“Your parents, they’re waiting.”

“My parents are upstairs?”

“They’re very worried. They wanted to see you the moment you arrived. And Mr. Hart! He’s upstairs with his lawyer now.”

“Hart is here for his deposition? Oh, Christ.” I didn’t notice a deposition inHart for today. I didn’t see a notice in the pleadings index, so I assume that nobody at Masterson noticed a dep, either. Maybe the notice got lost when the file was sent to Stalling. Or maybe somebody deliberately took it out.

“Miss DiNunzio, they’re waiting. All of them.” Miss Pershing’s thin fingers dance along the edge of her chin.

I steady her by her Olive Oyl shoulders. “Here’s what I need you to do, Miss Pershing. Get us a conference room and have Catering Services set us up for breakfast. Then call Legal Court Reporters, the number’s on the Rolodex. Ask them to send over Pete if he’s available. Pete Benesante, got that?”

“Benesante.” She’s so nervous she’s quivering, and it makes her look vulnerable. Her job is all she has. She’s me in thirty years.

“After you do that, take the Harts to the conference room for me. Tell them I’ll be right there. I have to see my parents first. Okay?”

She nods.

“Are they having a shit fit?”

She colors slightly.

“Excuse me. My parents. How are they?”

“They’re fine. They’re very nice people. Lovely people. They invited me over for coffee this Saturday. They said perhaps you’d be free as well.”

“Maybe, Miss Pershing. But right now we have to get moving. Welcome to litigation. This is called a fire drill.”

She looks nervous again.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“It’s in God’s hands.” She walks unsteadily out the door, chanting Benesante, Benesante, Benesante, like a Latin prayer.

I go through my drawer for the thinHart file and page through it quickly. As I remembered, the only papers in it are the complaint and some scribbled notes from the lawyer at Masterson who represented Harbison’s. I’ve seen the notes before, on the way to the pretrial conference with Einstein. They’re practically indecipherable, written in a shaky hand. I can make out sentences here and there-what I told Einstein about Hart’s rudeness to company employees-but most of it’s a mess.

Who took these notes? Who did we steal this case from, anyway? I flip through the notes, three pages long. On the last page is a notation: 5/10 CON OUT/FS 1.0 NSW. I recognize it as a billing code. Stalling’s is almost identical. The notation means that on May 10, the Masterson lawyer had a conference out of the office with Franklin Stapleton, Harbison’s CEO. Their conference lasted an hour. The Masterson lawyer must be NSW.

NSW. Nathaniel Waters?

Ned’s father.

“Everything’s ready, Miss DiNunzio,” says Miss Pershing, practically hyperventilating in the doorway to my office. “You have Conference Room C. Mr. Benesante’s on his way.”

“Thank you, Miss Pershing.” I stare at the notation. Is NSW Ned’s father? It would make sense, because only a megapartner would get an hour’s audience with Stapleton. Even Berkowitz has never met Stapleton. He deals with Harbison’s through the GC.

“Also, there’s someone on the telephone.” She frowns at the message slip. “It’s a Miss Krytiatow…Miss Krytiatows…” She looks up, exasperated. “Her first name is Lu Ann.”

“I don’t know her, Miss Pershing. Take her number. I’ll get back to her when I can.”

“All right. I’ll be back at my desk if you need anything.” She turns to go.

“Miss Pershing, the Harts, remember?”

Her hand flutters to her mouth. “Oh, my. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem. Just take them to the conference room and tell them I’ll be there.”

“You mean,stall them. Like Jessica Fletcher.” She winks at me.

“Jessica who?”

“Jessica Fletcher, onMurder, She Wrote. She’s a sleuth!” Miss Pershing’s eyes light up.

“You got it. Like Jessica Fletcher.”

“Right-o.”

“In fact, I have a favor to ask you. Something I need to have done while I’m in the dep. The kind of favor a sleuth would like.”

“Now this is my cup of tea,” she says, brightening.

“Get a district court subpoena from my form files. Then call up the Accident Investigation Division-they’re a part of the Philadelphia police. Don’t tell them who you are. Get some information about who’s in charge of their records on open investigations for fatal accidents. Put that name on two of the subpoenas. My guess is that it’s the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, but I’m not sure. Just don’t tell them why.”

“Got it,” she says, with another wink, and hobbles off.

I return to the file and read the notation again. 5/10 CON OUT/FS 1.0 NSW. If NSW is Ned’s father, does that explain why the deposition notice is missing? Did he tamper with the file to make me look bad in comparison to Ned? Is Ned’s father the note writer? The killer?

I slap the file closed and tuck it under my arm. I head up the stairs slowly enough to give Miss Pershing time to get the Harts out of the reception area. My parents must have been worried sick. I wonder if they got hold of Angie and how much she told them. It had to be the whole story for them to come here. They’ve only been to Stalling once, when I was first hired. My father got lost on the way to the bathroom.

The Harts are gone when I reach the reception area. A CEO type, his lawyer, and his lawyer’s bag carrier are engaged in a whispered confab at one end of a glass coffee table, leaning over slick copies ofForbes, Time, andTown and Country. At the other end of the table is the redoubtable team of Vita and Matthew DiNunzio. They sit together in their heavy car coats, a worsted mountain of concerned parenthood, slumping badly in the soft whiter-than-white sectional furniture. I know what my mother is thinking: This sofa, it cost a fortune, and it has no support.

“Maria!” shouts my father, with joy. He stands up, arms outstretched. “Maria! Doll!”

Every head in the place turns. The CEO and his lawyer break off their expensive conversation. The bag carrier stifles a laugh. Two young associates, running by with files, look back curiously. Stalling’s veteran receptionist, Mrs. Littleton of the purple hair, just beams. I wonder if she’s invited to coffee too.

I cross to greet my parents before my father shouts again. “Ma. Pop. Are you guys okay?”

They reach for me and envelop me in their scratchy coats. They smell like home, a closed-up odor of marinara and mothballs. It’s crazy, all hell is breaking loose in my life, but I’m happy to see them. I hope Angie didn’t tell them everything. I don’t know how much more they can take, particularly my father.

“Maria, what happened? Where were you?” says my mother, half moaning. Her pancake makeup looks extra heavy, which signifies that she’s come downtown. “We were so worried!”

“We called Angie,” my father chimes in. “She said you went to see her. Are you in trouble, honey?”

The CEO leans closer to his lawyer and continues his conversation. The bag carrier has nothing to do but watch us, which he does. I don’t like the way he looks at my parents, with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. What’s the matter? I want to say. You never seen Italians before?

“Pop, I’m not in trouble. Everything’s-”

“What?” He nudges my mother, agitated. “What did she say, Vita?”

“She said she’s not in trouble, but I don’t believe her,” my mother shouts. “Look at her eyes, Matty. Look at her eyes.” She grabs for my chin, but I intercept her deftly, having had some practice with this.

I look over her shoulder at the smirking lawyer. “Come with me. Let’s get out of here.” I take her by one hand and him by the other and walk them out of the reception area. We gather in front of one of the conference rooms, away from the elevator bank. I stand very close to my father, so I don’t have to yell too loudly. “Listen to me. Everything is fine. I am fine.”