Dr. Epstein nodded slowly. “This is consistent with the studies done on the so-called Face of Frozen Horror. The brain must be…disconnected…from the nervous system in one point eight seconds or less for the facial expression to remain fixed in such a manner.”

Dar looked at Syd. “And how far do you think Esposito’s body was from the column where the screw was opened to spill the hydraulic fluid?”

“The platform is twelve and a half feet wide,” said Syd. “Esposito was on the side opposite the column with the released screw, and his head was protruding from the scissors’ struts by several inches, as if he were trying to throw himself out through the closing X of metal.”

“Do you think he could have turned that bolt, removed that long screw, and jumped across that space in less than two seconds?” asked Dar.

“No,” said Syd. “And if, as his expression suggests, Esposito saw the platform falling, his instinct—anyone’s instinct—would have been to jump forward, out from under it. Not run deeper under and try to escape near the wall.”

Dar put his calculator away.

“There is something else,” said Dr. Epstein. He led them into a medical work and storage area between the waiting room and the actual morgue lockers. There were various bags on shelves, most labeled with the international symbol for toxic bio-waste. Epstein pulled a box from a drawer, pulled on disposable surgical gloves of the type used by paramedics since the AIDS epidemic began, and handed a pair to both Dar and Syd. He lifted down one of the clear bags. The tag on it said ESPOSITO, M. JORGÉ and had the current date and case number on it.

“This has all been photographed and videographed by the police, of course,” said Dr. Epstein, “but you should see the actual thing.” He opened the bag and laid Esposito’s clothes out on a stainless steel table with blood gutters.

The pinstripe suit had been a cheap one, Dar could see, and the blood and brain matter on it did not make it look any more attractive. The white shirt was almost completely red. Esposito had been wearing a bold, yellow tie, now stained mostly crimson.

The medical examiner lifted the sleeves of the suit jacket and then the sleeves of the shirt. “You see,” he said.

Syd nodded immediately. “Blood…human tissue…but no hydraulic fluid.”

“Exactly,” said Dr. Epstein, in his modulated, mournful tones. “Nor was there any hydraulic fluid on the body’s hands, face, or upper body. But here…”

He lifted the trouser legs. Dar put his gloved hand on them to turn them better into the overhead light. The right trouser leg was black and oily from hydraulic fluid. Epstein removed worn, black Florsheim shoes with a reinforced heel from the bottom of the bag. Both shoes had blood on them, but only one, the right one, had been soaked in hydraulic liquid. And even the sole of the shoe stank of the fluid.

“The spray trail we saw must have spurted out of the pipe about eight feet,” said Syd. “For some reason, Esposito was under the lift—probably near the middle of the area or closer to the wall—and couldn’t run for the opening. He turned and jumped for the gap between the cross struts just as the scissors closed. The hydraulic fluid caught just his pant legs and his right shoe as he jumped.”

“What could keep someone from running the shortest distance to safety with two tons of platform dropping toward him?” asked Dar.

“Or who?” added Syd.

Dr. Epstein put the clothing back in the evidence bag. He peeled off his now bloody gloves, dropped them in the toxic bio-waste bin, and scrubbed his hands at the sink. Syd and Dar followed suit.

In the waiting room again, the monitor now mercifully blank, they both thanked the medical examiner.

Dr. Epstein smiled, but his eyes remained sad. “I know about Attorney Esposito,” he said so quietly that Dar had to lean closer to hear him. “Ambulance chaser. Almost certainly an accident capper. But it was a terrible death. And…even though Detective Hernandez and others do not seem interested…it must be reported as a wrongful death.”

“A wrongful death,” agreed Syd.

“Murder,” said Dar.

The two went out into the heavy rain.

It was nearly noon when Sydney Olson’s Ford Taurus turned off the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and rolled down the steep ramp toward the underground parking garage.

“So are you going to tell me now what all this is about?” asked Dar, sipping the last of his 7-Eleven coffee and trying not to spill it as Syd took the ticket and drove quickly down the curving concrete ramp that seemed to be leading them to the parking lot for Hell.

“Not quite yet,” said Syd. She noticed an empty slot next to a scarred concrete pillar and swung the Taurus in expertly.

Dar grunted.

Dar hated rising early, and he hated driving into L.A. during Monday rush-hour traffic even more. This morning he had done both. Syd had picked him up at seven-thirty for this lunch-hour meeting with…Dar had no idea with whom. The traffic had been as bad as he had ever seen it, but Syd had driven calmly, resting her thin wrist on the steering wheel and becoming lost in thought when the miles of packed vehicles came to a total stop. They had spoken little during the long commute.

At least the press was gone. There had been no TV vultures skulking outside Dar’s warehouse condo when he had returned on Sunday evening, and none this morning. Last week’s “road rage killing” was evidently old news and all the Insta-Cams and satellite trucks were off covering this week’s top story—a sex scandal involving someone high up in the mayor’s office and a well-known lobbyist. The fact that both the principals were attractive women did not make the press’s appetite any less voracious.

In the elevator from the basement parking garage, Syd said, “You sure you’ve got the video?” Dar hefted his old briefcase.

They passed the floor where Robert Shapiro had leased his office space during the O. J. trial. Dallas Trace’s office suite was on the penthouse floor.

Dar was surprised by how spacious and busy the suite was. Once beyond the foyer, receptionist, and plainclothes security guard, they passed through a large area bustling with at least a dozen secretaries. Dar could see five smaller offices, undoubtedly staffed by Trace’s young legal associates, before they reached the main man’s corner office. The door was open and Dallas Trace looked up, grinned, and leaped out of his leather executive chair, gesturing them in and grinning as if they were old friends.

Again, Dar was surprised by the sumptuousness of the office. He could see the hills to the north—and because yesterday’s storm had blown away most of the smog for the time being, Dar knew that if he looked out the west window wall, he could make out Bundy Drive in Brentwood, about three miles west, where Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman had been murdered years before by someone cleverly disguised in the DNA of O. J. Simpson.

Dar was surprised by the size of the staff and the elegance of the office because most defense attorneys of his acquaintance—even the very successful and somewhat famous ones—tended to run a lean, mean business operation, often paying office expenses, including their lone secretaries and one or two young legal associates, with their own personal checks each week. It was—as legal writer Jeffrey Toobin once said—the famous criminal attorney’s dilemma: successful though one may be, repeat business is rare.

Dallas Trace showed no signs of financial anxiety. The man was taller and thinner than he looked on television—at least six three, Dar thought—with a chiseled and manly face, a Marlboro Man face. His smile was easy and emphasized the laugh lines around his eyes and the muscles around his thin-lipped mouth. Trace wore his long, gray hair tied back with a leather thong. His eyebrows were deep black, which emphasized his light gray eyes and made them all the more startling and photogenic in the tanned, lined face. Trace was wearing his trademark denim shirt and bolo tie—although Dar noticed that the shirt was blue silk rather than actual denim—and a leather western vest. This one looked as if it had been tanned from the hide of a stegosaurus—an old stegosaurus—and probably cost several thousand dollars. The bolo was held in place by the de rigueur jade-and-silver piece of jewelry, and there was a small diamond in the cowboy attorney’s left ear. Dar always realized how old he was when he reacted negatively to jewelry on men: sometimes, alone on a summer night, he would yell at his TV when a ballplayer was thrown out at first—“You would’ve made it, you jerk, if you weren’t carrying ten pounds of gold chain!” Dar recognized it as age, intolerance, and possibly the onset of Alzheimer’s in him, but he did not change his opinion. Dallas Trace wore six rings. His suede Lucchese cowboy boots looked as if they were as soft as butter.