Judge Gould tells the doctor he’s free to go. Geraldine’s on her feet, in front of the bench, looking anxious to call her next witness. Harry takes his seat and Holliston leans so far forward on the other side of me his ear almost touches the table. “What?” he says to Harry, his hands spread wide. “That’s all you got?”

Holliston was hoping for a Johnnie Cochran performance, it seems. And Harry would have delivered one, gladly, were it not for one problem: the facts.

Harry stares back at Holliston and, for the first time that I’ve seen, his eyes reveal the depth of his disdain for our court-imposed client. “Nope,” he says evenly after a pause. “That’s not all I got. But it’s sure as hell all you got.”

Judge Gould looks down at our eager District Attorney and then checks the pendulum clock. It’s one-fifteen. He announces the midday break almost apologetically; he knows Geraldine would rather steamroll ahead. She returns to her table shaking her head; she never has understood this daily ritual called lunch.

The judge instructs the jurors not to discuss the case, not even among themselves, until they begin formal deliberations. He tells the lawyers to be back and ready to roll no later than two-thirty. When he stands, we all follow suit and watch as he disappears into chambers on the double.

Big Red leads the jurors out the side door. As soon as it shuts behind them, one of the prison guards slaps the hardware on Holliston and points him toward lockup. He looks over his shoulder and sneers at us as he leaves. “You heard the man,” he says to Harry. “Make sure you get back here on time. Two-thirty sharp.”

Harry doesn’t let on he hears, doesn’t even look in Holliston’s direction. We grab our heavy coats and head for the side exit without a word. It’s Piccadilly Deli time again, but Harry promised we’d make it quick today; even said he’d pass on the pie, if necessary. Chatham’s Chief of Police is Geraldine’s next witness. He’s mine to cross. And—Holliston’s high hopes notwithstanding—my gut says the Chief will be our biggest problem.

Chapter 17

The Kydd isn’t answering the phones—not the office line and not his cell. I’ve gotten our automated message service three times, talked to it twice. Now I’m listening to the Kydd’s personal recording, telling me in Southern-speak to wait for the beep before leaving my message on his cell phone. I obey, ask him to call me as soon as he can, and then give up and join Harry at our usual table near the front windows. They’re fogged, trapped between the steamy sauna of the deli and the arctic temperatures outside.

“Where the hell is he?” I don’t expect Harry to know; I’m just thinking out loud.

“Maybe he’s doing what we’re doing,” Harry suggests after he swallows. “Or what one of us is doing.” He toasts me with his chocolate milk. “Lunch.”

I sip my coffee and shake my head; that explanation doesn’t fit. Much as he hates his “secretarial duties,” as he calls them, the Kydd takes his office obligations seriously. He wouldn’t leave the place unmanned for the sake of food; he’d order in. If he’s not there—and it’s pretty clear he’s not—something important has called him away. My stomach churns as my brain replays yesterday’s confession from Senator Kendrick. They’ll get to me sooner, not later…. We were together Thursday night, the night before she disappeared…. But I kept thinking we’d hear from Michelle…. I just didn’t think anything bad had happened to her. But now I’m afraid I was wrong.

“Besides,” Harry continues, finishing off the first half of his foot-long sub, “the Kydd’s about had it with telephones. And who the hell can blame him? If I were in his shoes, I’d hurl them all into Nantucket Sound.”

Today my partner’s luncheon selection is a Philly-style steak and cheese, smothered with sautéed onions and dripping jalapeño sauce—a little something easy on the stomach. “I don’t think so,” I tell him. “I don’t think the Kydd would leave the office and shut down his cell just because he’s sick of taking calls. Something’s up.”

Harry shrugs, lobs his empty chocolate milk carton into the trash bin, and opens a second quart. “If so, the Kydd will handle it. And if he can’t, he’ll call. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

That’s true. Still, I find the Kydd’s absence unsettling. He always covers the office when we’re in court. He’s never gone AWOL before.

“You’re worried about Chuck, aren’t you?” Harry asks. I filled him in on Charles Kendrick’s most recent revelations on the way to the courthouse this morning.

“You bet I am,” I answer. “Chuck needs serious damage control. Even the best-case scenario leaves him in a world of hurt.”

Harry stares across the table at me, his expression somber. We both know where the worst-case scenario leaves the senior senator.

We’re quiet while Harry polishes off the second half of his midday meal, and I’m relieved when the last of it disappears. I’m anxious to get back. It’s not that I’m ill prepared for this afternoon’s tasks. I’m as ready as any defense lawyer can be. Even so, I want to go over my notes once more in the relative quiet of the courtroom. I want to review Tommy Fitzpatrick’s report for the hundredth time. And I want to collect my thoughts before I face Chatham’s Chief of Police, a credible witness if ever there was one.

I drain my cardboard coffee cup and reach for my coat, but the look on Harry’s face stops me short. His hazel eyes focus on something over my shoulder, then light up as he crumples his napkins and balls up his butcher paper. He nods emphatically, does it again five seconds later. Pie, no doubt. With ice cream. We’re not going anywhere any time soon.

“Pecan,” he explains. His expression says we both understand the gravity of the situation now. He has no choice; he’s powerless in the face of the mighty pecan.

I check my watch and head to the coffee station for another half cup, telling myself to chill. We have plenty of time, really; it’s two-ten, and the deli is just a stone’s throw from the courthouse. My cell phone sings as I reach for the pot—Luke constantly replaces its standard ring with electronic renditions of the most unlikely musical scores. Last week it was the theme from Gilligan’s Island. The current selection is the William Tell Overture. Neither is a piece I would have chosen, but I don’t get a vote.

I pour quickly, then pull the phone from my jacket pocket and breathe a sigh of relief when the incoming number lights up. “Kydd,” I answer, “you had us worried.”

The Kydd knows Harry and me well enough to know I was the only one worried. “Marty,” he says, “where are you?”

I laugh as I head back to the table with my refill. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same question.”

Harry’s digging in, creamy vanilla ice cream already melting over his dark brown pie. The rapture on his face tells me it’s Häagen-Dazs.

“Seriously,” the Kydd says. “Where?”

“At the Piccadilly. Where else would we be in the middle of a trial day? And where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for almost an hour.”

“Listen,” he says. “I need to make this quick. The reception here is iffy. I’m too close to the water.”

“Where the hell are you?” I repeat. “It’s fifteen degrees outside, for God’s sake. Hell of a day to take a stroll on the beach.”

“I’m not strolling,” he says through a flurry of static. “Trust me on that.” He takes a deep breath and I wait. “I came here to meet a team from the ME’s office,” he says. “Smithy Stewart gave me a heads-up.”