CHARACTER WITNESS
by
R.A. Forster

Pinnacle Books Kensington Publishing Corp.

http://www pinnacle books corn

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

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Copyright 1997 by R.A. Porster

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Prologue

"Got your basic cleaner in forty-gallon drums."  Arthur grunted as he
grabbed one and rolled it toward the stainless steel cart.

"Bad stuff.  Bad."  He shook his head and gave the drum another twirl,
held it against his substantial thigh and looked at the kid.

"This is going to clean up any of the gunk you're gonna find, and
you're gonna find some real gunk, kid, 'specially over there in that
building that looks like a sausage.

That's where you're headed, 'kay?"

"Absolutely.  No problem.  I can handle anything.  You want me to do
the windows, too?"

Arthur rolled his eyes.  This kid was green as green could be.

"You see any windows in that building?"

Arthur grunted again and twirled the drum hand over hand.

The drum toppled when he let it go and rumbled as it settled down.
Arthur glanced over his shoulder and saw the kid's anxious face.  This
kid was okay.  A real go-getter.  Arthur liked to help that kind along
'cause he didn't see many of 'em.

"You know this place gives you help on tuition for school if you want
to do more than push a broom."  Arthur lifted the top and sniffed the
green crystals like a gourmet, dumped some into a small, plastic-lidded
jar, and attached it to the side of the kid's metal cart.  He opened a
smaller can and sniffed again.

He jerked his head.

"This one's strong.  You wear gloves when you get to them sinks,
okay?"

"Okay.  Sure.  Whatever you say.  I want to do it right."  The
black-haired kid took his place behind the cart.  It was almost as big
as he was.

"I know about the tuition.  The benefits are real good, too.  My sister
works here.  She started at the bottom, too.  Now she's an analyst over
in the space division.  Tysco's been real good to her.  Me, I'm going
to do better than that.

You just wait and see."

Arthur slapped the kid on the back.

"I wouldn't doubt I'll be seeing you in a suit one of these days.  Just
remember to treat the bottom folk like me good when you get up there on
top."

"You bet.  You bet, Arthur.  I'm going to be the best, but I'll never
forget all this."

Arthur gave him one of those old, evil-eye warning looks that was
filled with admiration.

"You ain't there yet, kid.  Till you're some big manager, you don't
forget all what you gotta do here."
"No problem.  I got it straight.
Dust the desks and the chairs, empty the wastepaper baskets, don't take
anything from the desks or open the drawers.  Dust the sills on the
windows dividing the manager's offices from the main room.  I get a
break after two hours.  I do the bathrooms next.  Then breakfast after
the next two hours.  Then you're going to take me over to the cafeteria
and we're going to dress that down before the office workers get
here."

"You got it, my man."  Arthur put his hand up.  The kid high-fived him
and beamed.

"See you in four, back here.  First breakfast's on me."

They went their separate ways, the kid humming.  He dusted with a
flourish and waved at someone vacuuming way down a hall; but, for the
most part, he was alone and happy to be that way.

Tysco was a wonderful place.  While he worked, the kid checked out the
drawings on the walls that showed the stuff Tysco manufactured.  Stuff
that helped feed people, stuff that helped educate people.  The stuff
that helped kill people he didn't think about.  That was in a whole
other section, and special people cleaned over there.  Besides, it was
depressing to think a company this big, a company that would pay him to
go to school, a company that had a credit union, could do anything that
wasn't good and helpful and excellent.  There was the space division,
too, and that was exciting.  Maybe when he'd paid his dues and learned
enough, he'd work in the space division like Veena.  He'd make things
that reached up to the stars.  That would suit him.  His ma always said
he reached for the stars.

Invigorated by the vision of his future, undaunted by the tasks that
lay before him, the kid didn't even stop for his first break.  Someday
he'd run the whole place and someone would give a speech about how he'd
been one hell of a janitor.

Gently he swiped at a wedding picture on the last desk in the row and
adjusted it just so.  More pictures were stuck to bulletin boards.  A
big pink bow had been left on a table.  The calendars with fanny
sayings on them were all turned to the next day.  The kid smiled at
these testaments to the human face of this big, now dark place.  People
were happy and busy here, and he wanted to be a part of it all.

Stuffing his rag in the back pocket of his bright-orange jump suit, the
kid whistled and headed across the hall to the bath rooms.  He couldn't
remember which container held the floor cleaner and which was for the
toilets and sinks.  Making his first executive decision, he poured the
crystals from the smaller pail into the sink and turned his face away
just in case the stuff blew up or something.  It sure smelled like it
should.  When nothing happened, the kid smiled, replaced the canister
and pulled on the huge gloves that were meant for larger hands than
his.

Ten minutes later he looked back on a gleaming row of porcelain
sentinels.

"Good job."  He patted himself on the back, then pushed open the stall
door of the first John.

One, two, three.  Only six more to go.  The kid was sure no one had
ever done such a fine job.

Grinning, he whacked open the fourth door, and that was when his jaw
dropped.  He stepped back, embarrassed beyond belief.  There was a guy
on the John.  A guy in a suit on the John.  Oh Lord, a manager doing
his business!  The kid stumbled back until his butt was up against one
of the newly cleaned sinks.

"I'm sorry.  It's my first day.  I didn't think anybody would be
here...."  The kid was sweating; his mind was going a mile a minute.
"... I'll get out of here till you're done.  I can't tell you how sorry
I am.  I really, really am...."  He leaned forward as he started to
walk out.  But when he passed that stall, the one where the guy was
doing his business, it dawned on him that it was awful quiet in there.
Not like embarrassed quiet.

Not like rude quiet.  Quiet like scary quiet.

"Sir?  Hey, sir?  Are you all right?"

He touched the door.  It swung open again.  The kid blinked, then
froze.  The stall door swung gently back with a mild little clunk and
bounced against the locking mechanism.  The kid swallowed.  The place
was way too hot.  He was sweating bad.

He called once more.

"Sir?"

Mechanically, the kid pushed open the door once more.  He didn't bother
to push it again.

The man in the suit--the man sitting up so weird on the toilet--was
dead.

"What kind of craziness is this, to try to fix something that isn't
broken?  You're not broken, and I'm not going to let anyone--not anyone
in Los Angeles or Washington--try to fix you."

The thunderous applause made Carl Walsh feel like a god, but no one
would ever have known it by his expression.  Humble, a tad surprised, a
bit delighted was how he looked.  It was the expression of a man who
was just saying what everyone else knew.  He was one of the gang.  He
was just hanging out with the rank and file.  He was a politician.

Today, the street corner where he planted himself was the Beverly
Wilshire and the folks who'd stopped by for a chat were the
three-hundred members of the court reporters' union.

Carl had been briefed on their concerns, tweaked the speech someone
else had written for him, then convinced this group that he had what it
took to fight Washington now that he'd conquered City Hall.  Not that
Washington had a damn thing to do with their problems, but it made them
feel important to think that.

He called to them through the last spattering of applause.

"I know you feel like you're alone and you don't like being told you're
expendable.  I understand that, because I'm there every day.  I'm
responsible for sorting out the many voices in the city the way you are
responsible for sorting out the voices in the courtroom.  No machine
can do what I do, and no machine can do what you do!"

This time he let passion come into his voice and was rewarded with
whoops and hollers of ecstasy.  He'd pushed all the right buttons
without breaking a sweat.  The courts were pushing for electronic
recording.  If that happened, the reporters would be out of a job
forever.  Court reporters made a lot of money.  The judges didn't.
There were more reporters than judges.  Reporters could give more to
his campaign coffers, and there were more of them to cast a vote.  So,
Carl Walsh talked to the court reporters' union, not the judges
association.

"I'm asking for your support now, at the beginning of my campaign, not
the end.  You're not an afterthought.  You, above all, know how
important it is to keep the human touch in the business of lawmaking.
Make me your senator from California and I'll keep the humanity in
politics.  Thank you for having me.  Thank you for your support."

The woman at the head table was up and shaking his hand.

He was looking her in the eye when he pulled her close and turned to
face a camera that was suddenly pointed their way.

She was in seventh heaven.  He couldn't remember her name.

Only the most important names, dates, and details were kept in his
head; and at this moment, he was scanning the crowd to confirm that no
one on the A-list was present.  Buoyed by the good words, the pats on
the back, Carl was grinning when he was pulled forward.

"Mr.  Walsh."  Another woman was tugging on his arm.

"This is Mr.  Pullet.  He heads the division."

"Happy to meet you.  What a great turnout."  Walsh shook the man's hand
heartily.

"I can't thank you enough."

Carl led the man away, escaping the dais and his hostess in one swift
move.  With a few well-chosen words, a guy-to-guy slap on the back,
Carl lost Mr.  Pullet and fell into step with his two bodyguards.  Carl
could barely remember their names either, even though his life rested
in their hands.  They would follow him to the ends of the earth.  Right
now he just wanted them to walk him to the facilities.

On his way, he gave the high sign to two men who were headed his way
and picked up his pace.  Life was glorious.  The spring in his step was
meant to propel him into fast-forward;

instead, he collided with a man coming out of the rest room.

The bodyguards reached for the mayor; the mayor grabbed the man, and
everyone righted everyone else.

"Sorry.  I wasn't looking where I was going.  Stupid of me, really."

"Sure, it isn't a problem.  No problem at all," the other man assured
him, and then they looked at each other.
"Gerry O'Doul!"  The mayor
laughed; and even he, seasoned politician that he was, couldn't keep
the surprise out of his voice.

"How are you?"

thought you were dead.

"Well, well.  Look who I've run in to.  Mr.  Mayor, is it?"

Gerry chuckled.

I'm glad you 're so predictable.

His gentle voice, the last whisper of an Irish brogue that Carl Walsh's
father swore with grudging admiration was put on for the jury, hadn't
changed.  It was the only thing about Gerry O'Doul that hadn't.

"What's this I hear about your leaving us for Washington?  We'll be
calling you senator then, I suppose."

"I sure hope so."  Carl smiled broadly.  Gerry, still kicking, took
Carl back to a time when he'd proudly watched his father and dreamed
of the wondrous things he would do when he grew up.  Carl sighed. Never
in a million years had he dreamed he would do some of the things he
had.  The business of the city had had class in Gerry's time; Gerry
still had it.  Carl knew he did not.

"Wouldn't your father be proud of you!  Why I remember when we used to
stand against one another in court me at the defense table, he the
prosecutor.  We made fine enemies, we did."

"You think I could ever forget?  I was weaned on those stories.  We had
many a dinner where the name Gerry O'Doul was taken in vain."  Carl
chuckled.

"My dad used to talk about you often before he died."

Gerry leaned closer to Carl.  Memories were such a lovely connection,
so useful.  Gerry was happy to see that he could still connect with the
handsome, more practically connected Carl Walsh.

"Did he, now?  So long ago, 'twas.  So many are gone now.

Things change so quickly, don't they, Carl?  One minute you're
surrounded by great friends and great enemies; the next, you're
alone."

Gerry's eyes misted.  Carl Walsh reached out and put his hand on the
old man's shoulder.  Something flashed.  A photo op.  Carl thought
there was something sad about that.  Gerry turned into the flash even
though the intent was to capture Carl doing his thing.  It went off
again, and Gerry didn't miss a beat.

