“Back to the deal, Arch. For a fee of $10,000 I’ll represent you through the indictment stage. Once you’re indicted, and facing a trial, my representation will end. At that point we’ll sit down to discuss our future together.”

“I don’t have $10,000 and I think that’s too much just to get to the indictment. I know how the system works.”

He’s not completely wrong about this. Ten grand for the initial skirmishes is a bit steep, but I always start on the high side. “I’m not going to negotiate, Arch. I’m a busy lawyer with a lot of clients.”

From his shirt pocket he pulls out a folded check. “Here’s five thousand, from my mother’s account. It’s the best we can do.”

I unfold the check. Local bank. Five grand. Signed by Louise Powell. He says, “Powell was her third husband, dead. My parents divorced when I was a kid. Haven’t seen my dear old dad in a long time.”

Five grand keeps me in the game and in the news and it’s not a bad fee for the first round or two. I refold the check, stick it in my shirt pocket, and pull out a contract for legal services. My cell phone is sitting on the small table in front of me. It vibrates. Partner’s calling. “Excuse me a second. I gotta take this.”

“It’s your office.”

Partner says, “You got two cops in a white Jeep fifty feet away, just pulled in and watching the van.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.” I tell Swanger, “Your buddies picked up your tail. They know you’re here and they know my van. Nothing wrong with a lawyer meeting with his client.”

He shakes his head and says, “They follow me everywhere. You gotta help me.”

I slowly walk him through the contract. When everything is clear, both of us sign it. For good measure I say, “I’m going straight to the bank. If the check doesn’t clear, the contract is void. Understand?”

“You think I’d write a bad check?”

I can’t help but smile. I reply, “Your mother wrote it. I don’t take chances.”

“She drinks too much but she’s not a crook.”

“I’m sorry, Arch. I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s just that I see my share of bad checks.”

He waves me off and says, “Whatever.”

We stare at the table for a minute or so, and I finally say, “Is there something you’d like to talk about, now that you have a lawyer?”

“You got a beer in that cute little fridge?”

I reach over, open the door, and pull out a can of beer. He pops the top and takes a long swig. He likes it, says with a laugh, “I guess this is the most expensive beer I’ve ever had.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Keep in mind that no other lawyer would serve you a drink in his office.”

“Got that right. You’re the first.” Another gulp. “So, Sebastian, it is Sebastian now, right, now that I’ve forked over the fee and we’ve signed a contract?”

“Sebastian works.”

“Okay, Sebastian, in addition to some beer, what do I get for five thousand bucks?”

“Legal advice, for starters. And protection—the cops won’t be tempted to drag you in and rough you up in one of their infamous ten-hour interrogations. It’ll be hands off as they play it by the book. I have a relationship with Detective Reardon and I’ll try to convince him that they don’t have enough evidence to move forward. If they find any evidence, chances are I’ll know about it.”

He turns the can up, drains it, wipes his mouth with a sleeve. A thirsty frat boy could not have finished the beer any faster. It’s another perfect moment for him to say something like “There is no evidence.” Instead, he belches and says, “And if I’m arrested?”

“Then I’ll be at the jail trying to get you out, which will be impossible. A charge of murder in this city means no bail. I’ll file a bunch of motions and make some noise. I have friends at the newspaper and I’ll leak the fact that the police have little in the way of evidence. I’ll start intimidating the prosecutor.”

“Doesn’t sound like much for $5,000. Could I have another beer?”

I hesitate for a second and quickly decide that two will be his limit, at least in my office. I hand him another can and say, “I’ll refund the money right now, Arch, if you’re unhappy with our arrangement. As I’ve said, I’m a busy lawyer with a lot of clients. Five thousand bucks is not going to change my life.”

He pops the top and takes a reasonable sip.

I ask, “You want the check back?”

“No.”

“Then stop bitching about the fee.”

He glares at me and for the first time I catch the cold, hollow stare of a killer. I’ve seen it before. He says, “They’re gonna kill me, Sebastian. The cops can’t prove anything, they can’t find their man, and they’re under a ton of pressure. They’re afraid of me because if they arrest me then they have to deal with you, and since they have no evidence they don’t want to go to trial. Imagine a not-guilty verdict after a huge trial. So, to sort of short-circuit everything, they’re just gonna take me out and save everyone the trouble. I know this because they’ve told me. Not Detective Reardon. Not the big shots down at Central. But the cops on the street, some of those guys who follow me nonstop, twenty-four seven. They even watch the trailer when I’m asleep. They harass me, cuss me, threaten me. And I know they’re gonna kill me, Sebastian. You know how rotten this department really is.” He goes silent as he takes another drink.

“I doubt that,” I say. “Sure, we have some bad apples, but I’ve never known them to rub out a murder suspect just because they couldn’t nail him.”

“I know a guy they killed, a drug dealer. Made it look like a botched delivery.”

“I’m not going to argue about this.”

“Here’s the problem, Sebastian. If they put a bullet in my head, then they’ll never find that girl’s body.”

My stomach flips but I remain stone-faced. It’s customary for the accused to deny guilt. It’s unheard of for him to admit to the crime, especially at such an early stage. I never ask criminal defendants if they’re guilty; it’s a waste of time and they lie anyway. I proceed carefully with “So you know where her body is?”

“Let me get this straight, Sebastian. You’re now my lawyer and I can tell you anything, right? If I killed ten girls and hid their bodies and told you all about it, you couldn’t repeat a word, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Never?”

“There’s only one exception to the rule. If you tell me something in confidence, and I believe that it will endanger other people, then I am allowed to repeat it to the authorities. Other than that, I can never tell.”

Satisfied, he smiles and takes a drink. “Relax, I didn’t kill ten girls. And I’m not saying I killed Jiliana Kemp either, but I know where she’s buried.”

“Do you know who killed her?”

He pauses, says yes, then goes silent again. It’s obvious he’s not naming names. I reach into the fridge and get a beer for myself. We drink for a few minutes. He watches every move, as if he knows my heart is pounding away. Finally, I say, “Okay, I’m not asking for any information, but do you think it’s important for someone, maybe me, to know where she is?”

“Yes, but I have to think about it. Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow. Maybe not.”

My thoughts turn directly to the Kemp family and their unspeakable nightmare. At this moment I hate this guy and would love to see him locked up, or worse. Sipping a beer in my van like he’s Joe Cool while the family suffers.

“When was she killed?” I asked, pushing it.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t do it, I swear. But she did not give birth in captivity, if that’s what you want to know. There was no baby sold on the black market.”

“You know a lot, don’t you?”

“I know too much and it’s about to get me killed. I may have to disappear, you know?”

“Taking flight is a clear sign of guilt. It will be used against you in court. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“So you want me to stay here and take a bullet.”

“The cops do not kill murder suspects, okay, Arch? Trust me on this.”