Oren had not set foot in this place since the age of twelve. Today the front room was an empty cavern of cedar paneling and glass. All the furnishings had been removed to accommodate a night of dancing beneath a ceiling that soared more than thirty feet, and the floor space had the dimensions of a grand ballroom.

Walking alongside his lawyer, he was told that the lodge had been built with the annual festivities in mind. Oren could only see it as a needy display of wealth, a stage for a man who was always performing, always smiling. He wondered what Ad Winston was like when there was no one around to play the audience. He pictured the lawyer sitting in a darkened room, insanely grinning for no reason at all.

No difference.

"You must come to the ball this year," said Winston, leading the way across the wide expanse.

"Maybe I will." Oren delivered this line in a manner close to a threat.

The lawyer paused and turned, eyes flickering, uncomprehending, and then he walked around a screen of potted fruit trees, motioning for his guest to follow him. On the other side of the foliage was a small mahogany bar, ornately carved. A cabinet full of bottles had been built into the wall, and its shelves were enclosed by glass doors with a sturdy lock. A single key lay beside a glass of melting ice cubes. The keeper of the key, a woman in a maid's uniform, was capping a whiskey bottle.

"Hello, Hilda," said the lawyer as he joined her behind the bar. He looked down at the abandoned glass. "No refills, right?"

"She's only had the one-"

"That s enough. You can go, Hilda. I'll do the honors. Young man, pull up a barstool."

Oren was distracted by his view of a small private terrace beyond a pair of French doors. Outside in the sunlight, Isabelle Winston's red hair was fire bright. A taller woman with long pale hair stood beside her. This champagne blonde could only be Sarah Winston, and she was slowly turning toward him, but he never saw her face. The lady was led away like a passive invalid.

Ad Winston set out two glasses. "What'll you have?"

"Jack Daniel's straight up if you've got it."

"I have everything, my boy." The lawyer uncapped a whiskey bottle and poured him two generous shots. "We should talk strategy."

Oren looked down at his glass and idly ran one finger around the rim. "You're fired."

The older man leaned across the bar, for surely he could not have heard this right. "You're firing me?" He laughed at this great joke.

"I know you're the best," said Oren. "But I know how you work… I know what you did to William Swahn."

Perhaps for the first time ever, the lawyer had lost his sense of humor, and he was slow to pour his own drink. "I never discuss my clients with anyone. So any aspect of Swahn's old case is-"

"Nondisclosure agreements. You talk-your client loses money. I got that." Oren drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar-but not in anger. He simply wanted to make Ad Winston jump-and he did. "It only took me six minutes to figure out the scam. Swahn was just a rookie cop in those days… I'm the real deal."

Oren poured himself another shot from the bottle and sipped his glass slowly, enjoying the wary look in the lawyer's eyes. "You were at the hospital the night Swahn was ambushed. You were waiting in his room when he got out of surgery."

There was an unspoken-unspeakable-question in Ad Winston's eyes.

It was Oren's turn to smile. "No, your client didn't tell me. He never said a word. But I knew his partner took a bribe to call in sick the night of the ambush. I'm sure the civilian dispatcher got paid off, too. But that woman was smart enough to disappear before detectives came knocking on her door. Jay Murray stayed. That proves he had no idea why he'd been bribed. And that should've led the investigation away from a cop conspiracy. They would've been looking at civilians."

"The LAPD was liable. There's no disputing that. The dispatcher was employed by-"

"But the lawsuit would've dragged on for years." Oren picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot. "So you blackmailed the LAPD into a fast settlement, a big one. You fabricated evidence of a police conspiracy against a gay man with AIDS. And you had to work fast. When a cop goes down on duty, nobody goes home. Detectives work around the clock. It was probably still dark when you accused Swahn's precinct of ambushing your poor diseased client. The next morning, during an interrogation-that was the first time Swahn's partner heard the rumor. Now that's only odd if you know that cops gossip like little old ladies with guns. So that rumor-your rumor-was started after the ambush and before the sun came up on Jay Murray. And that's how I know you were in Swahn's hospital room when he got out of surgery."

"Interesting theory, Oren. Pure conjecture of course, but-"

"It's a fact. The only thing I don't know is whether or not Swahn was lucid when you signed him up as a client. I used to think he was in on this con game. Now I'm not so sure."

"None of this would hold up in court."

"That doesn't matter," said Oren. "I can still do a world of damage. Every reporter in the state wants to talk to me-thanks to your little performance today."

"You've got no proof."

Don't need it. Rumors make the best headlines."

Winston's smile was back. "You can't revive any interest in Swahn's case. It's ancient history."

The reporters will want to know why I fired you, the great Addison Winston. Now that's news. I can tell them it's because you smeared a precinct of innocent cops-and scammed them for money."

"Oh, I've always had lots of money, Oren, more than I can spend. What I do, I do for fun." The lawyer reached for the bottle and poured himself a triple shot of whiskey, the only sign of defeat. "What do you want?"

"Information."

"Millard Straub. Now there's another man with a motive to kill a woman." Addison Winston volunteered this tidbit, this breach of client-attorney confidence, as he parked his Porsche in front of the judge's house.

The bulb over the front door must have burned out. Hannah usually turned it on in the twilight hour.

The lawyer was still talking nonstop and very fast. A sign of frayed nerves?

"Old Millard was fixated on the idea that Evelyn was cheating on him. But he never asked me to cut her out of his will. Maybe he didn't want the paper trail of a poisoned relationship-a motive to kill his wife. He makes a fine suspect, but you seem skeptical, Oren. Quite understandable. It's hard to picture that old codger dragging his oxygen tank into the woods. However, this theory works rather well with the latest gossip about Evelyn. It seems she was a bit indiscreet yesterday when you came calling. It's all around town-the rumor of your old affair. What if the woman who died with Josh was the target of a hired assassin? Could be a case of mistaken identity. Suppose Millard Straub hired someone to kill his wife-because she was sleeping with you? Assuming Josh was an innocent witness-then you'd be responsible for your brother's death."

Oren stepped out of the car, and the lawyer was laughing as he drove away.

Behind him, he heard the squeaking hinges of the screen door.

"Don't let him poison you." Hannah stepped out on the porch. "It's real convenient, blaming murder on a dead man. I could make the same case for Addison. His wife drinks a lot. I think she cries a lot." The housekeeper- eavesdropper-stood at the railing and raised her eyes to the Winston lodge. "Makes you wonder what goes on up there."

Oren climbed the porch steps and reached up to twist the dark bulb in its socket-and there was light. He sat down in the wooden armchair next to Hannah's old rocker. "Tell me about Evelyn Straub's husband. I don't remember him very well."