“Holy shit,” Tobin said.

“You got that right. So I guess what I have is Kate, Paul, and maybe Fiske, with motive out the wazoo and no credible alibi. Then I have a motorcycle rider to track down, the other boyfriends to question, and no murder weapon.”

“That’s one way to look at it. If you’re blind. Willfully.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have a prime suspect you don’t want to deal with. Richie Rich.”

No. “Paul?”

“Come on, Rita, look at the payoff. Whacking that girl solves everything for him. He silences the girl, the lawsuit drops out, and he gets off the hook.”

“Why would Paul want the lawsuit ended?”

“Because it could expose him, too. Tell the whole world he was screwing his father’s girlfriend. How would that play out in the vanilla suburbs? He has his own business, doesn’t he? A reputation to protect?”

“But why would he kill her?”

“He pays her back for fucking around on him. For fucking up his life. Look, he lost you, didn’t he?”

Did he? “Still, Paul is close to his father. He wouldn’t frame his own father for murder.”

“Not even if Daddy is screwing his girlfriend and cheating on Mommy? Maybe he’s figuring you’ll get Daddy off the hook. Wake up and smell the reality.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Tobin, I saw what was done to that woman. Paul is not capable of that. He just isn’t.”

“Almost anybody is capable of it, given the right set of circumstances. Where was Richie Rich that day?”

“Running errands.”

“Sounds airtight to me,” he said abruptly, then looked away at the passing traffic. The sun was gone, the crowd had died down. The diners had been replaced by couples holding paper cones of water ice, window-shopping up and down Main Street. Manayunk, being near the river and its own snaky canal, stayed reasonably cool at night. The candle on the table danced in its glass cup.

Tobin turned back and his eyes met mine. “I think you’re in deep shit, good lookin’.”

“Why? I have months before the trial.”

“I’m not worried about the trial, you got the trial covered. If you prove what you told me about the Jag and raise the question of the motorcyclist, you got reasonable doubt. I could win that case. You probably could, too.”

“I’m ignoring your arrogance.”

“Everyone does.”

Testosterone should be a controlled substance. “I want to find the motorcycle rider and question him.”

“No. You’re better off not finding him. Leave him wherever he is. Use him like a nice big question mark at the trial, to beef up the reasonable doubt. A black kid on a motorcycle on the run? He’s more useful to you lost than found, especially with a white Main Line jury. It’s like a gift. Happy Hanukkah.”

“But what if he committed the murder?”

“Not your problem. You’re the judge’s lawyer. Get the judge off.”

So much for justice.

“Listen, Rita, the biggest problem is that you’re trying to catch a killer and you’re way too up-close-and-personal.”

“I can handle it.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, gold-circle cuff links glinting like half-moons from beneath his sleeves. “I’m not talking about whether you can handle it, I’m talking about whether you’re in danger.”

“From what?”

“Let’s say Richie Rich framed his father, knowing that he has his ace lawyer girlfriend on the hook for the defense. He knows the girlfriend is skilled enough to get his father off and also that she’s too much in love to suspect him. He gets it all, and he gets away with murder. It’s perfect. The guy’s a genius.”

I felt my heart beginning to pound. “But what about the Jag? The steering wheel?”

“Maybe he gets the car on a test-drive like you think, maybe he borrows Mom’s when she’s fucking around with the roses. He forgot about the wheel on the right, but that’s a detail. All he wants is revenge on the girl. Didn’t he get you hired for the sexual harassment case in the first place?”

Paul had encouraged Fiske to hire me.

“I bet he was real interested in the case, too.”

It had almost saved our relationship.

“He wanted you to stay with the representation, for murder?”

True.

“And he knew when you took the harassment case that you’d be prosecuting his lover? What a scam!”

“Fuck you.” I rose to go.

Tobin laughed. “Oh, I see. You can handle it, you just can’t discuss it.”

I sat back in my uncomfortable chair and folded my arms. “Okay, discuss.”

“I think Richie Rich set you up. I think if you get close to finding out that it’s him, he’ll kill you, too.”

It seemed impossible. Paul hurt me?

“So I think I’ll stick around for a while.”

“What’s that mean, ‘stick around’?”

“Be your bud, check in from time to time. That’s what chess club is all about. Aren’t you glad you joined?”

I felt uneasy. Paul was probably cooling his heels on the porch at home. What would be his next move? “Do you play chess, Tobin?”

He smiled, his crow’s-feet deepening. “Are you kidding? I suck at chess. I can’t think two steps in front of me.”

“You play cards?”

“No. I’m not a game player.”

“Except with women.”

“You got me all wrong. I don’t play any games at all.”

“Right.”

“It’s the truth. Whenever I play, it’s not a game,” he said, and this time he wasn’t smiling. “Now, let’s get a coupla sundaes.”

After dessert, Tobin walked me back to the canal-side parking lot and put me into my car with a friendly pat on the back. On the short ride home, I thought about what he had said, trying to wrap my mind around it. It seemed possible only if you didn’t know Paul. He’d always been nothing but peaceable, intellectual, and he rarely lost his cool. But then again, I’d never given him cause to be jealous. Until tonight.

When I pulled into the driveway the Cherokee was already waiting.

Paul’s car was parked in front of the garage and its interior was dark. I guessed he was waiting on the front porch, having discovered his key no longer fit the front or back doors. I cut the ignition and got out of the car warily, despite my doubts about Tobin’s scenario.

I headed across the lawn, which felt wet. Paul must have watered it, his mother had taught him to water after dark. I thought of what Tobin had said. Paul was close to Kate; he’d even been teased at school as a momma’s boy. Would Paul have framed Fiske for cheating on her? I kept walking.

The outside and house lights were off. Our house, a stone and shingle colonial with a welcoming front porch, loomed large and dark. The neighborhood was quiet, probably most of my neighbors were out. A humid breeze rustled the trees shading the porch. I looked through the branches as I passed by but didn’t see Paul waiting where I expected he’d be, on one of the white Adirondack chairs he loved. I climbed the stone steps to the porch and looked around. No Paul.

It didn’t make sense. The Cherokee, but no Paul. He couldn’t get in, maybe he went for a walk.

I checked my watch. It was 9:35. If he’d arrived on time, as he always did, he would’ve been waiting for over two hours. Enough time to walk up to Lancaster Avenue and grab dinner. I dug in my purse for my keys and opened the front door. The entrance hall was dark and silent. I closed the door behind me and clicked on the deadbolt.

“Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do,” said a voice, mock-Ricky Ricardo. It was Paul, his voice coming out of the darkness in the living room. I would’ve turned on the light, but it was closer to him.

“How did you get in?”

“You changed the locks on me, Lucy. That wasn’t very nice,” he said, slurring his words slightly.

“How did you get in here?”

“We have one fight and you go and change the locks on me. You locked me out of my home.”