He brought back the mi sties for an encore.  "So he talked about me?
That's lovely, sure 'tis."

"Absolutely."

The crowd around Carl had diminished, but people still hung on the
periphery of his space in an ill-defined circle, waiting for his ear.
There was a ringing.  A portable phone was handed to Carl.  He took it,
simultaneously nudging Gerry along with him to the semi-privacy of the
anteroom.  '"Scuse me a second  He listened.  Gerry waited patiently,
reading the signs of a happy man and noticing that Carl was trying very
hard not to appear too happy.  He couldn't have chosen a better time to
bump into his old friend's son.

"Good news?"  Gerry asked the minute the phone was folded.

"The best."  Carl nodded, no longer beaming.

"First term, city budget was down by three percent."  Strangely, Carl
didn't look Gerry in the eye.  How surprisingly modest he was.

"If that isn't wonderful!  That's what it's all about, making a
difference."

"I'm going all the way no matter what, Gerry."  Carl seemed to be
talking to himself, but Gerry wasn't quite ready to be discarded.  He
put his hand on the younger man's arm.

"Success is powerful, Carl.  Just remember, it doesn't always bring
what you expect," Gerry warned.

"Then again, sometimes it does," Carl bantered back.  He rejuvenated
himself with that thought.

"Listen, I've got to ..."

He held his hands toward the men's room.

"Of course.  So ungracious of me."  Gerry laughed and took a step
back.

"Don't rush off.  I've got a half hour or so before my next
appointment; we'll have some coffee."

"No, no, no.  I'm running, too, I'll have you know."  Gerry was as
proud as punch but kept a tight rein on his excitement.

"I'm taking on a new associate.  O'Doul & Associates is going to be
back in business, Carl."

"That's great.  Got the old fire lit again, huh?"  Carl shook Gerry's
hand heartily.

"Well, you just let me know what's happening.  Maybe I can ride your
coattails, get some good press standing next to Gerry O'Doul."

"Be happy to oblige, Mr.  Mayor.  Happy, indeed.  I'd be especially
proud if we could be seen shaking hands on a bit of the city business
before you're off to conquer Washington."

"Gerry, you never change.  My dad always said once you set your sights
on something you were dangerously tenacious.

He also said you were so smooth when you saw an opening that nobody saw
the bite coming."

"Your father was a smart man.  I'll ask for only a moment, Mr.  Mayor,
to try to convince you O'Doul & Associates is as fit as a fiddle and
ready to perform.  You've got the business.

Last I read, it was almost thirty-six police officers alone who were
being sued by the citizens of your fiscally well-run city."

Carl Walsh cocked a wry grin, knowing it was useless to try to deflect
Gerry's advances.  Sidestepping had never worked with his father
either.

"Call my office for an appointment.  But I'm not promising.

Shay, Sylvester & Harrington is still the city's firm of record.

I'd hate to get on Richard's wrong side even for you, Gerry."

"I wouldn't either."  Gerry's voice lost some of its twinkle;

his eyes darkened just a shade.  He recovered nicely.

"Besides, I'm a little long in the tooth to cause Richard any trouble.
He might even find it amusing that I'm mentioning this at all.

Crumbs is what I'm looking for, Carl.  If you don't ask, you'll never
know what you might have had."  He raised his hand, the signet ring
he'd worn since the day he graduated from law school flashing as they
parted company.  Gerry shot back a last reminder, "Crumbs is all,
Carl."

Gerry walked sprightly out of the Beverly Wilshire alone, a small,
content smile on his face.  There was change in the wind.

A second chance had come his way, and Carl Walsh had a big 2 emblazoned
on his forehead.  Poor boy didn't have a clue what was about to hit
him.

Behind him, Carl was watching.  Gerry O'Doul had a spring in his step
that a man half his age would envy.  Carl allowed himself one small
sound that he thought underscored the surprising pleasure he felt at
seeing Gerry and being reminded of his father.  Actually, it sounded
more like a noise to ward off an evil spirit.  Carl Walsh felt as if
someone had just walked over his grave.  The phone rang again.  He
flipped it open and turned away from Gerry O'Doul's retreating
figure.

"Yes?"  He listened.

"Of course.  Of course, I'm thrilled."

He listened a bit longer and responded as he knew his caller wanted him
to.

"I can't thank you enough.  We're a great team.

Nothing can stop us now.  The election is in the bag."

Carl flipped the phone closed, thought of the man on the other end, and
wished he were more like Gerry O'Doul.

Then Carl Walsh changed his mind and thanked his lucky stars he
wasn't.

"Your three o'clock is here, Mr.  Jacobsen."

"Show him in."

Richard Jacobsen laid his fine hands on the desk, his eyes darting over
his office.  Everything was in order: There was good news to tell; the
future looked bright; the billing statements were on target, and, of
course, the relationship with this particular client could not be
paralleled.

The door opened.

Richard rose to greet the handsome young man with dark hair and the
look of someone on the way up.  Richard had always admired that look.
He only wished he had had it as a young man.  He could have gone so
much further, so much quicker.  But what was a little time?  Richard, a
firm believer in fate, knew that it was better this way.  The look of
success might have made him stand out sooner, but his history, and
those he had fatefully encountered in the last few years, put him
light-years ahead of his more comely peers.  Money, power, prestige.
Richard Jacobsen had all this city had to offer; and soon, he would
make the country his business.  She had always wanted this for him, and
he appreciated her sacrifices that had brought him to this point.
Lucidly, the young man coming through the door wanted quite a bit, too.
He was willing to do just about anything to get what he wanted, and
that benefited Richard quite nicely.  Unfortunately, neither this man,
nor the woman who gave her life to him, understood what drove Richard
Jacobsen.  His lips tipped up just a tad.  Even he, humorless as he
was, thought that was quite amusing.  They would be so amazed or would
it be appalled?  to know what passion drove him.

"So nice to see you.  And right on time."

"I'm glad to be here.  Have you spoken to our friend?"

"Yes.  Everything is on schedule.  He's elated."

"Fine.  Fine."

The younger man walked straight up to Richard Jacobsen.

They met beside his desk, looking at each other the way men will who
understand their power over one another.  They were both very clear on
that.

"I haven't been able to find anything in the office regarding the
problem we had this morning.  I searched everywhere."

"Not to worry.  Everything's been taken care of."  The younger man
didn't look convinced.  Richard put his hand on his shoulders and said
sincerely, "I promise.  You needn't worry.  I needn't worry.  There's
nothing that can change what's already been done, but you'll never have
to ever think about it again."
"Didn't anyone ever tell you never to
say never?"  the young man asked peevishly.

"No," Richard answered quietly.  In his business he saw lots of people
upset over lots of things.  He knew what to do.  The hand on the man's
shoulder was surprisingly tight.  Richard slipped it down toward the
elbow.  He held on a moment, then, with the gentlest of pressure, led
the man across the huge office.

"You'll want to freshen up."

"Yes, that would be good," the young man said.  He didn't look well at
all.  Richard felt terrible that he hadn't noticed the moment he came
in.  That had been terribly inconsiderate.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I have it all.  Right here."  He patted his breast pocket, and
Richard thought it was dangerous to carry something so important so
casually.
"All right.  I'll wait.  I've blocked off the afternoon for
you."

The young man looked over his shoulder.  He smiled for the first time.
It was shaky, but a smile nonetheless.

"It won't take that long.  It never does."

"There's always a first time," Richard answered quietly as the other
man walked toward Richard's private bathroom.

It was only after the door had shut that Richard remembered her picture
was still there.  He wished he'd remembered to put it away.

Richard was, after all, a very, very private person.

"Dorty & Breyer, how may I help you?  Miss Cotter?  Yes, I believe
she's here.  Just a moment, and I'll connect you."

She pushed the hold button and zoomed around the reception desk.

"You didn't fool anyone," Cherie called, but Kathleen barely gave her a
glance.  By the time Kathleen was in her chair, Cherie was kneeling on
her credenza, her arms dangling over the top of the carpeted wall that
partitioned their cubicles.

She tapped Kathleen's head with a pen.

"You can't disguise that voice of yours.  No way."

Kathleen brushed at her hair.  Cherie tapped again when Kathleen pushed
the line that was lighted.

"Kathleen Cotter, may I help you?"  Her voice was back to normal. Sweet
and girlish in pitch, professional in tone.  The caller didn't seem to
sense her duplicity.  Kathleen listened intently, then hung up without
another word.  Cherie waved a hand, hoping to catch Kathleen's
peripheral vision.

"Earth to Kathleen.  Who was it?  I hope it was a murderer.

We need something to perk this place up.  I don't have anything fun to
do."

"No, it wasn't a new client.  It wasn't anyone.  I mean, it was
someone.  He wanted to know if I was going to be busy Saturday
night."

Cherie tapped Kathleen's head again and laughed, but it didn't sound as
if she were happy.

"You've been holding out on me.  I didn't know you'd started dating
again."

"I haven't, and what that caller had in mind wouldn't be called dating
anyway.  He just saw me on the commercial that's all.  Will you stop
it!"  Kathleen brushed away Cherie's pen and stood up so fast the other
woman almost lost her balance.

By me time Kathleen was standing in the opening of Cherie's cubicle,
the other woman was settled on the credenza, her legs dangling, her
arms crossed.

"You know, you've been getting very strange over the last few months.
We're attorneys, Cherie, not children.  I really think you should start
acting like you take your profession seriously."

"Oh, you mean like pretending you're the secretary then running to your
chair and pretending to be a lawyer."

lama lawyer  Kathleen raised her chin proudly.

"Dorty& Breyer may not be a fancy firm " "It's the McDonald's of the
law, Kathleen.  We're legal bimbos."  Cherie grabbed her cigarettes
without taking her eyes off Kathleen.

"It's a general law practice and the people who come here need us. They
haven't anywhere else to go.  You should be proud of that.  I know I
am."

"Oh, yeah, so proud you're going to leave.  You're going to go to
Beverly Hills, la-de-da."  Cherie lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply,
letting her statement slap Kathleen in the face.

They'd never been best of friends outside the office, but inside they
clung to one another.  There was no one else except Jay Dorty, and
neither of them would want to cling to him.

"You've been going through my desk."  Kathleen's red lips pulled tight.
It wasn't anger that flared, but disappointment.

She never indulged in the former without the latter, and the former
usually crept up on her late at night when there was no one to yell
at.

"I wasn't snooping.  I was in your desk looking for something and I
just happened to see that letter.  I mean, wow, what can I say? Beverly
Hills and everything.  Geez, you start fixing yourself up a little bit
here and there, and suddenly you're not good enough for this place. 
You're even too good for Riverside.

You went all the way to the top."

Cherie sniffed.  She took another drag, tossed back her head, raised
her chin, and exhaled loudly.  Kathleen had seen the tough girls in
high school act like this.  She hated women who acted like they were
better than everyone else when everyone else could see they weren't.
Funny thing, though, all those every ones were usually intimidated by
those girls.  That was the funny thing.

Cherie, tired of looking at the cloud of gray smoke above her, swung
her head back and let her lids lie low over her eyes.

"Are you going?

"Cause if you expect a going-away party, I can't afford it."

