She gave the driver her office address as her thoughts clicked away. She’d have to prepare the main defense and the death penalty defense at the same time, because if she lost the case she’d be on an hour later to save Connolly’s life. She’d have to find psychological witnesses, experts, school records. She’d need another associate and maybe an investigator, too.

Bennie was so busy making a mental list of things to do that she didn’t notice the gaunt old man lingering behind the crowd, dressed in a tweed coat despite the warm weather. He stood in the large shadow cast by City Hall, a felt hat pulled low over his eyes. Bennie wouldn’t have known him anyway, unless she remembered the photo of the airmen.

It was Bill Winslow, and he was watching her with a tight smile.

Back at her office, Bennie tore through the Connolly file in disbelief. Jemison, Crabbe hadn’t prepared any defense at all-no witness interviews, no investigation, no neighborhood surveys, not even lawyers’ notes. What were Burden and Miller thinking? She reached for the only full folder, bearing a label that read D.A. FILE-DISCLOSED AT PRELIMINARY HEARING. It contained a skinny transcript of the preliminary hearing and a bare-bones collection of incident reports, list of seized items, autopsy and toxicology reports, and mobile crime reports. There were no activity reports, the detailed logs of the police investigation.

“Bear with me, kids,” Bennie said as she flipped through the manila folder. The two associates, Mary DiNunzio and Judy Carrier, sat across the desk like Mutt and Jeff with J.D. degrees. DiNunzio was short and dressed like Lawyer Barbie in her blue Brooks Brothers suit; Carrier was almost as tall as Bennie and dressed like an artist in a loose denim smock, blue tights, and suede Dansko clogs. Bennie finished skimming the file and looked up. “I want you to drop everything, Carrier. You have to subpoena the police dispatch records. I want to know who called in this murder.”

“No problem,” the associate said, making a note on the pad on her lap. Her hair, shorn around her chin in a blunt, lemony bowl, fell forward like a bloodhound’s ears. “They keep that on tape, don’t they? The 911 records?”

“Yes, but by now the tapes have been erased. You’ll have to apply for the transcripts, the computer-assisted records. Now go get the office camera, will you? Marshall knows where it is, ask her. DiNunzio?” Bennie said, turning to the associate as Carrier left the office. “You know anybody at Jemison, Crabbe?”

“Sure, it’s huge. Two of my classmates went there, I think.”

“If they survived, give them a call. I want to find out how Henry Burden got this case and if he has any connection to Judge Guthrie. Be discreet, though.”

“How do I do that?”

“Take ’em to lunch or something. Get the dirt. You heard what Miller said in court, that Burden was called out of the country. What’s up with that? Run it down. Now grab your bag and the file. You’re ready to rock and roll, aren’t you?”

“I mean, sure. Right. Absolutely.” Mary was too intimidated to say anything else. Secretly she wanted to go to home, climb into bed, and read the classifieds. Were there jobs in America where you could tell your boss the truth?

Nah.

Drizzle tinged the sky gray and dotted the windshield of Bennie’s Ford. She pulled over and parked on Trose Street, across from the rowhouse where Della Porta had lived with Connolly. The house was squat, only two stories tall, with a wooden sign that read APT FOR RENT creaking on rusted hooks. It had black shutters that peeled unnoticed and its brick was a low-rent rust color, unlike the muted orange hues of Colonial brick. It sat next to a storefront day-care center and a rowhouse, also two stories, with a shutter missing on the second floor. Next to the rowhouse stood a defunct bistro and a tattered pink zoning notice glued to its boarded-up glass announced someone’s mistaken optimism.

“Let’s go, kids,” Bennie said, cutting the ignition. “DiNunzio, bring the file. Carrier, get the camera. I want you to take pictures of the street and the area outside.”

“Got it.” Judy climbed out of the Ford and flipped up the hood of a yellow Patagonia slicker. She looped the camera around her neck and began snapping pictures, shielding the lens from the weather.

Next to her, Bennie took a legal pad from her bag and made a fast sketch of the street, holding the pad close to avoid the raindrops. She drew the houses and the alley where the bloody clothes were found, which lay on the far side of the day-care center, going west. Beyond it were two more rowhouses to the corner, Tenth Street. Bennie walked to the alley as she sketched in the dented blue Dumpster. It still sat rusting against the brick wall of the alley, on the right. The alley went through to the next street and so could have been entered from behind. Cleaned up and spray-mounted on foamcore, Bennie’s sketch would become Exhibit D-1.

Her eyes swept the block when she finished, thinking about possible witnesses to the comings and goings at the rowhouse. The south side of Trose Street, where Della Porta’s house was, contained several rowhouses between it and the alley. They would be the houses from which most of the witnesses would come and, as such, they’d be the primary focus of the defense in the next few days.

Bennie pivoted on her heel. Across the street, directly facing the Della Porta rowhouse, was a newly constructed apartment building. All but four rowhouses had been demolished to make room for the building, eliminating the possibility of witnesses who would have had the best view of the Della Porta house. A plastic banner on the building read NOW LEASING FOR SEPTEMBER, and Bennie remembered the construction that Connolly had mentioned in their interview.

With the Nikkormat in front of her face, Judy snapped photos of both ends of Trose Street, until she realized Mary hadn’t gotten out of the truck. She sidestepped to the half-open window. “Mare,” she whispered. “Mare, come on out.”

“No.” Mary sat in the backseat. “I’m not coming.”

“What? What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“I’m not coming. Which word don’t you understand?”

“Are you kidding?”

It was a good question, and Mary wasn’t exactly sure. “I’ve never been to a crime scene before. I don’t want to go to a crime scene now. Why do you think they put up all that yellow tape? Because crime scenes are not good places to go.”

“Mary, it’s your job.”

“No shit.” The associate’s head popped from the window and she blinked against the rain. “I know it’s my job, why do you think I hate it? If my job was making chocolate eclairs, I wouldn’t hate it.”

“Are you crazy? Get out of the car.”

“If my job was buying clothes, I wouldn’t hate it. Or reading books. Also I like to eat. Maybe I could get a job eating. Are there jobs like that, Jude?”

“What’s the matter with you? You want to get fired?”

Mary brightened immediately. “Why didn’t I think of that? Then I could collect unemployment, like the rest of America.”

“Carrier! DiNunzio! Let’s go!” Bennie shouted, the impatience in her tone impossible to miss. She was already climbing the front stoop of the rowhouse.

“Come on, she’ll fire me, too.” Judy opened the Ford’s door and grabbed the sleeve of Mary’s suit. “You’ll be fine, you’ll see,” she said, yanking out her friend and slamming the door behind her. They walked together to the front door, outdistanced by Bennie, who had slipped inside the entrance and already had her finger on the buzzer under a dented aluminum mailbox.

“We caught a break,” Bennie told them. “The super lives on the first floor.”

“How do you know?” Judy asked.

“It says so.” Bennie pointed to a nameplate: J. BOSTON, SUPER.

“Ace detective work,” Judy said, but Mary wasn’t laughing.