“Are you telling me that when you were dissecting Arnold’s eyes, you were actually measuring his blood-sugar level?”

“Science can only give you the facts if you know where to look,” Fawcett replied. “Equilibration in the eye is very slow, so the fluids of the eye don’t match the fluids of the rest of the body. As a result, while the fluids in your body may dissipate, the fluids in your eye linger and leave a mark that’s as clear as a fingerprint – which allows us to track the body’s blood-sugar levels.”

“And what did Arnold Doniger’s eyes say?” she asked anxiously.

“They said his blood sugar was normal, but you have to remember that the eyes are always a little bit behind the rest of the body. Which means that if he died of low blood sugar, which is strongly suggested by the autopsy results, his blood sugar dropped precipitously in the end.”

“But doesn’t that support Claire’s story that his blood sugar was low and that that’s why she gave him the juice and the granola bar?”

“Don’t lose sight of the facts. You saw what was in his stomach – there were no signs of food. He hadn’t eaten for several hours.”

“So they starved him, and then when his blood sugar was low enough, they gave him a shot of insulin and finished him off?”

“Or they gave him an overdose of insulin. That’s if a third party caused the death. Either way, it’s a wonderful way to kill someone. As a pathologist, even if I’m diligent enough to check the eyes, it’s still difficult to reach a solid conclusion. Whoever did this, you have to admire their ingenuity.”

Sara nodded. “What about pinpointing the time of death? According to my theory, he died about four days earlier than his wife says. Any way to prove that?”

“That’d be simpler if he was a fresh kill, but he’s been in the ground for almost a week. Were there any odd smells reported by the paramedics when they came to get the body?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll ask,” Sara said. “Anything else suspicious?”

“Actually, there was some tearing in the lining of the brain, which is sometimes the result of intense cold or freezing temperatures. But since the brain is now mostly a mass of decomposed mush, I’m not convinced that’s what caused it. It did strike me as odd, though.”

As she processed the information, Sara glimpsed Fawcett’s clock; it was almost eleven forty-five. “I’m late,” she blurted, leaping out of her seat. As she rushed to the door, she added, “Let me ask you one last question: Do you think your findings are convincing enough to prove that Arnold Doniger was murdered?”

“You’re the one who draws the conclusions – were you convinced?”

Sara opened the door and smiled wide. “Thoroughly. Now all we have to do is convince the jury.”

Running up the steps of 100 Centre Street, Sara glanced at her watch and cursed the New York City traffic that had held her taxi hostage for the past half hour. It was now almost quarter past twelve, which meant she was already fifteen minutes late for Kozlow’s arraignment. Hoping that Kozlow still hadn’t entered his plea, she darted into the building, through the metal detector, and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. She read room numbers as she ran and headed up the hallway until she reached room 1127. Pausing in front of the courtroom, Sara took a moment to catch her breath. The much-needed minibreak made one thing clear: If she didn’t go to the bathroom soon, she was going to explode.

Looking through the glass window in the door of the courtroom, she saw that Kozlow was seated on the left side of the room. He still hadn’t been called, which meant the proceedings were running late. She raced for the bathroom. Inside, she headed straight for the first of the four bathroom stalls. Moments later, she heard someone else enter the bathroom and turn on the water at one of the sinks. Curious, Sara peeked through a crack in the door. But by the time she got a good look at the sinks, the person was gone. Sara was startled by a loud knock on the door of her stall.

“Who is it?” she asked nervously.

“It’s me. Rise and shine.” The familiar voice sent a chill through Sara’s chest, and there, peering over the top of the stall, was the man with the sunken cheeks.

She jumped to her feet, readjusted her clothes, and barreled out of the stall.

Sunken Cheeks was leaning against one of the sinks, waiting for her. “Caught you with your pants down, huh?” he asked as she charged toward him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just checking up on my inves-”

Before Elliott could finish his sentence, Sara swung her briefcase through the air, attempting to hit him in the face. Raising his hand to block her attack, he caught her briefcase in midair. “Nice briefcase,” he said. He threw it to the floor. “I see you rubbed my message out.”

“Stay away from me.”

“You’re not the one I care about, Sara – although I’m glad you kicked your hubby out.”

“Don’t you dare touch him.”

Elliott grabbed Sara by her lapels. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He shoved her backwards, sending her crashing into the stall. Tripping over the toilet, she banged her head on the back wall. As Elliott left the bathroom, he added, “By the way, check out Doniger’s basement. You’ll like what you find.”

Picking herself up as fast as possible, Sara raced after Elliott. But by the time she reached the hallway, he was gone. “Damn,” she said, vigorously rubbing the bump on the back of her head. Her heart was drumming as she peered through the window in the door of the courtroom. To her surprise, Jared and Kozlow were standing at the defense table, addressing the judge. With a sharp tug, she pulled open the door.

When she walked into the room, she heard the clerk of the court ask Jared, “How does your client plead, sir, guilty or not guilty?” Wondering how the arraignment was proceeding without her, Sara headed briskly to the front of the room. Maybe she should shout an objection, she thought, her mind scrambling for a solution. But as she was about to open her mouth, she noticed that Conrad was sitting at the prosecutor’s table. Nodding, she offered a silent thank-you to her mentor.

“Not guilty,” Jared said, standing next to Kozlow at the defense table.

In response, Conrad approached the bench and handed a bundle of papers to the judge.

Without saying a word, Sara sat at the prosecutor’s table. Glancing to her left, she locked eyes with Jared. He looked haggard, with heavy bags under his eyes. He clearly had had a rough night. Purposely turning away Sara waited for Conrad to return to the table. When he sat down next to her, she whispered, “Thank you. The autopsy ran longer than I thought and traffic was-”

“Don’t sweat it,” Conrad interrupted. “You’re just lucky Guff had copies of your files. He’s the one who really saved your ass.”

Turning around, Sara saw Guff in the front row of the spectator section. He winked at her.

“The motion day is set for two weeks from today,” the judge announced from the bench. “Report to Part Thirty-one on October third. The case will be heard by Judge Bogdanos.”

When the judge banged his gavel, Jared approached his wife. “Nice to see you. I was starting to get worried.”

“I had some extra work to do,” Sara said.

“You mean the autopsy,” Jared said definitively.

“Exactly.”

“So what’d they find?”

“I don’t think she has to answer that,” Conrad interrupted, standing from his seat.

Annoyed, Jared said, “You must be Conrad.”

“And you must be Jared.”

“That’s right. Her husband. And last I checked, Sara was able to answer questions for herself.”

“Well, last I checked, defense attorneys knew that they shouldn’t expect shortcuts. So stop begging for autopsy results you’re not entitled to yet.”

“I didn’t realize this was your case,” Jared said.