It sounded like an accusation, as if Kathleen were contemplating
murder.

Kathleen sighed and plopped herself in Cherie's chair, crossed her
legs, and considered the other woman.  One arm was crooked to hold her
cigarette up; the other was crossed over an androgynous chest.  Her
color-stripped hair was pulled back in a short ponytail.  Cherie
wouldn't look Kathleen in the eye.  She probably thought Kathleen
wasn't worth the effort.

"I was going to tell you about it when I decided what to do.  Really I
was."  In truth, Kathleen had thought of sneaking out in the middle of
the night just to spare Cherie's feelings.

After all, news like this would be like announcing she'd won the
lottery just when Cherie showed her the dollar she'd found in the
gutter.

"I was just waiting for the right time."
"Well, when was the right time
going to be?  I mean, when were you going to drop this on me?  When we
had a couple of new clients and this office needed both of us?  When my
car broke down and I didn't have enough money to repair it and needed a
ride in?  When my ex called to let me know that he'd found another
perfect woman?  Get real, Kathleen.  This isn't the kind of news I
would want to hear, now is it?"  Another drag.  The chin went higher.

"I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend, Cherie."  That wasn't exactly true, but Kathleen
didn't want to disappoint her.  She tried again.

"I

mean, I'm your friend but that kind of thing goes both ways, you know.
I could just as easily ask why you're not happy for me?  I think a real
friend would be excited for the other one, don't you?"

Kathleen uncrossed her legs and considered her black patent pumps, on
sale because there wasn't much call for Italian square-toed,
high-heeled pumps in Banning, California.  Kathleen had bought them
just because they were beautiful and different.  There was nothing
Kathleen loved more than some thing that looked beautiful, something
with color and form, something other than the desert and a sickroom and
a mother who could only speak about disappointment and despair. 
Listening to Cherie, Kathleen remembered so well the words that had
made her long for a change of scenery.  They were words that had
changed things around until Kathleen felt everything not quite right
was her fault.  Her mother had the knack.  Cherie had the knack. 
Kathleen had had enough.

"I'm thirty.  I've never been out of Banning except to go shopping at
the outlets near Palm Springs and to go with my parents for a weekend
in Las Vegas when I was eleven.  I went to law school just down the
road in Riverside.  I've never been challenged except to see how
patient I could be waiting for my time to live.  I've tried very hard
to be kind to everyone; in fact, I've bent over backward to be kind to
everyone.

"Now, given all that, you can see why I didn't rush to you with this
incredible news.  I'm very patient; I was trying to be kind so I
wouldn't hurt your feelings by leaving you here, and I was trying to be
cautious because I know I'm ripe for disappointment.  I know what this
place is and, until this moment, I wasn't sure I could leave it behind.
Dorty & Breyer is predictable and safe.  I could probably work here
until I retired or died.  There's a lot to be said for that."

Finally, Kathleen paused for breath.  That was more than she'd ever
said about herself at one time in all her years.  She felt better
already.

"On the other hand, I could go to Beverly Hills to work with an uncle I
haven't seen in fifteen years, a man whom I admired greatly and who
disappeared without a word to me a man neither of my parents would talk
about in all those years.  I don't know what I feel about him because
I've never been the kind of person to hate.  I'm not even sure I carry
a grudge.  But I do know what I think about his offer to have me work
for him.  It's an opportunity no one else is going to give me because I
come from Banning and I'm thirty and I didn't have enough guts to grab
for the brass ring before this.  And all you've done by trying to make
me feel guilty for wanting to go, and for having the chance to go, is
to make my decision for me.  I think it's the best thing that happened
to me, thank you very much.  I'm going to leave here and not look
back."

"Well, then, I guess that shows what your home counts for," Cherie
said.

"Guess that shows what it means to live your whole life in a place that
you can just leave it in a snap.  Guess that shows what your
commitments count for, doesn't it?  I mean what are you going to do
with your caseload?"

Kathleen was already halfway down the hall.

"I wouldn't walk out on the firm."

"You think you're going on an adventure?"  Cherie called and Kathleen
stopped for a moment.

"You're not.  Just remember I'm the one that said that.  They'll chew
you up and spit you out, Kathleen Cotter.  I don't care how much you
think you've learned from those dumb magazines.  They'll see right
through you.  They will.  I don't care if you graduated top of your
class.  It was still a second-rate school.  You won't be able to handle
anything bigger than a thirty-dollar divorce.  They'll know that the
minute you open your mouth."

Cherie laughed until Kathleen turned her head.  She didn't bother to
look at Cherie; she just stood there, her face in profile.

Cherie stopped laughing just in time to hear Kathleen's voice, hurt and
suddenly hard.

"At least I'll have tried.  And another thing, I won't hate you for
trying to make me feel bad about it ... so that puts me two steps ahead
right there."

There didn't seem to be anything more to say.  Much as Kathleen wanted
to apologize, to beg forgiveness for putting herself before others the
way her mother had always insisted she do, this time she wasn't going
to.  This was the beginning of a new life her life finally.  She was
going to take a chance and grab this opportunity, unless, of course,
she got there and her uncle came to his senses.

By the time she'd reached the only office with a real door, Kathleen
considered the notion that Beverly Hills would roll up its sidewalks
the minute she appeared, the way Cherie said.

Then again, they might love her.  Kathleen threw back her shoulders and
put her hand on her hip.  She was as good as anyone in her situation
could be and she worked hard.  There was always that.  Holding the good
thoughts, Kathleen raised her fist and knocked on Jay Dorty's door.

"Come."

She went in.

Jay was hunched over his desk, a bad imitation of an imitation heirloom
that served its purpose beautifully.  It was as big and intimidating as
the balding man seated behind it.  But now Jay and Breyer and Dorty
were over.  She was Kathleen Cotter, soon to be associated with the
firm of O'Doul & Associates.

She wouldn't be intimidated by anyone.  Still, she faltered a bit when
Jay slid his eyes up briefly.  He never made eye contact "Mr. Dorty?"

"Yes?"

He had been laboring over a letter.  He did that a lot, yet she never
saw a stack of mail waiting for the postman.  Once she had offered to
take his correspondence to the post office.  He hadn't spoken to her
for a week.  That's when Cherie had become her friend, ushering her out
of the office and explaining what was what.  Dorty's name was on the
door; they labored for Dorty; it was useless to try to be friends with
a man who had invented an imaginary partner.  Kathleen had taken her
words to heart, yet secretly longed for some sort of connection,
professional-to-professional.  Now, before she made it, she was going
to sever it.  Kathleen hated leaving something so important undone.

"Jay."  Kathleen cleared her throat and changed her tact.

She was headed west, to Beverly Hills, she might as well start acting
like someone who would do that.

"Jay, I have something to tell you.  I'm leaving Dorty & Breyer."

She waited.  The pen wasn't scratching anymore.  Slowly, Jay Dorty sat
back.  His eyes slid from the top of her blond head to the middle of
her knees.  Her ankles were hidden by the desk or he would have
traveled the whole route.  He looked downright surprised; and when he
looked her in the eye again, he actually looked sad.  Kathleen answered
him with an equally sympathetic look, then remembered what she was
about.

"I want you to know how much I've enjoyed working here.

Not only did I learn a lot handling all those personal injury cases and
divorces, but I was honored when you asked me to be your spokesperson
on your cable commercial."  She smiled, closed-mouthed.  It made her
eyes crinkle mischievously.  When he didn't smile back, she recomposed
herself.

"But, Jay, I've got an offer and it's big.  I'm going to work in
Beverly Hills."

Jay Dorty put his hands over his eyes and bowed his head.  Kathleen
felt horrible.  It had been wrong to come on so strong;

her voice softened, but the message was clear.

"I'd like to leave as soon as possible, but I'll stay as long as you
need me.

As long as my clients need me."

Jay dropped his hand.  His eyes were red rimmed, but there were no
tears.  He took a great deep breath through his great broad nose.
"No
problem.  Take off whenever.  Cherie can pick up the slack."

He was scribbling again.

Kathleen smiled wanly.

That hurt.

When she left his office, she had no idea that Jay Dorty was regretting
her departure.  There was no one, after all, who left a room the way
Kathleen Cotter did.

Chapter One

"Excuse me.  I'm sorry to bother you."

The woman stopped and looked Kathleen's way.  Her eyes were shaded by
the brim of a beautiful straw hat.  Beneath the shadows and the
sunglasses were fabulous cheekbones.  Beneath the woman's throat were
equally denned and impressive collarbones that stuck out further than
her nearly concave chest.  She hitched an impossibly large straw bag
over her shoulder and shifted what little weight there was from one
expensively sandaled, beautifully manicured foot to the other.

A huge diamond on her ring finger sent a blinding prism Kathleen's way,
but Kathleen still managed to see that the woman looked her up and
down, seemingly with great interest.

Kathleen would have blushed under such scrutiny if she hadn't already
been flushed with the heat.  Obviously, she didn't quite measure up to
Beverly Hills' emaciated chic.  Kathleen smiled her apology.  The woman
did not smile back.  Kathleen moved a bit closer, ready to beg if she
had to.  She was already half an hour late, and that was not a great
way to impress your new employer.

"I wonder if you could direct me to the office of Gerry O'Doul 1820
Beverly."  The woman started at the sound of Kathleen's voice.

"What's he do?"  she drawled, covering her odd curiosity beautifully.
Now Kathleen was surprised.  She had thought Beverly Hills was an
intimate town where everyone knew the rich, powerful, and famous.

"Attorney," Kathleen answered patiently.

"Divorce?"  The woman tipped her small, round sunglasses to eye
Kathleen closely over the rims.  Kathleen shook her head, truly
uncomfortable now.

"Criminal," she answered helpfully.  The glasses were back on the
woman's nose.

"I've been married to a few of those, but they never went to jail." She
licked her lips and almost smiled.  It had been a joke, after all. The
woman was peeved and bored.

"I don't know.  Sorry.  Can't help you.  Maybe you want to check your
information.  Look in the phone book."

She turned away.  Kathleen thanked the woman's back and went the
opposite way only to be stopped a moment later.

"Are you looking for South or North Beverly?"

"South," Kathleen called back, and the woman pointed toward Wilshire
Boulevard.

"You've got to cross over."

Kathleen nodded.  She hurried on, and as she passed, the woman lowered
her glasses and put out her hand without touching Kathleen.

"You're not ..."  she said.

Kathleen hesitated, turned full face so the lady could get a good look
at her.  She knew she was nobody, but for some reason this woman wasn't
sure.

"No, you're not."

Now she was sure.  The lady ducked into a shop where the windows were
stuffed with linens the likes of which Kathleen had never seen.  But
there wasn't time to linger over beautiful things she couldn't afford.
He was waiting for her, ready to settle her into a new and exciting
job, a new apartment, a new life.  She crossed Wilshire Boulevard,
resisting the urge to stand in the middle of it and throw her arms
heavenward in thanks.

