“Just keep billing,” Kyle said without a trace of sympathy as he unpacked his briefcase and pulled out his laptop. Tim finished dressing and grabbed a file. “I’ll be in the library,” he said, already a wreck.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” Kyle said.

When Reynolds was gone, Kyle went online, to a Web site called QuickFace.com. There were several sites that allowed amateur sleuths to put together composite sketches of faces, and Kyle had studied them all. QuickFace was by far the most detailed and accurate. He began with Nigel’s eyes, always the most important feature. Get the eyes right, and half the identification is over. The site offered over two hundred different types of eyes — every race, color, origin, and blend. Kyle went through them quickly, found the closest set, and began his face.

Nose, thin and pointed. Eyebrows, moderately thick and a bit long down the sides. Lips, very thin. Cheekbones, higher and wider. Chin, not long but very flat, no dimple. Ears, oval and stuck close to the skull. After he added the hair, he went back to the eyes, tried another pair, then another. The ears were too high, so he lowered them. He tinkered and sculpted until 6:30 — a half hour unbilled and wasted unless he chose to pad a bit during the day — and when Nigel was properly put together and easily identified from forty feet away, Kyle printed the face and hustled off to the library, carrying a thick file because everyone carried a thick file into the library. His private spot was a dead end in a dark corner on the third level of stacked tiers, a lonesome place where they stored thick tomes of annotations no one had used in decades. On the second shelf from the bottom, he lifted three of the books and removed an unmarked manila envelope, letter-sized. He opened it and pulled out three other composites — a splendid rendering of his archenemy, Bennie, and two others of the goons who were stalking him around New York City. To his knowledge, he had not been within fifty feet of them, and had never made eye contact, but he’d seen both on several occasions and was confident that his artwork was at least a decent starting point. The addition of Nigel’s dreadful face to the collection did nothing to improve its overall attractiveness.

He hid the envelope and returned to the cube, where Tabor the Gunner was busy making his usual noisy preparations for the day. The issue of whose career held the most promise had been settled weeks earlier. Tabor was the man, the star, the fast-tracked partner-to-be, and everyone else could get out of the way. He’d proven his talents by billing twenty-one hours in a single day. He’d shown his skill by billing more the first month than all other litigation rookies, though Kyle was only four hours behind. He volunteered for projects and worked the cafeteria like an old Irish ward boss.

“Slept in the library last night,” he said as soon as he saw Kyle.

“Good morning, Tabor.”

“The carpet in the main library is thinner than the carpet in the twenty-third library, did you know that, Kyle? I much prefer sleeping on the twenty-third, but it does have more noise. Which do you prefer?”

“We’re all cracking up, Tabor.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Tim used his sleeping bag last night.”

“For what? He and Dr. Dale finally getting it on?”

“Don’t know about that. I woke him up an hour ago.”

“So you went home? Slept in your own bed?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I have two projects due at noon today, both extremely important and urgent, and I can’t afford the luxury of sleep.”

“You’re the greatest, Tabor. Go, Superman.”

And with that Tabor was gone.

DALE ARMSTRONG arrived promptly at seven, her usual time, and though she looked a bit sleepy, she was put together as always. Evidently, the bulk of her fat salary was being spent on designer clothing, and Kyle, along with Tim and Tabor, looked forward to the daily fashion statement.

“You look great today,” Kyle said with a smile.

“Thank you.”

“Prada?”

“Dolce & Gabbana.”

“Killer shoes. Blahniks?”

“Jimmy Choo.”

“Five hundred bucks?”

“Don’t ask.”

Admiring her each day, Kyle was quickly learning the names of the high priests of female clothing. It was one of the few topics she cared to discuss. After six weeks of shared space in the cube, he still knew very little about her. When she talked, which was not very often, it was always about law firm business and the miserable life of a first-year associate. If there was a boyfriend, he had yet to be mentioned. She had dropped her guard twice and agreed to drinks after work, but she usually declined. And while every rookie was openly grousing about the hours and the pressure, Dale Armstrong seemed to be feeling the strain more than most.

“What are you doing for lunch?” Kyle asked.

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” she replied coolly and withdrew into her little section of the cube.

The lights in the shelter came on each morning at six, and most of the homeless awoke and began making preparations for another day. The rules did not allow them to stay past eight o’clock. Many had jobs, but those who didn’t were expected to be on the streets looking for employment. Brother Manny and his staff were very successful in placing their “friends,” even if the work was often part-time and minimum wage.

Breakfast was served upstairs in the fellowship hall, where volunteers manned the small kitchen and prepared eggs, toast, oatmeal, and cereal. And it was served with a smile, a warm “Good morning” for everyone, and a quick prayer of thanks once they were all seated. Brother Manny, a notorious late sleeper, preferred to delegate the early-morning duties at his compound. For the past month, the kitchen had been organized and supervised by Baxter Tate, a smiling young man who’d never boiled water in his previous life. Baxter scrambled eggs by the dozen, toasted loaves of white bread, prepared the oatmeal — real, not instant — and also restocked the supplies, washed the dishes, and he, Baxter Tate, often said the prayer. He encouraged the other volunteers, had a kind word for everyone, and knew the names of most of the homeless he graciously served. After they had eaten, he loaded them into three old church vans, drove one himself, and delivered them to their various jobs around Reno. He picked them up late in the afternoon.

Alcoholics Anonymous met three times each week at Hope Village — Monday and Thursday nights and at noon on Wednesday. Baxter never missed a meeting. He was warmly received by his fellow addicts, and quietly marveled at the groups’ compositions. All races, ages, male and female, professionals and homeless, rich and poor. Alcoholism cut a wide, jagged path through every class, every segment. There were old, confident drunks who boasted of being sober for decades, and new ones like himself who freely admitted that they were still afraid. They were comforted, though, by the veterans. Baxter had made a mess of his life, but his history was a cakewalk compared to that of some of the others. Their stories were compelling, often shocking, especially those of the ex-convicts.

During his third AA meeting, with Brother Manny watching from the rear, he walked to the front of the group, cleared his throat, and said, “My name is Baxter Tate, and I’m an alcoholic from Pittsburgh.” After he uttered those words, he wiped tears from his cheeks and listened to the applause.

Following the Twelve Steps to recovery, he made a list of all the people he had harmed and then made plans to make amends. It wasn’t a long list and was heavily focused on his family. He did not, however, look forward to a return to Pittsburgh. He’d talked to Uncle Wally. The family knew he was still sober, and that was all that mattered.