“Bedford Hills,” the conductor announced over the train’s PA system.

Marienthal looked out the window and saw his father’s black Mercedes parked near the entrance to the small, suburban train station. The car’s tinted glass shielded a view of the man behind the wheel, but Marienthal didn’t need to actually see him to know the expression that would be on his face.

“Hi, Dad,” Marienthal said, opening the front passenger door and slipping onto the tan leather seat.

“Hello, son. Glad you could find the time to spend a few hours with us. Been a while.”

Marienthal held back from reaching over and offering an awkward embrace of his father, who immediately drove away from where he’d parked and headed for the family home in the prosperous enclave of Bedford.

“How’s Mom?” Marienthal asked.

“All right, although I’m worried about her. She seems befuddled from time to time. Not as sharp as she used to be.”

Marienthal looked at his father, whose eyes never left the road, his patrician features clearly displayed against the dark window behind. He wore his requisite sharply creased chinos, blue button-down shirt, short, supple brown leather jacket, and perforated driving gloves. He hadn’t aged in Rich’s eyes; he seemed always to have looked this way.

“How long can you stay?” the father asked as he turned up a long, winding dirt road leading to the house.

“Just a couple of hours. I have to get back to Washington.”

A smile crossed his father’s thin lips. “You make it sound as though the White House is expecting you,” he said, his voice pinched, nasal.

Rich let the comment pass and turned to take in the passing greenery. Two Hispanic gardeners working on the property waved as the car passed; his father returned the greeting with a flip of a finger.

“José still work here?” Rich asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s well compensated and loyal.”

Is he saying I’m disloyal? Rich wondered. It didn’t matter. There undoubtedly would be many such comments to consider.

They pulled into a circular gravel drive and came to a stop. Rich revised his earlier observation that his father never aged. Out of the car, he looked older, slightly stooped; Frank Marienthal had always been proud of his erect posture. As they approached the front door of the 1860s colonial-style home, its white clapboard and antique green shutters and door immaculately painted, the flowering shrubs on either side of the walkway manicured and healthy, he also took note that his father’s gait wasn’t quite as assured as it had been in past years. Still, he exuded presence and purpose. That hadn’t changed.

Rich dropped his knapsack on the granite floor and followed his father into the kitchen, where Rich’s mother, Mary Marienthal, a short, slender woman with carefully coiffed white hair and a rosy complexion, worked alongside a black woman in a white uniform.

“Richard, darling!” Mary said, skirting a large stainless steel prep table in the center of the spacious kitchen to hug her son. “Let me see you.” She stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “You look wonderful. A little tired. Not getting your rest?”

“Not lately, Mom.” He went to the black housekeeper and gave her a hug. “How you doing, Carrie?” he asked.

“Oh, just fine,” she said. “Getting older faster.”

He joined her laughter. “You don’t look a day older than when you first came here,” he said.

“Hungry?” his mother asked.

“No, thanks. Had something to eat before I got on the train. A beer, maybe.”

He looked through the open door to a long hallway leading to the dining and living rooms. At the end was his father’s home office, where he was sure his father had retreated. Small talk in kitchens bored him. Small talk in any room bored noted criminal attorney Frank Marienthal.

A bottle of Killian Red in hand-no glass, thank you-Rich left the kitchen and went to the office. The door was open. The elder Marienthal sat behind his large custom-made, leather-topped curved desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him afforded a restful view of gardens to the rear of the house.

“Come in,” his father said.

Rich entered and went to tall bookcases that took up an entire wall. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perusing books on the shelves delayed the conversation he knew was about to ensue. Eventually he turned, smiled at his father, whose stern expression didn’t change, and took one of a pair of red leather armchairs across the desk. He raised a blue-jean-clad leg and dangled it over an arm, in contrast to his father’s stoic, proper posture.

“You wanted to talk to me,” Rich said.

“Yes. I’ve heard about Louis Russo’s murder.”

“Where did you read it?”

“I didn’t read it. I was called about it. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from you.”

“I’ve been busy since it happened. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Frank Marienthal paused, his position behind the desk not changing, his eyes focused on his son. “Frankly, Richard, I do not understand it.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that. About your not understanding it, I mean.”

The father’s dark blue eyes bored holes in his son. “Maybe I should educate you a little, Rich. I’ve tried to do that throughout your life, but you’ve always resisted, of course. Rebellion and such.”

“Dad, I-”

Frank Marienthal’s hand slowly came up, fingers widely separated. “Please, hear me out. You do know, Richard, that I was firmly against this book of yours. I tried to dissuade you at every turn for many reasons, not the least of which is the secondary use it might be put to.”

Rich removed his leg from the chair’s arm and planted both feet on the floor, as though girding himself for war. In a sense, he was.

The elder Marienthal continued. “When you first asked me to intervene with Russo and put you together with him, I initially refused. Remember?”

“Sure I remember.”

“But you pressed the issue and I acquiesced. You said you needed to interview him for background material for a novel you were writing about the mob. You used privileged information to make your case with me. Frankly, Richard, I resented it then, and I resent it now.”

Rich waited a moment before responding. “Look, Dad,” he said, “that so-called privileged information wasn’t very privileged after twenty years. Besides, it’s not information that was important when you represented Louis-when he turned informant and went into witness protection. It was outside lawyer-client privilege.”

Frank’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. “Where did I go wrong?” he said through a deep, prolonged sigh. “You’re going to lecture me about lawyer-client privilege? As I recall, you refused to go to law school as I wanted you to do. Another bit of sophomoric rebellion.”

“I didn’t want to be a lawyer,” Rich said, “any more than I wanted to accept the appointment to Annapolis. I know you meant well in encouraging me in those directions, but they didn’t represent what I wanted. Why can’t you accept that?”

“How is the writing career coming?”

“You didn’t answer my question. You changed the subject, the way you always do. A courtroom technique I would have learned in law school, I suppose.”

Rich took a swig of beer, started to place the bottle on the desk, but instead lowered it to the rug next to him. He felt his anger rising, and silently told himself to keep it in check. He’d lost control too often in the past when in such conversations with his father. Each time, his volatility rendered him helpless in contrast to his father’s calm, reasoned approach. No matter how right he might have been during those confrontations, losing control quickly became the issue, the only issue. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

“Why so combative, Richard?”

“Why is it that whenever I disagree with you, you call me combative?”