Her steps slowed halfway down the block.  The restaurants were
charming, smaller and not as elegant on this side of Wilshire, and
there were no big office buildings.  Kathleen looked at the numbers and
ignored the strange feeling that something had changed the minute she
crossed from North Beverly to South.  On she went, hesitating when she
crossed Olympic.  Kathleen looked longingly behind her.  She could
still see the grand boulevard, Wilshire, legendary as the real estate
on which sat the finest shops and hotels in Los Angeles.  It was far
away.  In this block there was a change again.  Office buildings still
lined both sides of the street, but now they were yellow brick and
beige stucco, not marble.

Kathleen stopped.

She looked up.  She looked back, then up again.

She'd arrived.

Number 1820 South Beverly was right in front of her.

This was where she would make her mark.  1820 South Beverly didn't look
quite as impressive as she'd imagined ... until she looked at the door.
Now that was impressive.

Touching the shining brass plate on the heavy glass door as if it were
the portal to Oz, Kathleen gripped the handle, opened it, and slipped
through.  The door shut with a whoosh, and she was sealed inside.  It
took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lights and for her to
realize she was actually in a small lobby instead of the hushed
reception area of the fantastic suite of offices she had expected.

A green EXIT sign hung over a door at the far end of the narrow room
like a personal invitation.  At a ninety-degree angle, another sign
indicated stairs were available if she wanted to take some time
ascending to great heights.  To her left, the brass-doored elevator
dominated the mole-colored wall.  On her right, a brass-encased
information board was mounted like a fine painting, complete with
display light.  The floor was real marble, nature's pink veins pumping
tasteful life into the creamy white.  How lovely!  How appropriate. How
like the man himself.

Kathleen checked the board.  O'Doul & Associates was on the second
floor, a chiropractor on the third.  Kathleen focused on the fact that
each commanded a full floor.  That was a very,

very good sign.  She called for the elevator and punched the button for
the second floor.  Banning and life as it had been were left behind in
the marble lobby while the bevel-mirrored elevator took her one floor
up to her destiny.

This was it.

The doors opened.

She deserved a break.

She walked up to the door with the tasteful legend O'Doul &
Associates.

She would work hard.

She turned the knob, ready to take her place right next to her uncle.

She was going to be a star.

Kathleen wanted to cry.

Her cubicle at Dorty & Breyer was better turned out than the offices of
O'Doul & Associates.  Kathleen looked behind her to make sure this door
wasn't the gateway to a time warp.

The rug, brown flecked with beige, was shag and worn near the door. She
turned twice, eyes down as her navy-and-white spectators did a little
dance on the offending carpet.  The floors should have been hardwood
and gleaming ... at the very least carpeted in a tight-weave. New
England gray, bright and well cared for.  The walls were covered with
grass cloth, yellowed in places where the light came through the
old-fashioned blinds.

Kathleen's knees wobbled, but she refrained from sitting down for fear
the chairs in the corner were what they seemed-naugahyde rather than
real leather.  There was a desk but no receptionist, a
less-than-streamlined console but no calls.  There was an ashtray the
size of Texas, rough and fired in chocolate brown, like the pots sold
at the Banning street fair.  A basket with a dusty silk plant nestled
tight in the corner as if it knew that this was a fake foliage
graveyard; Gerry O'Doul's office was a nightmare of seventies chic. She
hated the seventies but, above all, Kathleen hated the silence.

"Hi!"

Kathleen almost jumped out of her skin.  She was on the last quarter
turn of her little shuffle, stopping cold as she came full circle.

"I'm sorry.  Didn't mean to scare you."

The girl smiled.  Her hair was long, dark, and straight.  Big, round,
thick glasses magnified her eyes.  A skirt that had the look of Bette's
Banning Boutique swirled about her ankles.

Kathleen closed her eyes briefly and realized that the thought made her
homesick.  If she left now, she could make it back in time to beg Jay
for her old job.  She could apologize to Cherie for her arrogance.  She
could.... Her lashes fluttered.  Her eyes opened.  She couldn't do a
thing until she got out of this place.

"It's okay.  I'm sorry, too.  I'm not usually so jumpy."

"Are you here to see Mr.  O'Doul?"

An imaginary tail tickled between Kathleen's legs as a big neon NO
flashed so brightly in her brain she was sure it seared right through
to her forehead.  Then conscience kicked in and shame came with it.
Gerry O'Doul hadn't promised her a pot of gold; she'd just assumed he
was sitting on it.  On the other hand, looks could be deceiving. People
were always telling her that, weren't they?  Maybe he just didn't like
to spend money on furniture.  Maybe all the associates were out to
lunch.  She clutched her bag.  Who was she kidding?  The law offices of
Gerry O'Doul had stopped functioning.  There was nothing deceiving
about that.

"Yes, I am."  She would just say hello.

"Is he expecting you?"

"Yes."  She felt sick.  He would see how wrong this was, too.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember an appointment, miss."  The girl's eyes
narrowed, elongating behind the amazing glasses.

"You're not.  No ... you couldn't be.  You're not Mr.  O'Doul's niece
are you?"

"Kathleen Cotter."  Kathleen's hand went out.  She was on automatic
pilot.  The girl looked at it, then back up at Kathleen.

"He said you were well, he just said I mean he didn't say you looked
like ..."  Kathleen's brow beetled.  The girl seemed so horribly
uncomfortable.  Kathleen's outstretched hand was getting heavy.

"I'm sorry.  Hey, sure.  Miss Cotter.

He's really been looking forward to your coming.  So've I. It can get
really lonesome around here sometimes."  The girl shifted the bag she
was carrying into the crook of her arm and took Kathleen's hand and
shook it vigorously.  The scent of eggs, bacon, and salsa floated
between them.

"I'm Becky.  I do the books.  I do other stuff, too."

"Kathleen," she said stupidly.

"Yeah, you said.  I just didn't want to seem too familiar.

Mr.  O'Doul is so proud of you.  I know all about you.  His niece the
lawyer.  He was tickled pink when he got your letter about your
mother."  Becky's mouth rounded to an 0 of self-recrimination.

"Oh, I didn't mean he was tickled to hear your mom died.  He was
tickled to hear from you because he always wondered how you were doing.
He used to tell me all about when you were a kid.  I've heard it for
ages, how much he adored you."

Kathleen lowered her eyes to check for shackles around her ankles.
Becky had just slapped them on and thrown away the key.  Kathleen
couldn't have felt more disloyal.

"How long have you worked here?"  Kathleen moved with her toward the
desk.  Becky sat herself down along with her brown bag and Styrofoam
cup.

"Want some?"  she asked, ripping open the bag and holding out something
that looked as if it might be alive.  It was a breakfast burrito that
could have fed half of Banning.  Kathleen shook her head.

"How long have you been here?"  she asked again.

"Working with Mr.  O'Doul, I mean?"

"It seems like forever," Becky took a bite of her burrito.

Kathleen's stomach lurched.  She wasn't feeling well at all.  To be
forever in brown-shag heaven with the real Beverly Hills only steps
away was as overwhelming a thought as was the scent of Becky's
breakfast.  Kathleen moved a step away.  Then she realized that wasn't
all that made her stomach churn.  There was something else in the air.
It was the smell of failure.  Failure and breakfast burritos.  She
could get both in Banning.

"A long time," Kathleen muttered.  Becky was just too happy to be
specific.

"Let's see, I've been coming in three days a week for about two years.
Then last year he cut me down to two days a week.

I do the books, you know, just whatever he needs done."  She leaned
forward as if she and Kathleen were old friends.

"To tell you the truth, I think he has me come in 'cause he's
lonely."

Kathleen's heart stopped beating.  Lonely was a word she'd heard once
too often from old people.  Hearing it now, Kathleen knew what was
really bothering her.  The offices of Gerry O'Doul reminded her of a
sickroom.

Slowly she willed her heart to beat again even as her mother's voice
niggled at the back of her mind.  Kathleen could hear her discourse:
Shame on you for being so shallow, so self-centered, so mean-spirited.
Stay where you're needed.  That's what the young do.

Fine, Mother.  Fine.

She was all those miserable things.  Selfish, shallow, and self
centered  She'd do penance.  But if she didn't get one really good
reason to stay, she'd walk out the door because she wasn't that young
anymore and she had already paid a peck of dues.

"What about his clients?  He must need you more often than that to deal
with his clients?"

"Oh, sure.  We see clients now and again.  But mostly he just leaves me
paper stuff to do.  He just leaves it for me in this box."  She touched
something to the side of her desk.  Indeed, it was a box, one that was
covered with shelf-paper.  There was nothing in it, and Becky didn't
seem to mind at all.

"He goes to court, too."

Becky brightened as she tried to paint a glowing picture of O'Doul;
unfortunately it was obviously faded after its years in the spotlight.
Lord, what had happened?  Gerry O'Doul.

Defender of the Road Warrior.  Gerry O'Doul, a man she had studied
about in law school.  Gerry O'Doul, beloved and dapper uncle, rake who
had deserted her and whom she had still loved through the years.  She
was in the wrong office.  This was the wrong Gerry O'Doul.

"I feel really bad eating in front of you."  Kathleen blinked at Becky.
She'd been dreaming.  Not just for a moment but for years.  Becky
grinned.

"Are you sure you don't want to share?

You know, Mr.  O'Doul will be here any minute.  He called before I ran
out and said he'd be up in a few minutes."  Becky put her feet up on an
open drawer.

"Between you and me, I think he's gone off to the barber.  He wanted to
look real special for you.  I kind of got the feeling it's been awhile
since you two have seen each other.  I mean, maybe there was some kind
of, well, you know ... kind of maybe a falling ou--" Suddenly Becky
shook her head.

"Boy, you sure don't look like I imagined you would."

It was time to go.  Kathleen didn't want to be a twenty-year old
part-time receptionist's best friend.  She didn't want to be a
thirty-year-old, out-of-work attorney.  She didn't want to be in a
place where she'd be surrounded by opportunity and not have the tools
to take advantage of it.  Gerry O'Doul was not powerful, rich, or
successful anymore, and she wasn't fifteen and gangly.  She knew
exactly how she looked, tall and big and noticeable.  Blond and
full-chested and full-hipped if she were to put a fashionable spin on
things.  The last thing Kathleen wanted was to have this girl
constantly reminding her that she wasn't what was expected either.  In
another minute, her heart would break.

Without another word, only a mumble of apology--as much to the absent
Gerry O'Doul as the curious receptionist Becky-Kathleen Cotter fled.
Reaching for the door, sidestepping toward it, head turning so she
wouldn't have to look at Becky's surprised and unsatisfied expression,
Kathleen took her leave.

But the powers that be weren't ready to make it easy on her.

As if on cue, the door opened, but not for her to run through.

The man of the hour had arrived.

"Kathleen Cotter."  Gerry O'Doul smiled and the heavens opened up.

"Look what a beautiful woman you have become."

Kathleen's shoulders dropped.  She almost swooned.  Not because she was
disappointed her escape had been foiled, but because she had no idea
how much she'd missed him.  Damned if she weren't happy to see him.
How wonderful, after all her lonely years with her parents, to have
arms held out to her in welcome.  There wasn't much to do but walk
right into them.

She stayed put instead.

"Uncle Gerry?"

"Sure, do you have to ask?"  he chided with a gentle chuckle.

