Kyle had heard of the False Deadline, but didn’t see this one coming. “Uh, sure, no problem,” he said, backtracking.

“Thanks,” Peckham said as he flipped the page of another document. “See you later.”

“Sure.”

Kyle was at the door when Peckham asked, “Say, Kyle, where’s the best place for Barx to try the case?”

“Nebraska, Fillmore County,” Kyle said eagerly.

Two of the associates laughed out loud, and the other two were highly entertained. One of them said, “Nebraska? No one tries cases in Nebraska.”

“Thanks, Kyle,” Peckham said, patronizing. “Nice work.” And please get out of here.

For $200,000 a year, plus treats, the job would naturally have its moments of humiliation. You’re getting paid for this, Kyle kept repeating as he slowly made his way up the stairs. Take it in stride. Be tough. Happens to everyone.

Back in the dungeon, he managed to smile. When Dale asked “How did it go?” he said, “It’s hard to say.” At the far end of the room two associates were plowing through mortgage files. Kyle nodded at them, then parked himself near Dale, arranged his pen, legal pad, and FirmFone. He opened a box, removed a file, and reentered the world of Placid Mortgage. It was known territory, and he felt oddly safe there. He would not be harmed or humiliated. A long career as a document reviewer would no doubt be dull, but it would also be much less hazardous than that of a litigator.

When Kyle left the office late Friday afternoon, he considered his first week to be a success, though a dismal one. He billed Placid thirty hours and Barx Biomed twenty-six, and though virtually all of this valuable time would eventually mean little to either client, he wasn’t paid to worry about such things. He was there to do one thing — bill. If he kept up the pace and managed only fifty hours a week, he would hit twenty-five hundred for the year, a high number for a first-year and one that would catch the attention of the higher-ups.

For the week, Tabor the Gunner billed fifty hours. Dale, forty-four. Tim Reynolds, forty-three.

It was amazing how consumed they were with the clock after only five days on the job.

He walked to his apartment, changed into jeans, stuffed a phone in each pocket, and headed for the ballpark. The Mets were at home against the Pirates, who were already guaranteed another losing season. With seventeen games to go, the Mets were in first place, two games ahead of the Phillies, and primed for another choke in the stretch.

Kyle had paid cash for two tickets sold by a broker recommended by a paralegal at the firm. As he made his way to Shea Stadium, he picked up his surveillance as it was picking up him.

His seat was fifteen rows behind the third-base dugout. The night was hot; the Mets were in first; the place was packed. He timed his entrance perfectly and sat down just as the first pitch was thrown in the bottom of the first. To his right was a young boy holding a baseball glove and eating ice cream. To his left was a real fan with a Mets cap, Mets jersey, blue and orange sweatbands, even goofy Mets eyeglasses. Under the cap and behind the glasses was Joey Bernardo, who had spent his entire life in Pittsburgh and hated the Mets almost as much as he hated the Phillies.

“Do not acknowledge me,” Kyle said as he watched the field.

“Don’t worry. Right now I hate your guts. And I hate the Mets almost as much as I hate you.”

“Thanks. I like the glasses.”

“Can I take them off? I can’t see a damned thing.”

“No.”

They were talking out of the corners of their mouths, just loud enough to hear each other. Shea was alive with every pitch, and there was little chance of being overheard.

Joey took a sip of a tall beer. “Are they really following you?”

“Oh, yes. Every day, everywhere.”

“Do they know that you know?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But why?”

“Basic espionage tradecraft.”

“Of course.”

“Information is crucial. The more they watch and listen, the more they know about me. If they know what I eat, drink, wear, watch, listen to, and who I talk to and hang out with and where I like to shop and browse and sneak away to, then they might one day be able to use it all to their advantage. Sounds pretty dull to you and me, but not to these guys.”

More beer as Joey absorbed this.

A ball bounced off the left-field wall, scoring a run, and the crowd was on its feet. Kyle and Joey acted like all the other fans. When things had settled down, Kyle continued: “For example, I’ve found this wonderful little store in midtown that sells all sorts of spy gadgets. Tiny cameras, hidden mikes, phone-tapping devices, and some high-tech stuff that the military has left behind. It’s run by a couple of misfits who claim to be ex-CIA, but then people who are really ex-CIA don’t talk about it. I found the store online, at the office, not at the apartment, and I’ve been there twice when I was able to shake surveillance. I might need the store one day, but if the goons knew I had discovered the place, they would really be interested.”

“This is too weird.”

A lady in front of Joey turned around and offered a curious glance. They did not speak for the rest of the first inning.

“How about the report on Elaine?” Joey whispered.

“It worries me.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think you should go see her.”

“No way.”

“It’s easy. Just bump into her and see what happens.”

“Right! Drive to Scranton, a town I can’t recall seeing in the past ten years, somehow find her, recognize her, assume she’ll recognize me, then what? Have a friendly little chat about the last time we were together? Have a laugh for old times’ sake? Hell, Kyle, she accused me of rape.”

“Shhhh,” Kyle hissed softly. The word “rape” sort of hung in the thick air, but no one reacted to it.

“Sorry,” Joey whispered, and they watched the game for a long time.

A ferocious argument erupted at first base after a close call, and all fifty thousand fans had an opinion. In the roar, Kyle said, “It would be an interesting meeting. To see how she reacts. Will she talk to you? Is she bitter, angry, full of vengeance? You take the high road and say that the encounter has always troubled you, that you want to talk about it. See if she’ll meet you for a drink and a serious conversation. You’re not going to admit anything, you just want to see how she feels. Maybe you want closure. What’s there to lose?”

“What if she recognizes me, pulls out a gun, and bam!?”

“I’ll take care of Blair.” Kyle managed this with a grin, though the thought of spending any more time with Joey’s girl was not pleasant.

“Thanks. She’s pregnant, you know. Thanks for asking.”

“Why is she pregnant?”

“Basic biology. But we’re both surprised.”

“Congratulations, Daddy.”

“Getting married is one thing, but I’m not so sure about this fatherhood business.”

“I thought her career was at full throttle.”

“Yep. Me too. She said she was on the pill, but I don’t know.”

This was not a topic Kyle wanted to explore. The more they talked, the easier conversation became, and that was not wise. “I’m going to the restroom,” Kyle said.

“Bring me a beer.”

“No. I don’t know you, remember?”

“Come on, Kyle. You think someone here is watching you?”

“With binoculars. At least two of them. They followed me here, probably bought tickets from a scalper outside the gates, and now they’re watching.”

“But why?”

“Basic surveillance, Joey. I’m a valuable asset, yet they don’t trust me. You should read some spy novels.”

“That’s your problem. Too much fiction.”

Kyle took his time between innings. He visited the men’s room, then bought a diet soda and peanuts. When he returned to his seat, he struck up a conversation with the kid on his right, a loyal Met fan who knew every player and all their stats. His father was in advertising, and Kyle managed to seem intrigued with that career. He cracked peanuts, scattered the hulls at his feet, and ignored Joey for a long time.