“But this is a big trial.” I drive my finger into the table. “This is a bet-the-company case for the Arangolds.”

“He doesn’t want to try this case? He turned it down? Oh.” Bradley pushes his lips out. “Yeah, now that’s unusual. Yeah, I don’t know then.”

My eyes drift off in the direction of Jason’s office, though I’d need X-ray vision to see it from the conference room.

“Be right back,” I say. I didn’t like how Jason and I left things yesterday. He bolted on me and then disappeared for the entire afternoon. The lad is out of sorts, methinks, and needs a friend.

When I reach Jason’s office, I see something I’ve never seen. His door is closed.

I knock weakly with the back of my hand. “Anyone home?”

“Hey, Shauna, come in, come in.” Jason has a big enough office for a couch on the end opposite his desk, which is where I find him and his new lady friend.

“Shauna Tasker, Alexa Himmel.”

“Hi.” She gives me a quick once-over and waves at me from the couch. She could get up. It wouldn’t kill her.

So I wave back. “Nice to meet you.”

Yeah, she’s Jason’s type, all right. Exotic and mysterious, sexy.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Jason,” I say, feeling like a teacher or my mother, “when you get a second, nothing urgent.”

“No problem. Alexa just stopped by for a minute. Shauna has a huge trial coming up,” Jason says. He’s got that spacey grin on his face again, like he did when I caught him mumbling song lyrics and lighting matches the other day. On his lap is a manila envelope, opened, contents unknown.

“Oh? That’s exciting,” Alexa says, in that way you say something and mean the exact opposite. I mean, surely it can’t be as exciting as, say, spending your days transcribing what other people say. Seriously, trying a multimillion-dollar case with an entire family business on the line is exciting, but basically serving as a human tape recorder—that’s the coolest!

She holds her stare on me, eyebrows raised, as if to say to me, Was there anything else, sweetheart? Or should you be running along?

I clap my hands together, heat rising to my face. “Well, Alexa, nice meeting you,” I say, and for some reason I do a salute. I actually salute like I’m in the military. Why on earth did I do that?

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Jason says, saluting me back. He laughs. Alexa laughs. I make a decision right there: It’s okay for Jason to laugh. Not okay for Alexa to laugh, not when she’s basically laughing at me. Not okay for a little Kewpie doll court reporter to wiggle her sweet ass and be more welcome in Jason’s office than his best friend and law partner. Not okay for a little low-rent typist who probably didn’t make it past high school to talk down to someone who graduated law school at the top of her class and then built up her own law firm from scratch when nobody thought she would succeed, nobody—

Wow. Where did that come from?

“Okay, bye then.” I close the door to their continued amusement.

I return to the conference room and tell Bradley to shut up before he can even ask me. “We don’t need Jason,” I tell him. “We’ll win this case, just you and me.”

34.

Jason

Wednesday, June 26

The next several days are like a blur. I ducked out early on Friday and spent the whole weekend with Alexa, most of the time naked, trying out new options sexually, the bad-girl thing she’d whispered in my ear being a particular highlight. I’ve never been into role-playing; the nurse and patient, the cop, the chambermaid, the prison guard, the flight attendant, the college professor—none of that has ever floated my boat. Nor does the rough stuff do anything for me. Aggressive, sure, but not abusive, not hitting or choking.

But every now and then, I like to talk. And so does Alexa. Most of it is merely suggestive, but when we get going, hot and sweaty, that old-fashioned girl gets pretty graphic.

But here’s what we don’t talk about: Never once this weekend did she ask me about my knee, never once about the pills. I don’t like to see you in pain was the only thing she said, which worked for me.

The weekend became Monday, but I liked the weekend better so I adopted Monday as an unofficial holiday. I didn’t have court, no meetings, no upcoming deadlines, and Alexa had the day off. Here’s a summary: more sex.

I thought that worked pretty well, so Tuesday became a holiday, too, though I did have one meeting that I had to cancel.

In between these sexual escapades and Altoid chewing, I’ve continually kept tabs on James Drinker. I’ve monitored the Herald online for any news of fresh murders by the North Side Slasher, but I didn’t expect any, because Joel Lightner’s team has kept Mr. Drinker on a short leash. Lightner said his surveillance team was about to die from boredom, as our man tended to go straight to work, straight home, then back to work, then back home. On Saturday night, he worked all day, went to a movie at night—Fast & Furious 6—by himself, and then went home. On Sunday, he went to church—Saint Hedwig in his neighborhood—and then picked up some gyros on his way home. Once the week started, it was work and home, work and home.

At two o’clock on Wednesday, I’m reviewing the Brady material on a possession with intent that is up next week for a pretrial in federal court when Joel Lightner buzzes my cell phone. I received the morning report on James Drinker and didn’t expect another call until he leaves work at five-thirty or six. So if Joel’s calling, he must have news.

“Thought you’d want to know,” he says, “that the police just paid our friend James a visit at his auto body shop. They took him to headquarters twenty minutes ago.”

I release a week’s worth of breath. It’s about freakin’ time; I sent that note to the police last week.

“Great,” I say. “That’s . . . great.”

“So that dilemma of yours? You never had to cross that bridge. They must have connected the dots on his relationship with the first two victims.”

Um, right. No reason to tell Joel that I already crossed that ethical bridge and found it wobbly and unsteady.

“Keep me posted, will you? And thanks, Joel.”

I keep my phone close by, cognizant of the fact that James Drinker might be calling any moment. That was the clear direction I gave him, what any lawyer would tell him: Don’t talk to the cops until you’ve called me. But an hour passes and I haven’t heard a thing. Maybe he got another lawyer. Maybe he’s winging it in there. Maybe he’s already given up the whole thing to them, one of those guys who can’t keep his composure once the pressure’s applied.

My spirits now fully revived, I pick up Alexa on the way home from work. We order in Thai food, but I don’t feel like eating. My stomach has been reenacting the Civil War all day. I’ve barely touched any food. At seven o’clock, I get a text message from Joel:

Cops dropped JD back at work 6:40 pm he picked up car drove straight home

So the police let him go. Hmm. I wasn’t sure how that would play out. I didn’t put any details into the anonymous note about his connections to the first victims, Alicia Corey and Lauren Gibbs. I just said, he’s your guy. Maybe that was a mistake. What did I think would happen—they’d sweat him and he’d spill the beans right there? Maybe I did. Wishful thinking.

But he’s on their radar screen now. I’ve been around law enforcement long enough, both as a prosecutor and defense counsel, to know what deters these guys and what doesn’t. And knowing that the police are watching you is usually enough to spook them.