Dropping his arms, he took no offense that she hadn't come to him.  He
understood how time worked.  It stretched so far that one couldn't see
the happy beginning with so great a distance behind them.  And time
could be cruel when it snapped back, jumbling the joy s and
disappointments into a great confusing bubble.  They would discover one
another again in another length of time or an explosive moment.  He
didn't have as much time as she, but there would be enough.  Of that he
was sure.

"No."  She tripped over the word and tried again.

"No."

She shook her head.

"I'd have known you anywhere."  She smiled truly as the shock wore off.
He smiled back, broadly, to her demure expression.  A Hallmark moment.
Kathleen hadn't believed in them until now.  She would have preferred
they remained a thing of the imagination.

"Then let's get reacquainted, for sure I'd not have known you
anywhere."

With that, he came to her and took her elbow, gentleman that he was.
Graciously, he steered her across the horrid brown shag and past
Becky's desk as if they were gliding across a dance floor.  He was
leading, and the dance would be a spirited tango.  He tilted his head
to confide in her but spoke to her shoulder.  Kathleen was so much
taller.

"Vile food she eats, but you'll find her just the ticket when you need
work done.  You two girls will get along just fine."

He patted Kathleen's hand and sent a smile Becky's way.

Kathleen looked over her shoulder to see the last bit of egg stuffed
tortilla disappear into Becky's mouth as she looked fondly at Gerry
O'Doul.  Kathleen could swear there was a teardrop in the corner of the
secretary's eye.  Thankfully, Kathleen wasn't as given to high
emotion.

All she had was a lump in her throat.

Kathleen inched across the room, deftly stepping over the small tear
in the carpet as she looked at the wall of pictures.

Hanging there, caught in his prime, was the Gerry O'Doul she
remembered.  Her uncle Gerry was dapper with his well-styled silver
hair and perpetual tan.  He'd looked ageless then just as he did in
these pictures.  There he was with Sam Yorty, the diminutive mayor who
ran Los Angeles before the San Diego Freeway ran through it.  Gerry
with Cardinal Mclntyre.  Gerry with Chief Davis.  Gerry with Ronald
Reagan.  Gerry with ... "Here you are, my girl."  hair.

Kathleen blinked and looked away from the pictures.  The wavy silver
hair was gone, leaving only a meticulously slicked down fringe of white
and a few long strands that lay across his otherwise bald dome.  Gerry
smiled, underscoring the fact that his narrow face was no longer cut
and clipped but gently cradled by his fine bone structure.  His
translucent skin was barely wrinkled, but it was lightly spotted with
age.  His ears were bigger than she remembered.

"Kathleen?"

She shook her head and focused on his eyes.  They still sparkled but
the deep blue had faded like well-washed denim.

He held a crystal champagne flute toward her, a bottle of champagne sat
sweating in an equally impressive silver bucket on his exquisitely
carved desk.  Here, in his inner sanctum, were the last trappings of
his heyday.  She looked away.  She couldn't bear to be surrounded by
reminders of what had been if she were Gerry O'Doul.  She couldn't bear
to look at these reminders that she was too late.  This wasn't the
opportunity she had imagined, not the chance she had counted on.

"Thank you.  Uncle Gerry," she said quietly.

Gerry lay the edge of his flute against hers.  The ting made Kathleen
think of the final drink on New Year's Eve.  Kathleen never cared for
New Year's Eve.  It always meant the end of another uneventful year
rather than the beginning of an exciting new one.  Kathleen sipped. The
glass stem was heavy between her fingers, the lip fragile beneath her
own; as heavy as her heart, as frail as her emotions.

"I can't believe how you've grown," Gerry said.

"Tall," Kathleen muttered, both hands now grasping the flute.

"And beautiful.  How you ever became so glamorous is beyond me.  Your
mother never was one for fashion."

"Mom was sick for a long time.  She watched television.  I looked at
magazines."

Kathleen stiffened, embarrassed that she had shared even that much with
him.  Magazines had been her inspiration, her training ground for the
real world when she would finally be free to step into it.  She'd
learned her lesson well, but the world was disappointing her now.  She
wanted Gerry to understand it had been hard and lonely in those rooms;
she wanted him to know how much she'd longed for the life he had.  She
wanted him to see her disappointment.

Gerry didn't seem to notice, his joy was so great, and she couldn't
bring herself to tell him exactly how she felt.

"Look at you, Kathleen.  Sure, didn't I think Jean Harlow was waiting
for me when I came in.  A tall Jean Harlow to be sure.  I usually don't
like a woman's hair short like that, but on you it's wonderful.  So
tall and shapely, and dressing like a woman should.  Feminine.  That's
what women have forgotten.

A brain, too.  Ah, but aren't you a class act, Kathleen Cotter.

You'll be the darling' of the press.  The judges won't be able to
resist you."  He raised his glass again and drank to the glory that was
his niece.

"Uncle Gerry, please--" Kathleen twisted her shoulders.

Big.  That's how her mother had described her.  Her father had never
managed more than a glance after puberty and hardly more than that
before.  She put herself together well, and Gerry was kind.  But Gerry
was also blind in his old age.

"Now, now," Gerry laughed, "we can't have any of that, now, can we?  No
uncle in here.  These are the offices of Gerry O'Doul & Associates, and
I am here toasting the best associate a man could have.  I'm so proud
of you, Kathleen.  Passing the bar and all.  I wish I had known sooner.
I wish ..."

The light in his eyes dimmed.  Kathleen turned away, embarrassingly
aware of the years of silence that stood between them.

Gerry moved past her, full of vim and vigor.  He'd had enough of the
moment.

"So, you like my pictures?"

"I always loved your pictures.  Mom used to show me every one."  She
reached out and touched one she remembered best.

When she had first seen it, her hands had been dirty from playing her
child games; now, her nails were filed ovals and painted to match her
lips.  She had changed.

"You're the reason I became a lawyer.  I wanted to be just like you."

"And so you are like me.  You inherited my genes.  Style and brains."
He gave her a wink and chuckled.  His collar bobbed about his neck like
a starched life preserver.  He grinned.

Could it be that he really didn't sense her despair, her absolute shock
to find him in such a state?

"I can't exactly say I followed in your footsteps."  She moved away,
suddenly tired and needing to rest.  No, not rest.

She needed distance.  She needed to try this all over again with a
completely different result.

"You know, I haven't really been doing the kind of work I'm sure you
need help with.  Dorty & Breyer is just a small office in a strip mall.
Uncle Gerry."

He held up a finger and waggled it at her.  Kathleen smiled weakly.

"Gerry, I mean."  She tried again.

"What I'm trying to say is, I don't really think I have the skills you
need in an associate.

It was wrong of me to lead you on.  I should have sent a resume after
you asked me to come here.  This is Beverly Hills, after all."  She
looked around and out the window, as if trying to re assure herself
that was a true statement.

"I don't think I'm " "Now, don't you sell yourself short, Kathleen,"
Gerry O'Doul clucked.  "I wouldn't have asked you here if I thought you
couldn't do the job.  I know in my bones you're a fine lawyer.  It's
not all knowing the law.  It's the image that counts.

Image is half of everything, don't I know?  Just look at you.

Dressed so smartly.  A knockout.  A voice that will sing like the
angels to a jury as soon as we get something to take to court.  That's
important, Kathleen, the voice I mean."  Kathleen opened her mouth to
use the voice he so admired, but he was like a verbal dervish.

"And smart, Kathleen.  I can see you're smart.  It's behind your eyes.
But more than that, you're a woman of substance."

"Uncle Gerry, please."  Her hands were clammy.  Someone had turned up
the heat.

"Don't deny it.  Most young lawyers aren't like you."  Gerry set aside
his champagne flute and sat back in his high-back chair.  It almost
engulfed him.  He looked right at her and, for a brief and unnerving
instant, she saw the man who had so courageously wielded his persuasive
powers in court for decades.  His gaze was steadfast, his eyes deep
with thought, his decision-making powers sure in a world that often
waffled.

"You are a decent person, Kathleen, and that's why the law needs you.
That's why I need you.  I believe your letter was a sign.  I was almost
ready to quit."

Kathleen was stunned, then she grabbed the straw.

"You're at an age when you should retire, Gerry," she insisted,
slipping onto a chair, leaning over his desk, and giving him a
sincerely concerned look.

"I said quit, Kathleen.  There's a difference.  I know what you saw
when you walked in here.  This isn't the poshest address I've ever had.
Times changed.  Fashions changed.  It wasn't that I lacked the skill,
Kathleen; I lacked the style people wanted in their lawyers.  I would
never deal from the bottom of any deck.  I won cases based on the law
of the land and my wits, not the entertainment value of a defense. When
people stopped wanting that, I couldn't change.  But now I see the
pendulum swinging again.  I've watched, I've listened.  It's time for
me to move again.  I'm just not as spry as I used to be.  I simply
can't do it on my own.  Who else could I trust to see the vision but
you, Kathleen?  Even as a child you recognized that one must never give
up on a dream."

Kathleen half started out of her chair, frustrated and set in motion by
her own guilt.  She didn't want Gerry O'Doul to need her.  She'd
fulfilled her familial obligations long ago.  She had been nurse to her
mother, scapegoat for her father.  She had done everything that was
expected of her.  Half her life had been given to the discharge of
those responsibilities, and she wouldn't take them up again.

"You don't even know me.  Uncle Gerry.  I was a girl in high school
when you last saw me.  A lot has happened since then, and some of it
I'm not too happy about."

"You're right.  High school was a long while ago.  But now I see the
woman who sits here, and I can see your life behind your eyes.  I know
that you sacrificed a career to care for your mother.  I know your
father was difficult to live with."

"No, that's not how it was.  I just didn't do anything to change my
life or my job," she insisted, uncomfortable with the heroic role in
which he tried to cast her.  He was supposed to be the hero.

"And you lived in a small town where opportunities were limited."
Another excuse became forgiving fact.

"I didn't have the ambition, Gerry; that's why I haven't done more and
gone further."  She scooted farther up in her chair and laid her arms
across his desk, her hands folded as if pleading with him to stop
recasting her so she could stop putting herself down.  He was giving
her credit for high-minded decisions when, in reality, her life had
been comfortable and had slipped away from her and part of it was his
fault.  He'd left just when she'd dared to dream.

Unaware of her pain, Gerry twisted the knife with a loving nourish.

"And you took the opportunity when it came along.

Smart girl!  Beautiful girl.  My niece for sure."

That stopped her.  Kathleen looked away.  That, at least, was true. She
had taken the opportunity he'd held out to her.  This time she couldn't
blame him when she was the one who had done the taking.

"Uncle Gerry ..."

"Gerry."

"I appreciate all this, but I can't stay.  I can't work with you."

Her hands slid off the desk and into her lap.  The blue dress, the
white piping, the red nails.  She should be waving the flag instead of
burning her bridges.  The thought of going back to Banning, a hot and
barren place with small-town problems, was so hard to imagine.  But she
wouldn't be an old maid holding the arm of a legal legend as he limped
toward one last hurrah.  Better a small fish in a small pond than a bit
of muck in the Koi pool.

"Kathleen."

Gerry O'Doul's voice lost its vitality, and Kathleen couldn't look at
him.  She could be mediocre without his help, but she couldn't face
being a shadow on the wrong side of the bright streets of Beverly
Hills.

