'Let's pretend that Newlin is innocent, like you say. I don't think it, but let's pretend. Like Gene London used to say.'

'Gene London?'

'Kid's show. You don't remember The Gene London Show, when we were little? "Let's pretend that it's story time"?'

'No.' *

'How about Pixanne? Chick in green tights? Flies around like a fairy?'

'No.'

'Chief Halftown? Guy in an Indian headdress?'

'No.'

Kovich frowned. 'Where the fuck were you raised, Mick?'

'Not the same Philly as you. So what?'

'Forget it. Say Newlin is innocent. You think that matters.'

'Of course. It's the truth.'

'No.' Kovich clucked as he swung the car onto a side street and powered it forward. 'You wrong, home. Newlin used to matter, but he stopped mattering the minute he picked up the phone and told nine-one-one he did it. Then the case wasn't about him anymore, it was about dispatch, the uniforms, the techs, and us. You follow so far?'

'No.'

'You do, too. Next it got to be about the crime lab and the bloody prints and then, shit, the D.A.' Kovich hit the steering wheel with a palm. 'The D Fucking A. Mr Dwight Davis and his crew. Then the bail commissioner, and at the prelim it'll be the Municipal Court judge. Now it's about the American Justice Machine. Still with me?'

Brinkley stopped playing with the air vent. It was unbreakable. Nothing had been going his way, not since the lady left.

'Now Newlin's in the machine, and the machine is callin' the shots. And you know what? Newlin don't seem to mind very much. In fact, he's the clown who got the machine in motion. Cranked the sucker up. Engaged it, like a clutch. Poked that tiger with a stick. You understand?'

Brinkley's gaze fell on the reports in his lap. The daughter's hair was still in the folds of paper. Part of him wished he'd never taken it. Maybe he could forget about it then. Just let it go. He'd been wrong about the earring and the hummus. What was the matter with him?

'So, you get it, this is not about Mr Newlin at all. He may have been a rich, powerful lawyer, but now he's the guy who switched on the machine, and it ate him up like it was the whale and he was Jonah. Ain't nobody can save Mr Jonah now, not you and not me. Can't even see him no more. He's gone, Mick. All gone, and before you start cryin' for him, remember he brought the whole damn thing on himself.'

Brinkley stared at the reports encasing the hair. CRIMINALISTICS LABORATORY REPORT. It was for nothing. If the truth didn't matter anymore, then Brinkley didn't know what did. It was like with Sheree. He could never convince her that she already had what all her new friends were looking for. Whether she called it God, Allah, or Jehovah, it was all about love. And Sheree already had love. With him.

'So my question to you, is if our Mr Newlin wants himself convicted and the American Justice Machine wants him convicted, and even his own daughter wants him convicted, why you think you can try and stop it?'

The words on the reports swam before Brinkley's eyes. Was he losing it? Always thinking about Sheree, instead of business. Maybe that was his problem. The black letters on the crime lab reports came into sharp focus. It was the DNA comparison of the skin on the hair, Sample A, with the skin on the earring, Sample B. Lots of little letters that meant no match. Sample A indicated the DNA of a female. Sample B indicated the DNA of a male. Brinkley read the sentence again. The earring back was from a man's earring?

'Stan, pull over,' Brinkley said, and the car came to an abrupt halt.

Many sat on a frigid park bench behind Ray-Bans, on a busy Logan Square. Runners sprinted by in sweats and cotton gloves, heading to the river to do the eight-mile circuit. Catholic schoolgirls from Hallahan flocked together, their saddle shoes and blue uniforms out of a bad porn movie. Business-people hurried by, heading back to the office after lunch at one of the neighborhood restaurants like Au Bon Pain, Subway, and Mace's Crossing. Mary could count on one hand how many of them would have eaten at the Four Seasons.

'It's freezin' cold, Mare,' Lou said, sitting next to her. Lou Jacobs was a retired cop who worked as an investigator at the Rosato firm. His thin hair had silvered like cedar shakes and his skin weathered from a lifetime of weekend fishing trips to Ventnor. He was compact, though trim and fit, with sharp blue eyes and a nose curved like a gull's beak. Lou and Mary had worked together on a previous murder case and had survived – each other. Mary, newly in charge, had called him and asked him to meet her here.

'I know it's cold, Lou. We bosses aren't bothered by cold. In fact, we welcome cold.'

'Gimme a break.' Lou shoved his hands into the pockets of a lined windbreaker, with a zippered neck. Underneath he wore a blue cotton shirt, knit tie, and corduroy pants. He liked to look good while he froze his nuts off. 'Mare, let me give you a clue. When I was on the job, I ran plenty of stakeouts. We always waited in the car, where there was heat.'

'We can't do that. There's no parking around here.'

'Plus if you can't bug the suspects or put in a tap, you have to get real close to hear them talk. Take it from me. I'm giving you the inside track here.' Lou waved a wrinkled hand at the curved grey building that was the Four Seasons Hotel, perched on the corner across the street. The hotel restaurant faced Logan Square, and the Parkway encircling it was clogged with traffic. This may be too much of a detail for a boss, but trust me. We're too effin' far away to see or hear anything.'

'I know that. I'm working on that.' Mary sulked behind the sunglasses. I'll have a plan in a minute.'

'Well, let's review. We came, we saw the girl, Paige, and the boyfriend hug hello, then we saw them go inside to the restaurant. Now we're sittin' here like ice cubes.'

'Well, what do you think we should do? We bosses do use consultants from time to time.'

'Thank you.' Lou nodded graciously. 'Now. This girl, Paige, she obviously knows what you look like. But she doesn't know what I look like.'

'No.'

'Well, it's late and I haven't eaten yet. So, I suggest I have lunch, right now, at the Four Seasons.' Lou nodded, turning to the hotel. 'Maybe a nice, thick steak. With a beer. Imported, naturally, to go with my steak.'

Mary perked right up. 'That's a great idea! What a good consultant you are! You go in and listen!'

'Heineken would be nice.' Lou gazed at the hotel. 'Or Amstel.'

'You come back and tell me what you hear!'

'Maybe, for dessert, a little cappuccino. I like a little cappuccino with my imported beer.' Lou turned to Mary with a sly smile. 'I hear better when I have a little cappuccino, after my steak and my Amstel.'

'Go, already!' Mary said, giving him an excited shove, and Lou rose from the bench stiffly.

'Should I bring you a doggie bag?'

'Bring me evidence! Evidence to go!'

Lou muttered something and walked off.

Five minutes after he had gone, Mary realized she could have waited somewhere toasty, but by then it was too late to leave the bench. She pressed her legs together for warmth and huddled deep into her coat. The skyscrapers blocked the sun. Wind from the Schuylkill River whisked down the wide boulevard. Passersby looked at her curiously. She caught sight of Lou in the warm restaurant, being seated at a table near Paige and Trevor. She edged forward on the bench. Her butt was frozen. Her pantyhose formed crystals.

Mary watched as Lou ordered, then was brought a meal. She shivered as runners, businesspeople, and even the homeless came and went. She was cold to her contact lenses, but she didn't want to leave. This was her shot. If her theory was right, Paige and Trevor were conspirators to murder. She prayed Lou was hearing something incriminating.