I’m not sure why I chose a library, other than the fact that it’s not my home and not my office. Untraceable to me, in other words.

A young African-American woman behind the desk smiles at me. She seems pretty for a librarian, I think, but then I catch myself and realize I haven’t been to a library since I was a punk kid, so what do I know about librarians? Plus, speaking of fantasies, the naughty librarian look—hair pulled up tight, horn-rimmed glasses—was a staple of my adolescence.

I find a carrel in the back corner on the second floor and remove the items from my bag. I find the words I need in the magazine, cut them out with the scissors I bought, wearing the rubber gloves I bought, and tape them onto a piece of green construction paper. When it’s done, the piece of paper says:

It has the chaotic look of such notes, sometimes featuring entire words—James from a story on the NBA’s LeBron, WOMEN from a headline about the WNBA’s fiscal problems, dead from an article about a hockey player who overdosed on amphetamines, Drink from an advertisement for Dewar’s—and sometimes partial words and individual letters and numbers of varying fonts and sizes.

I feel like I’m demanding ransom for some wealthy family’s child or blackmailing a cheating spouse. It’s not that bad, but it’s bad. I’m betraying my oath. I’ve taken some liberties with the rules in the past, but this isn’t a step over the line; this is taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But I’m done with sitting around like some do-nothing chump just because of some stupid rule. Four women are dead, and I’m not waiting for a fifth.

Getting the address is tougher, but just as important. They will print and analyze the envelope as meticulously as the note itself. Detective and Vance and Austin require a lot of cutting of various words, police is easy—the overdosing hockey player story—the street name, Dunning, a challenge, and the zip code a complete nightmare.

When I’m done, I find a mailbox downtown, north of the river, and drop the letter in. The last pickup is at two P.M., and I’m here ten minutes early. So with any luck, this should arrive on the desk of Detective Vance Austin tomorrow.

32.

Jason

Friday, June 21

I overslept this morning, having not fully settled into sleep until about four in the morning, then awakening at six-thirty, then back down until nine. I desperately need some REM sleep, which makes me think of my favorite band and then my favorite person, Shauna. I ditched out on her yesterday, finally turning away the Arangold case, doing her a favor even if she doesn’t realize it, and then ditched out on her literally by leaving the office to author my anonymous note. I noted, when I walked in this morning, a deep impression in the carpet, in the shape of a square, next to my refrigerator, a slightly lighter color on the fabric as well—Shauna had reclaimed the Arangold files that had been sitting there untouched for over a week. I can’t imagine what Shauna is thinking about me right now.

“Nothing,” Lightner tells me over the phone. “James spent the night at his apartment and went to work this morning. Will keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Joel.” At least we’re keeping tabs on the man now.

My intercom squawks. I don’t have any appointments this morning.

“Yes, my love?” I call out to Marie.

“Alexa Himmel to see you.”

Well, then. I figured her for gone after the Altoids incident. If she had an ounce of common sense, she would be.

She carts in her transcription machine behind her like a piece of luggage and leaves it in the corner of my office. She gives me a fleeting kiss, her lips full and wet, just the way I like them, and says, “Sorry to barge in while you’re working.”

“No problem,” I say, especially considering that I wasn’t working at all. I don’t have any trials coming up, and every other deadline I have isn’t imminent, which is a good thing because I’ve been terribly inefficient, unable to focus, often rereading the same passage three or four times. My vision is starting to suffer, too, a shady border framing my eyes, as if everything were in a dream or flashback.

Alexa closes the door behind her. A big talk? I hope not. We’ve talked enough.

“Well, I have something for you,” she says. She is wearing a blouse with frills at the edge of her sleeves and a blue skirt. She cleans up good.

She hands me a manila folder.

“Is this a subpoena?” I ask.

She smiles. “Open it.”

I rip it open from the side and remove three, no, four sheets of foil, each containing thirty small pills.

She puts her hand on my cheek. “Your knee will get better, but until it does, you shouldn’t have to live in pain. Not my man.”

“Alexa . . . This is . . . How did . . .” I lower my voice. “This is . . . illegal.”

She puts her hands on my chest. I like it when she puts her hands on my chest. She gives me a longer, softer kiss, a taste of strawberry on her tongue. I could learn to love this girl.

She puts her mouth next to my ear. “Then maybe tonight,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear, “you can spank me for being a bad girl.”

33.

Shauna

Friday, June 21

Bradley John, newly deputized as the second chair of the Arangold defense team, finishes arranging our lone conference room, which has now officially become the war room. He has set up the television and DVD player in one corner for the videos of the auditorium construction during its various phases; he has one end of the room devoted to the flooring issue, another to colonnades and shoring, a third to the various internal issues during Arangold’s renovation of the civic auditorium.

“This case is bigger than two lawyers,” I say, as if I’m suddenly realizing it.

“Yeah, but you know enough about this stuff for six.” Bradley smiles at me. I like this kid. A solid mind and a good sense for how and when to say the right thing. This is one of those times.

And he’s right. I’ve learned more about a major construction project than I ever wanted to know. I’ll never walk into a football stadium or concert hall or government building without thinking of tuck-pointing and change orders, soil samples and pre-bid drawings.

“Hey, Shauna? Just out of curiosity—why the battlefield promotion? I’m not complaining, but Rory keeps asking about Jason, and now he’s getting me. What’s up with Jason?”

I let out a sigh while I organize the depositions in the order I want them. “I was hoping you could tell me,” I say. Then I stop and look at him. “Actually, that’s a serious statement. Have you noticed anything unusual with Jason?”

Bradley gives a Who knows? shrug. “I’ve been like you, boss. Buried in Mariel for the last two months and now into the fire with Arangold. I’ve barely talked to him.”

“I know.”

“But you know Jason,” he says, trying to appease me. “If he’s not on trial, he mopes around. He just had a tough stretch with the knee blowing out, he’s missing the summer marathon season, he hasn’t had a big trial lately—”