"Uncle Gerry, I just didn't think it would be so overwhelming  She
offered a small and useless shrug, knowing now she would never tell him
the whole truth, but this miserable reunion had to come to an end.

"So, it's not disappointment.  Well, 'isn't that nice to know?

You had me worried."  Gerry nodded sagely and Kathleen knew, whatever
he was thinking, he was off base.  "Beverly Hills is a world away from
Banning, isn't it, Kathleen?  My goodness, of course you didn't think
it would be so overwhelming did you?  Don't you worry; you'll get used
to it.  We'll be such a team.  We'll be having the old office in no
time.  Did I tell you I had a view of Chanel?  They used to know me in
there.  For Christmas, all my lady clients received a bag from Chanel. 
Those days will come again."  Gerry O'Doul leaned across his desk, his
face alight, his narrow shoulders ready for some weight.

"It's all about style, Kathleen.  Style and character and brains.  You
have all three.  I will make the rain; together, we'll make the
strategy and I'll send you off to adventures in the law that you have
only dreamed of.  It can happen, Kathleen.

I know it can.  You must believe, too.  You must."

"But, Uncle Gerry ..."

At that feeble attempt at objection, the door flew open with such force
that it sent the pictures on the wall ashivering.

Kathleen twirled in her chair, spilling some of her champagne on her
new dress.  Gerry hardly moved, though it sounded like the earthly
plates were on the skids.  Her last thought of Gerry O'Doul was that,
on top of everything else, he must be hard of-hearing.  Then Kathleen
Cotter sat still and allowed her senses to be assaulted by the images
and colors and sounds that made up the formidable presence of Louise
Brooker.

Chapter Two

"You've got to do something, Gerry.  Whatever it is you have to do, I
want it done now.  Got it?  Go to court.  Sue those bastards at the
insurance company.  I want you to grind 'em to a pulp.  I want you to
chew 'em up and spit 'em out."

Kathleen snorted a laugh.  The image of Gerry O'Doul chewing anything
other than three-minute-eggs was funny.  But Louise Brooker gave
Kathleen a look that would curdle milk, so Kathleen stopped laughing.
She rearranged herself to get a better view, but Louise was moving
behind her chair, breathing fire.  Kathleen twirled herself the other
way just in time to see Louise plant herself to the right of Gerry's
desk.  Not only was Gerry cool under fire, he seemed to sit a little
taller in his chair, energized by the woman's fury.  He looked at the
banshee with the seriousness of a judge.  It was clear that every word
falling from those rather generous lips was of the utmost import.  The
lady--and Kathleen used the term lightly--put her large hands on the
desk, fingers splayed.

Her nails were painted the palest pink.  Small diamonds, implanted on
each talon like tip, twinkled from all except the middle one.  On that
was etched the most marvelous miniature of Elvis Presley, resplendent
in his white jumpsuit.  Those nails seemed strange on a woman who
reminded Kathleen of a bull terrier.  Her chest came into the room well
before she did.

Big, broad shoulders were thrown back to hold up the whole shebang.
That half of her body seemed precariously perched atop nonexistent hips
and the skinniest legs Kathleen had ever seen.  The woman was an
inverted triangle curiously posted on big feet crushed into a pair of
high-heeled, plat formed patent leather slides.  Barbie-doll feet came
to mind.  On her back was a white-leather jacket studded with a rainbow
of faux jewels that matched the ones on each finger of her hand.  Her
skirt was leather, too--the kind that goes from cow's carcass to yours
for $29.95.  Her hair was big; her mouth was big; her eyes were small,
and Gerry O'Doul's attention was all hers.
"Louise, my dear girl.  What
brings you here in such a state?

Sit down.  Sit down properly in a chair."  Two lovely roses of color
bloomed on the apples of his cheeks.

Standing, Gerry came round the desk.  Graciously, he held the chair
next to Kathleen.  Louise looked at it, then gave Kathleen the
once-over as if she expected Kathleen to move.  Kathleen couldn't have
moved if she'd wanted to, and she didn't want to.  The woman sat in the
chair Gerry held, albeit reluctantly.

"I thought you were Melanie Griffith, for a minute.  You're not."
Kathleen was of no more interest.  The lady opened her mouth and
Kathleen could swear she saw words forming deep in that cavern.

"Gerry, they turned me down.  They won't give me my money!  Look at
this."

She unzipped her large bag with intertwined G's printed all over it.
Kathleen was hit broadside by a scent of questionable taste.  Louise
fumbled inside and pulled out an envelope that had a streak of waxy
color on one end.  It matched her lips.

Kathleen had leaned close to watch her progress until Louise gave her
the evil eye and pulled her bag close.  When Kathleen was safely away,
Louise tossed the envelope Gerry's way.

Clandestinely, she searched in her bag again and came up with the top
and bottom of the wayward lipstick.  She put them back together,
talking the whole time.

"Those stupid idiots at that insurance company denied my claim.  They
told me I couldn't have Lionel's benefits.  I don't understand it.  It
was part of the deal.  We went to court.  You got me that money.  Not
that we ever, ever expected ... well, you know ... but damn, I want my
money."
"Louise was Lionel Brooker's wife," Gerry explained.  Kathleen
nodded and raised a hand, hoping to get a word in edgewise and escape.
She wasn't quick enough.

"Ex-wife, thanks to you," she cooed, lobbing the ball gently back
Gerry's way.

"It wasn't a terribly difficult divorce," he admitted humbly.

"Only because you handled it so well."  Louise pursed her lips and
threw Gerry a kiss.  Gerry blushed, pleasing his client.

A tingle of distaste ran up Kathleen's spine.

"But Lionel died.  Tragic."  Gerry shook his head sadly.

Kathleen swung toward Louise and waited for the explanation she knew
would come.  It wasn't the one she expected.

"Jerk.  Idiot.  Asshole," Louise cried.  She gave Kathleen a curt look,
"

"Scuse me.  But the man did it on purpose."

"He died on purpose?"  Kathleen crossed her legs; her skirt slid up an
inch.  Louise watched, assessed the competition, and then checked out
her own gams.  Satisfied of her superiority, she then satisfied
Kathleen's curiosity.

"I suppose a lady would put it that way, but I've never been accused of
being a lady."  This didn't seem to bother her.

"The fool killed himself.  He killed himself on purpose.  Get it?
Suicide," she explained to Kathleen, the idiot child.

"Look, look."  She reached over the desk and took the paper from Gerry,
handing it to Kathleen.  A pink, diamonded nail poked at the third
paragraph of the letter.

"Lady, if you're divorcing your husband, you take this lesson to heart.
I was supposed to get his life insurance if he died.  I was supposed to
still be paid for the years--the best years!--I gave him when he was
alive.

I never thought he'd die; but just in case, you know, we got a little
something extra.  Fate is funny.  I read my horoscope every day, and I
know how fickle things can be.  So Gerry," she batted her lashes
Gerry's way.  Prom her profile Kathleen could see those lashes were no
more real than her formidable breasts.
"Gerry went to court.  He
convinced the judge that I needed to be cared for in the event of my
ex-husband's death.  You're a man among men, Gerry.  You saw how hard
it was for me to cope after the divorce.  I have no skills...."

Back to Kathleen.

"So then the fool dies.  In the John where he works, no less.

Ugh."  She shivered and the light from her faux jewels danced across
her rigid jaw.

"I don't know that I'd expect anything less.  He was a wimp.  Worked in
an anthill, lived in the forest, died in the John in a stall.  He hid
from the world.  No backbone."

"Louise, please.  You said yourself Lionel was a good man," Gerry
reminded her, but her memory was more selective.

"I thought he was a good man with a future," Louise shot back,
forgetting her Sunday manners.  This was a woman-thing anyway.  She put
one hand on the arm of Kathleen's chair, conspiratorially.  With the
other, she reached for Kathleen's champagne and downed it in one
gulp.

"You know what I mean.  The disappointment in finding out the man you
love isn't the man you think he is can be devastating.  It's all about
character and ambition.  Well, old Lionel had plenty of character, but
he had the balls of a flea.  A woman can't live with a man like that.
Not a woman like me, with needs.  You understand?

Now it seems he didn't even have any character either.

I was duped."  She lowered her lashes and patted Kathleen's forearm.

"That means taken advantage of, honey."  She didn't wait for Kathleen
to indicate she understood.

"He was wily.

All that sweetness and accommodating crap.  The man planned and schemed
and did it on purpose just to spite me.  He did it on purpose, and I
want justice."

"Kathleen, please?"  Gerry motioned for the letter.  It passed between
them.  Gerry pulled out his glasses and looked again as Kathleen looked
at him.  Concentrating on business, Gerry dropped the solicitous
attitude and checked out the document.

When he looked up, that sweet, sweet smile was in place.
"Louise, I
would be doing you a disservice if I told you the insurance company
wasn't within their rights.  Have you read the policy?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, the insurance company knows what's in their documents.  There
was a twenty-four-month exclusion, Louise.  If Lionel did himself in
within twenty-four months of the issuance of the policy, the policy
became null and void.  They owe you nothing."  He shook his head and
passed the letter back.  Louise ignored it.

"What do they know?  This isn't a situation like in the policy.

I mean, that's talking about a crazy person, and, believe me, I know
Lionel wasn't crazy.  What I didn't know was how mad he was at me.  He
planned this, Gerry, down to the last minute of his life.  I know that
as well as I know my own name.  If he was nothing else, Lionel was the
smartest man I know.  He read everything.  He knew everything.  He
understood this policy, and he waited until he knew it was the right
time.  This was like a big joke.  I tell you, Gerry, he knew about this
thing this exclusion deal and he killed himself just before we made it
over the hump.  One lousy day to go.  And I admired that twerp long
enough to marry him.  I thought if nothing else he was on the
up-and-up.  Now I see he was just like every other man.  Selfish.
Selfish.  Selfish."

Kathleen opened her mouth, raised a finger.  Who was she to point out
that Louise was the one who had married the man in the first place? Who
was she in any of this except someone who wanted to leave in the worst
way?

"I think I should just come back some other time," Kathleen said
quietly, hoping to escape under cover of Louise's barrage.

"Louise."  Gerry chuckled.

"Gerry."  She talked over him, then glared at Kathleen, who sat back
down rather than disturb her further.

"I don't want to hear about it.  I don't want any double-talk, and I
sure as heck don't want to sit here and chat.  I just want to go to
court."
"I have no double-talk for you, Louise, but I would be remiss
if I didn't tell you that you don't have a leg to stand on, dear.

The agreement is very clear.  I tell you that in front of a witness.

I would be hard-pressed to take your money fighting a cause like this."
He gave Kathleen a look filled to bursting with such embarrassing
affection she thought she'd die.

"Money, schmoney," Louise scoffed.

"It's the principle of the thing.  I want what's mine.  I want it if it
takes forever.

Honey--" She poked Kathleen with the pads of her fingers for fear of
breaking a nail.  "--you watch.  I'll get what's mine.

You take note.  Now--" back to Gerry "--let's get the ball rolling."

"Well, if you insist."  Gerry stood up and gave Louise a bow, walked
around the desk, and was at the door with his hand on the knob when she
shrieked at his back.

"Gerry!  I want to get started now."

