In his shirt pocket he had brand-new business cards, the ink barely dry, delivered fresh that morning from an overnight printing firm, declaring him to be the Chief Paralegal of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II, Rodney Albritton, Chief Paralegal, as if the firm had an entire division of paralegals under his control. It did not, but it was growing at an impressive rate.

If he’d had the time to purchase a new suit, he probably wouldn’t have worn it on his first mission. The old uniform would work better—navy blazer, loosened tie, faded jeans, scuffed black Army boots. He was still working on the streets and he needed to look like it. He found Adelfa Pumphrey at her station, staring at a wall of closed-circuit monitors but seeing nothing.

Her son had been dead for ten days.

She looked at him and pointed to a clipboard where all guests were expected to sign in. He pulled out one of his cards and introduced himself. “I work for a lawyer downtown,” he said.

“That’s nice,” she said softly, without so much as glancing at the card.

“I’d like to talk to you for a couple of minutes.”

“About what?”

“About your son, Ramon.”

“What about him?”

“I know some things about his death that you don’t.”

“Not one of my favorite subjects right now.”

“I understand that, and I’m sorry to be talking about it. But you’ll like what I got to say, and I’ll be quick.”

She glanced around. Way down the hall was another uniformed guard, standing by a door, half-asleep. “I can take a break in twenty minutes,” she said. “Meet me in the canteen, one floor up.”

As Rodney walked away he told himself that, yes, he was in fact worth every penny of his fat new salary. A white guy who had approached Adelfa Pumphrey with such a delicate matter would still be standing before her, nervous, shaking, grasping for words because she wouldn’t budge. She wouldn’t trust him, wouldn’t believe anything he said, would have no interest in anything he had to say, at least not within the first fifteen minutes of conversation.

But Rodney was smooth and smart and black and she wanted to talk to someone.

Max Pace’s file on Ramon Pumphrey was brief but thorough; there wasn’t much to cover. His alleged father had never married his mother. The man’s name was Leon Tease, and he was currently serving a thirty-year sentence in Pennsylvania for armed robbery and attempted murder. Evidently, he and Adelfa had lived together just long enough to produce two children—Ramon and a slightly younger brother named Michael. Another brother had been sired later by a man Adelfa married and then divorced. She was currently unmarried and trying to raise, in addition to her two remaining sons, two young nieces who belonged to a sister who’d been sent to prison for selling crack.

Adelfa earned $21,000 working for a private company hired to guard low-risk office buildings in D.C. From her apartment in a project in the North East, she commuted downtown each day by subway.

She did not own a car and had never learned to drive. She had a checking account with a very low balance and two credit cards that kept her in trouble and ruined any chance of a good credit rating. She had no criminal record. Other than work and family, her only outside interest appeared to be the Old Salem Gospel Center not far from where she lived.

Since they had both grown up in the city, they played “Who-do-you-know?” for a few minutes. Where did you go to school? Where were your parents from? They found a couple of tenuous connections. Adelfa worked on a diet cola. Rodney had black coffee. The canteen was half-filled with low-level bureaucrats prattling about everything but the monotonous work they were supposed to be doing.

“You wanted to talk about my son,” she said after a few minutes of awkward chitchat. Her voice was soft and low, strained, still suffering.

Rodney fidgeted slightly and leaned in lower. “Yes, and, again, I’m sorry to talk about him. I got kids. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“You’re right about that.”

“I work for a lawyer here in town, young guy, very smart, and he’s on to something that can get you some big money.”

The idea of big money didn’t seem to faze her.

Rodney kept going. “The boy that killed Ramon had just walked out of a drug treatment facility where he’d been locked down for almost four months. He was a junkie, a street kid, not much of a chance in life. They’d been giving him some drugs as part of his treatment. We think one of the drugs made him crazy enough to pick a random victim and start shooting.”

“It wasn’t a drug deal that went bad?”

“No, not at all.”

Her eyes drifted away, then became moist, and for a moment Rodney could see a breakdown coming. But then she looked at him and said, “Big money? How much?”

“More than a million bucks,” he said with a straight poker face, one he’d rehearsed a dozen times because he doubted seriously if he could deliver that punch line without going wild-eyed.

No visible reaction from Adelfa, at least not at first. Another wayward gaze around the room. “You jivin’ me?” she said.

“Why would I do that? I don’t know you. Why would I walk in here and feed you a line? There’s money on the table, big money. Big corporate drug money that somebody wants you to take and keep quiet.”

“What big company?”

“Look, I’ve told you everything I know. My job is to meet you, tell you what’s goin’ on, and to invite you to come see Mr. Carter, the lawyer I work for. He’ll explain everything.”

“White dude?”

“Yep. Good dude. I’ve worked with him for five years. You’ll like him, and you’ll like what he has to say.”

The moist eyes had cleared. She shrugged and said, “Okay.”

“What time you get off?” he asked.

“Four-thirty.”

“Our office is on Connecticut, fifteen minutes from here. Mr. Carter will be waiting on you. You got my card.”

She looked at the card again.

“And one very important thing,” Rodney said, almost in a whisper. “This’ll work only if you keep quiet. It’s a deep secret. You do what Mr. Carter advises you to do, and you’ll get more money than you ever dreamed of. But if word gets out, then you’ll get nothing.”

Adelfa was nodding.

“And you need to start thinking about moving.”

“Moving?”

“As in a new house in a new town where nobody knows you and nobody knows you got lots of money. Pretty house on a safe street where kids can ride their bikes on the sidewalks, no drug dealers, no gangs, no metal detectors at school. No kinfolk wanting your money. Take some advice from somebody who grew up like you. Move. Leave this place. You take this money back to Lincoln Towers and they’ll eat you alive.”

Clay’s raid on OPD had so far netted Miss Glick, the very efficient secretary who hesitated only slightly at the prospect of having her salary doubled, and his old pal Paulette Tullos who, though she was well maintained by her absent Greek husband, nonetheless jumped at the chance to earn $200,000 a year as opposed to a mere $40,000; and, of course, Rodney. The raid had provoked two urgent and as of yet unanswered phone calls from Glenda, and a whole series of pointed e-mails, also being ignored, at least for now. Clay vowed to himself to meet with Glenda in the very near future and offer some lame reason for stealing her good people.

To counterbalance the good people, he had hired his roommate, Jonah, who, though he had never practiced law—he’d passed the bar exam on his fifth attempt—was a friend and confidant who Clay hoped might develop some legal skills. Jonah had a big mouth and liked to drink and so Clay had been very sketchy with the details of his new firm. He planned to gradually tell Jonah more and more, but he started slow. Smelling money from somewhere, Jonah had negotiated a starting salary of $90,000, which was less than that of the Chief Paralegal, though no one at the firm knew what the others were earning. The new CPA firm down on the third floor was handling the books and payroll.