks before Mark was killed. Again,LEGAL FEES on the memo line.

I sat back in the chair, a hard knot forming in my chest. Why was Mark paying Sam? What legal fees and why in cash? It made no sense. I printed the checkbook files, then hit another key.

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THESE FILES?Y OR N? the computer asked.

I hitY. I would’ve hitDAMN STRAIGHT if I could. The files held the solution to this puzzle, and I wanted it to myself. In twenty-four hours the system would delete them automatically from backup. I’d have the only copies.

Copies? Shit! I’d forgotten. The copies printed. They’d be spitting out of the laser printer in the secretaries’ area, in full view of any cop who happened to be standing around. I leapt from my chair, tore open the door, and scrambled out of the office.

“My brief!” I yelped for show, but it was already too late.

Acriminalist in a navy Mobile Crime jumpsuit crouched on the rug beside the laser printer, picking up the last page from the floor. She held a thick packet of already-printed pages to her chest, and I had no doubt she’d read them as she gathered them. Damn it.

“Excuse me, that’s my brief,” I said.

She straightened up. “I saw the pages falling out and thought I’d help.” Her face bore little makeup and she had a cropped, no-nonsense haircut.

“Thanks. For the help.” I eyed the papers in her arms and felt myself break into a sweat. I would’ve demanded them, but if she didn’t understand their significance I didn’t want to tip my hand and trigger another search warrant.

“You forgot you started printing, didn’t you? That happens to me all the time. You start working on something else and you forget you started printing.”

“Very good. You must be a detective,” I said, and we shared a fake laugh.

“Nope, but I want to be some day. I’m just a crime tech, second year, but you gotta start somewhere.” She hugged my papers to a black nameplate that saidPATCHETT and nodded in the direction of the empty paper tray. “It looks like the printer ran out of paper.”

“Naturally. Just my luck. Whenever you need something fast, you run out of paper.” I didn’t want to print with her watching, so I made no move to replenish the supply. We stood on either side of the laser printer, implausibly ignoring the flashing green lights. Playing chicken with the office supplies.

“Don’t you hate that?” she asked. “When people see the paper is low and don’t do anything about it.”

“It’s like running out of toilet paper. Nobody wants to be the last one. I hate that.”

“Same. Aren’t you going to add the paper now?”

“You know, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I have no idea how to add paper.” It was a lie, of course. I could repair the fucking machine if I had to. “The secretaries do it for me.”

“I don’t think any secretaries are in yet, but I’ll help. I know how.” She looked around for the paper supply, but I edged to the left, hiding the ream that sat on the table.

“I can wait to print the rest,” I said, when I heard footsteps behind me. It was Grady, who was looking at me with a mystified smile.

“I’m surprised at you, Bennie. It’s easier than it looks, changing paper. You just watch me.”

“No, it’s all right-”

“Please, it’s no trouble at all.” Grady reached behind me for the paper, reloaded the tray, and slid it back into place with a metallic click. “PressRESET if it gives you a hard time.”

I could have killed him. “It’s so nice to have a sexist around the house.”

“I’m not a sexist, I’m a gentleman.” Grady smiled politely at the criminalist. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but she can’t make coffee either.”

Ha ha. “That’s enough, Rhett. Ms. Patchett, I’ll take those papers now.” I yanked my papers from the criminalist’s grip as the printer spat out another month of Mark’s calendar. She eyed it as I snatched it up. “Thanks a lot for your help.”

“No problem,” she said, pursing her lips. “So that’s what a lawyer’s brief looks like? Like a calendar?”

“Yes, it’s the appendix.”

“Brief?” Grady said, then his face changed as he wised up. “Are you finishing that Third Circuit brief, Bennie?”