"Of course, Louise," Gerry said sweetly as he slipped through the
door.

"I'm leaving you in the best of hands.  Kathleen Cotter, this is Louise
Brooker, your client.  Louise, this is Kathleen Cotter, one of the best
attorneys on the face of God's green earth and the newest associate
ofO'Doul & Associates."

There were five Styrofoam cups on the desk in front of Kathleen.  Four
sported perfect, pink lip-prints.  The hue had an underlying neon glow
that undulated against the white spongy stuff.  The fifth was still
untouched, filled with cold coffee the color of bark.  Even a
more-than-healthy serving of cream couldn't make the coffee palatable.
Fortunately, the client's taste was broader.  She seemed to love the
stuff.

The coffee suited Louise just fine, as did the chair in which she sat.
Louise Brooker had made herself right at home while Kathleen was still
trying to shake herself out of the shock that she had somehow become a
functioning employee of O'Doul & Associates.  During the last few hours
Kathleen had stepped into the outer office to chat with Gerry about
this odd turn of events only to find that he'd flown the coop.  Louise
had squawked that time was awastin', so Kathleen had returned, vowing
only to take notes so Gerry could pick up where she left off.  After
the third hour, Kathleen stopped taking notes and started wondering how
she was ever going to stop Louise from talking.

"Did I tell you how we met?"  She popped another breath mint.

Kathleen shook her head, trying to regroup and keep her eyes from
crossing.  Her eyes itched.  She wanted to rub them but resisted the
urge, knowing she would only succeed in annihilating the eyeliner on
one eye while leaving the other intact.

Unfortunately, Louise took that negative little shake and the quick
blink of Kathleen's eyes as a sign that she had somehow missed a really
important part of her story.  She launched, once again, into the saga
of Lionel and Louise.

"We met in college.  Well, I wasn't really in college.  I was
waitressing at What a Dish Pizza just around the corner from where
Lionel was living.  He used to come in all the time.  A cheese man.
Simple, you know.  I swear, I think of it now, the place where he
lived, and I think it really wasn't more than a flophouse.  But he was
a college man.  He seemed so romantic.

Suffering before conquering the world, you know."  She waved her hand
in the air and Elvis went flying.  Mesmerized, Kathleen watched--the
pink lips, the pink nails, the blue-shaded eyes that never left hers.
She had to give Louise credit.  She looked you in the eye when she
talked.

"Anyway, I thought it was just damn romantic.  This guy with long
hair--my, he was pretty!--kind of slim, with those hip-huggers they
used to wear in the sixties.  He was like, from another time.  I wasn't
that old when I met him, so that's probably what marred my judgment
about Lionel."  This time the painted Elvis found its way beneath the
beehive hairdo and gave her head a little scratch.  Kathleen decided
this was Louise Brooker's equivalent to Pinocchio's nose-growing.

"Mrs.  Brooker, I think ..."

Kathleen's voice seemed to strike a chord.  Louise leaned forward.  She
wasn't about to lose her audience.  The nails danced on the wood.
Kathleen sat up straighter, her posture even more perfect in defiance
of Louise's proposed domination.  It didn't help.  Louise could talk
faster than Kathleen could become indignant.

"Well, it doesn't matter how old I was, does it?  I married him.  We
did it in a field--I don't mean did it."  She guffawed at this
seemingly hilarious double entendre, and Kathleen saw that beneath the
flamingo-pink lips, Louise Brooker had a charming over bite  She
smiled.  A mistake.  Louise, egged on by Kathleen's obvious distaste
for her humor, charged ahead.

"And don't call me Mrs.  Brooker.  Where was I?  Yeah.  Okay.

I meant, we got married in a field.  I had this great dress.  Spent
every last dime I had on it.  Figured, what'd I need money for?

Lionel was about ready to graduate with a degree in business
management.  He was going to graduate school while he worked.  It was
going to be wonderful!"  Storm clouds darkened the horizon of her
memory.

"The jerk.  The idiot.  He promised me the world--right there in our
wedding vows--the world!"

Louise flopped back against the chair, her lips pulled tight.

Her over bite now seemed predatory.  She was mad.  Kathleen was
fascinated.  Riding Louise's emotional roller coaster was an
eye-opening experience.  Kathleen ran her fingers through the spiky,
long, almost-platinum bangs, then let her head rest on her hand.
"Well,
Lionel had a pretty funny view of the world.  I thought he meant we'd
be on easy street, you know?  Stuff.  Clothes and traveling.  Maybe go
to Graceland.  Maybe get me a diamond.

Maybe even a house.  I didn't really want kids, but what the heck.  If
he held up his part of the bargain and wanted a few little
yard-monkeys, I'd oblige.  But noooooo.  Lionel wanted to be part of
the world.  I mean really part of it!  Geez, can you imagine?  He
wanted to commune with it.  Every hour he wasn't working, he was out
listening to the sound of the wind, reading poetry, walking in the damn
fields.  It was one thing to be married in one; I didn't want to live
in one."

Louise closed her eyes, thinking back and back, her edges softening
with each memory that presented itself."

"I don't know, I think I really did love him at first.  I mean, there
were so many things.  He was gentle.  He was kind.  He thought of
others before himself.  I liked that.  Always others before himself."

She smiled sweetly, her eyes still closed.  Then they opened, narrow
little slits through which sparkled eyes that had been opthamologically
altered to match her shadow.

"And then that all got so damn annoying, if you know what I mean.  Ever
had anyone do everything you wanted?"

"No, I haven't."  Thrown off guard, Kathleen's intent to dominate
deflated.  Her mind's eye flitted over three-dimensional memories of an
overbearing and didactic father, a mother who was so cautious and
needy that Kathleen had caught her fear of everything for a while.
Finally there was Jim Parley, her fiance, a man who, like a boy, was
easily satisfied.  Kathleen had mistaken that quality for maturity and
contentment.  She had been an idiot.  She had waited and waited for the
kind of passion Louise talked about.  This woman scoffed at it;
Kathleen just now understood that she would kill for it.

"No, I've never had anyone want to give me the world," Kathleen said
quietly.  She was half out of her chair when Louise waved her down.
Kathleen stood up.

"Figures."  Louise wasn't ready to let her go.

"It was a war of the wills.  You don't know how awful it can be. Lionel
would be listening to his whale-noise recording and I'd say, "How can
you listen to that stuff?"  Next thing, there'd be country western on
the stereo.  He knew I liked country-western.  He'd put the whale-noise
tape away in its own little place till I'd go out shopping or
something.  He'd fix dinner.  I'd say, "Aren't we ever going to have
anything except vegetables?"  Next night, there'd be a big steak.  That
sort of thing just bugged me, you know, 'cause I don't think he got any
pleasure out of that kind of stuff.  I think he just did it 'cause he
was a worm."

"Maybe he loved you," Kathleen suggested impatiently.

Louise snorted and eyed Kathleen.  There was a challenge there, but
Kathleen didn't know what game they were playing.

She tried again.

"Maybe he was afraid of you."  Kathleen understood that.

"Me?"  Louise chortled as if that alone were enough to debunk such a
theory.

"There'd be no reason.  I never hit him.

I yelled a lot, but Lionel just told me he loved my spirit.  Hey, I
gave him spirit.  I gave it to him for ten years.  The best years of my
life.  Now look at me.  Used goods.  That's why Gerry could get me that
insurance policy.  He knew what was what.

He's a good attorney.  I hope you're going to be just as good.

I don't know.  You sure you've been practicing long enough?

You look kind of young to me."

"I'm old enough."  Kathleen sighed.

"But I don't think I'll be handling this matter.  I'm helping Mr.
O'Doul out today...."

"I meant you just looked young for a lawyer.  That's all,"

Louise ignored the last part of Kathleen's statement.  Elvis and her
four other fingers were back in her hair.  This time she was patting it
around, fidgeting with all the nooks and crannies.

Louise was ready to explode.  She was a too-sexy-for-the-world
and-not-ready-to-go-over-the-hill babe and she seemed to find Kathleen
Cotter less than acceptable.

"Hey, look, Kathleen, I know it's tough for someone like you to
understand, but I spent a long time trying to make Lionel happy.  The
judge knew that.  Everybody knew I didn't have anything to fall back on
after we divorced.  I wasn't any college educated person who could go
out and call up a good-paying job just like that."  She snapped her
fingers and made a lovely little pop.

"I just wanted a little insurance for my old age in case I didn't find
the right guy for me, in case something happened to Lionel and he
couldn't pay the alimony.  I just want a little bit for myself.  I
deserve it, know what I mean?"

"I do, Louise.  I truly do," Kathleen said, never taking her eyes off
the other woman.  Kathleen had lived her whole life with people who
deserved one thing or another.

To look at them, they were as different as night and day, but that one
word, deserve, made them sisters in an odd sort of way.  Louise Brooker
was greedy and lazy.  Kathleen pulled her own weight, but both of them
thought they deserved something from the men in their lives who had
made the future look bright.

* "Fine."  Louise picked up her purse."

"Long as we understand one another."
"Good."  Kathleen looked toward
the door.  No one appeared to bail her out, and Louise was hanging out
expectantly.

"So what now?  I deserve that money, and they're saying Lionel killed
himself too early.  How can someone kill themselves too early, I ask
you?  The judge said I deserved something if Lionel died.  I have a
court order."

"I'll discuss this with Gerry.  In fact, I'll discuss it with him right
now," she said tightly.

"Okay."  Louise hitched her bag and gave Kathleen an appraising look.

"If you're going to be in court, you may want to spruce up a bit.
Nobody's going to notice you dressed down like that."

Louise gave Kathleen the once-over, not quite sneering when she reached
the two-toned, high-heeled, career-girl sling-backs on Kathleen's feet.
She shivered.  There was nothing more to say, so Louise Brooker left,
throwing a bye at Becky as she sashayed past the girl's desk.

Kathleen followed on her heels, barely waiting until the door was
closed.

"Where's Gerry?"

"In his office?"

Becky blinked.  Becky nodded.  Ms.  Cotter didn't seem quite as nice as
when she'd walked in, but then she'd spent a few hours with Mrs.
Brooker.  That was enough to make anyone testy.  Kathleen headed into
Gerry's office; Becky got up to rifle through the file drawers that
happened to be right next to the door Kathleen left open.

"Here's the notes on Louise Brooker, Uncle Gerry."  Kathleen laid the
legal pad in front of him and stepped back.  She was not uncivil.

"Thank you, Kathleen.  Interesting woman, that."  He studied the papers
through his bifocals and beamed.

"Ah, I see she told you all about Lionel.  A thorough job, Kathleen.
All the high points."

"She told me everything, including the best place to get inexpensive
underwear in Santa Monica.  Uncle Gerry, this woman can't go to court
with this and you knew it two hours ago.  I think now you'd better make
it very clear to her that this is a lost cause."

"Nothing is ever quite a lost cause, Kathleen, if the client is
intent."

"Then I'm sure you'll find some wonderful twist to make this all come
out right."

"But, Kathleen, I thought we decided you would lead on this one." Gerry
sat back, his face a play of astonishment and disappointment.
"We
didn't decide anything.  Uncle Gerry."  Kathleen's voice shook, more
out of frustration and disappointment than anger.

"Louise Brooker was very interesting.  I'm sure you have many very
interesting clients, but I can't stay here.  This would be so wrong.  I
was expecting something--" She actually shivered.

"--different.  And it's not your fault I didn't find it," she added
quickly.

"I'm so happy we're going to be talking again, but I just don't see
that this is really going to work--you know, as far as work goes.  I
want one thing, you another.  Our perceptions are different.  We'll
become bitter, miserable people if we try to do this.  I know because
I've already gone through this with my parents.  I don't want to be
bitter.  Uncle Gerry.  I just wanted something really different than
what I had.  I've got to kind of rearrange my thinking.  Uncle Gerry.
You can see that, can't you?"

Gerry O'Doul sat back and eyed his niece.  He tented his fingers.  On
his hand was a signet ring.  It looked too large on his finger.  He put
those fingers against his forehead, and Kathleen hoped he wasn't going
to make a scene.  When he raised his eyes, Gerry O'Doul looked straight
at her without judgment.

"Yes, I understand.  Crossroads are a serious matter and you must be
very careful now.  A young woman like you has so many options.  To stay
here and help me might not be the most advantageous move for you.  I
should have made my situation clearer.  I should have told you that I
was counting on your help, rather than misleading you into thinking
this was an opportunity.  I only wanted to make up for all those years
between us.  I wanted to leave you a legacy.  I simply couldn't do it
without help."  Gerry O'Doul sighed.  He seemed to shrink inside his
clothes.  He touched his maroon silk tie.

"Who else would have understood what it was I wanted to accomplish?

"Tis my fault, Kathleen.  My fault, indeed, that you've traveled so far
and been so put upon.  I can't apologize enough."

He was shaky when he stood up.  Kathleen almost reached out for him.
Gerry let his fingers trail across the desk as he shuffled toward her.
He stopped a pace away, a full head shorter, and put his hand on
Kathleen's shoulder.

"I appreciate your coming for me, Kathleen Cotter.  You've made this
old man proud and given me a moment of hope again.  I'll always be
grateful for that.  Thank you, dear girl.

Now--" He bucked himself up, but it seemed to take all his energy.
"--will you be driving back tonight?"

Kathleen stared at him, stunned at the turn of events.  She couldn't
shake the feeling that she was supposed to do something now, but she
couldn't figure out what it was.  Gerry started again.

"Do you have enough gas?  Would you like to stay for dinner?  Sure
wouldn't I be honored by that?  Ah, but bow selfish of me; you probably
want to get a head start on traffic.  And I'll have work to do looking
at Louise's problem.  Poor thing needs money, I'm sure.  I only hope I
can manage this for her.

Long days can be so tiring.  But, there, that's none of your concern,
now, 'tis it?"

Sometime between Gerry's inquiry about traffic and his self censure he
had gone over to the door of his office and was standing next to it.
Kathleen looked at him, then back at the notes on his desk.  Slowly,
she followed him to the door, unable to part the waters of confusion
that were bubbling in her brain.

"I--well--I guess I'll just drive back now."

"Fine.  Fine then."  He nodded and spoke quietly, like a priest.
Another touch on her arm was light, as if she were just a memory and
already gone.

"We'll at least stay in touch, Kathleen.  I don't want to lose the only
family I have.  Losing a business partner is hard, but losing you
again--" He shook his head sadly.  "--my only living relative.  Ah,
that would be such a terrible thing."

Kathleen nodded.

"No.  I mean, yes.  Of course we'll stay in touch."

"Fine, then.  Fine."  Gerry kissed her cheek.

"So lovely, Kathleen.  What a pleasure it would have been."

Before she knew what had happened, she was being ushered through the
outer door; and before it closed, she heard her uncle ask Becky for the
address of "that old-folks home" that had sent him some information.
Then the door shut, and Kathleen faced the elevator.  If she went in,
would she drop off the face of the earth?

* * *

"Wow," Becky breathed, looking at the closed door.

"That was really sad."

"Yes, 'twas," Gerry agreed.

"Sad, indeed."

"I know how much you wanted her to stay, Mr.  O'Doul.  I'm sorry she
didn't.  She seemed like a nice lady."  Becky crumpled her midmorning
snack trash in deference to the solemn mood.

"Oh, indeed.  The best," Gerry agreed cheerily.

He walked back into his office and retrieved the champagne bottle and
the silver bucket.

"Would you be kind enough, Becky, to do something with this?"

"Sure, Mr.  O'Doul."  She scurried toward the bathroom and, when she
returned, Gerry handed her Kathleen's notes.

"And, Becky, two copies, if you don't mind."

"Two?"

The door opened and Kathleen stood there, resplendent in her simple
sheath with the white piping and the champagne stain, her
well-cared-for spectators, her purse, and her miserable expression.

"Yes," Gerry said to Becky as he smiled at Kathleen.

"Two will do nicely."

Chapter Three

The sun came through the trees like God's fingers nudging the earth
awake.  It was a precious moment, one he had always loved.  She had
watched him through this same window as he lost himself in the morning
moments before getting into their little car and heading off to work.

He drove through the trees, up and down the winding road that led away
from their house.  He drove to the intersection that red-flagged
civilization and finally to the freeways that took him to his good job
thirty miles away.  That job paid for the small, neat house off the
beaten path in a canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains.  It paid for the
gardening tools that helped them raise their organic food, the bunnies
who were their children, the short trips to Yosemite to commune with a
different kind of nature.

That job paid for his past mistakes, too, and he never complained about
that.  She adored his sense of responsibility, his ability to look
behind and see what had gone wrong then look ahead to make things
right.  He was a man of exceptional sensitivity.

He was such a good man.  Gone now, he left behind an empty place in the
little house and her heart.  But he'd also left behind some unfinished
business she didn't understand in the place she never went.  She would
have to take care of that business to keep his memory pure and to save
herself.  Though she was afraid to go below, she was more afraid not
to.  Today, she would break the last corporeal tie with him and hang on
to the spiritual ones.

Turning from the big window, she went to the smaller one by the
fireplace and lifted the lace curtain.  She looked beyond the clearing
even though she couldn't see the rabbit hutch.

Perhaps a moment with them would give her courage, a moment cuddled on
the cool earth with a warm little body nuzzled against her face.  She
bowed her head and decided not to walk in the forest and visit with her
friends.  To do so would mean defeat.  Her courage was ephemeral; and
if she didn't try it out now, this instant, she would lose it.  Turning
on her heel, she went back toward the big window and the door beside
it.

Carefully, she snuffed out the incense burning in the holder he'd made
from a pine cone that sat on the table he'd hewn out of a tree trunk.
Taking another moment, she closed her eyes, laid her hands across her
chest, and breathed in the woody scent.  Tears came to her eyes, though
she wasn't standing close to the spiral of smoke.  Perhaps it was the
flash of his face the gentle, loving expression she remembered that
brought the tears.  It would be wonderful to see him once more, to have
him here to hold, now that she was afraid.

Shrugging into her sweater, she opened the door a crack.

She peeked out, scanning the land she knew so well, the land that now
seemed so alien.  It seemed quiet enough, but then it had seemed quiet
the day her husband died, too.  Death could come stalking in the dark,
the light, when you least expected it.  Death came from strangers, and
it came for reasons she didn't understand.

Knowing this, she slid out onto the porch, lay against the rough wood
of the house, and waited.  When nothing happened, she hurried, head
down, to her car, a vintage Beetle, and started the engine with a
prayer on her lips.

That's when she began to shake.

She was actually going below.  To the city where people moved too fast
and made decisions about her life when they didn't even know her.  The
thought of driving the freeways, negotiating the downtown streets,
finding the room she wanted and standing up to the people she didn't
want to see made her feel sick.  But the sounds in the night, the
voices she heard through the darkness, were more frightening still.
And, most terrifying of all, was the sense that somehow, if she didn't
do something fast, someone might make sure she joined her husband
sooner than the Goddess wanted.  Much as she cared for him, much as she
would love to lie next to him again, she didn't want her new bed to be
cold and dark and six feet under.

So, she drove away without knowing that company was coming to her house
in the woods.  This time it wasn't coming through the front door; it
was moving through the trees and brush behind her cottage.

"She's gone," the first visitor called to his companion.  The second
man stood up, his knees cracking under his great weight.

He took a deep breath of fresh, forest air.

"About time.  I got bit sitting here.  I hate bugs.  I hate nature.

Can't believe it.  Something bit me.  Look."  He pulled down his dress
sock to show that, indeed, he had been bitten.

"Looks like a spider."  The other man peered closely at the wound.

"It's real round.  Probably a spider."

The first one shuddered.

"That's disgusting.  Think it's gone up my pants?"

"I don't know."

His friend moved forward, branches crackling and breaking as he pushed
through the trees instead of seeking out a path.

He didn't like the outdoors any more than his cohort did, but he wasn't
going to be a sissy about it.  Behind him, he heard the huge man
hurrying to catch up.  They were almost at the clearing when he was
called.  Turning, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, the man looked
at his partner, who was grinning from ear-to-ear.

"Hey, look what I found.  Bunnies!"

The big man opened the wire door on the hutch and grabbed one by the
neck.  His expression softened as he held it up so that they were
nose-to-nose.  The rabbit's little pink nose twitched; the man's long,
hooked one did the same.  Suddenly,

he gripped the bunny hard, whacking at the side of his neck as he did
so.  What happened next wasn't quite clear to the man who watched; he
couldn't really understand the words that bellowed from the man's
belly, but the end result of his outburst sent an amazingly clear
message.  The man didn't like nature.

The big man stood in a semi-circle of white, fluffy, dead rabbits, not
a one giving a twitch about anything anymore.  The big guy held a hand
to his neck.  There were tears in his eyes.

"I got stung.  Some goddamn thing stung me.  Check for the stinger. I'm
not going any farther till you check to see if I'm swelling.  I could
die from a bee sting.  They say you can die from a bee sting. Come on,
take a look."

The other man, just as big, just as mean, checked out the dead rabbits,
realized that six necks had been broken in a blink of an eye, and
decided he would not be the seventh to get on the big guy's bad side.
Dutifully, he checked the size eighteen neck, confirmed there was no
stinger, then asked politely:

"Can we go on now?  Please?"

"Yeah.  Let's do it this time.  Let's get the hell out of here."

His friend nodded and led the way to the front door of the cottage
where he jimmied the flimsy lock.  They went inside, and he thanked his
lucky stars that the little rabbit lady had gone before they walked
in.

"Tony, good to see you."

"You, too.  Bob."

They met with a clasp of hands, centurions holding one another's
metal-clad forearms in a fleeting bond of brotherhood before the
bloodshed.  Bob let go first.  Tony's grin faltered.  It was just
another day, after all.  Bob opened the door to Judge Kelley's
courtroom; Tony pushed open the bar.  They both turned left to the
defense table and settled their briefcases before they settled
themselves.

"What do you figure?  Ten minutes on this thing?"  Bob snapped gold
hasps on a burgundy-colored portfolio and withdrew a manila folder of
insignificant proportions.

"For you, maybe.  I'm guessing I'll have a go at it with a trial.
You're probably in and out."  Tony pulled at the tasteful brass-buckled
belts that kept his huge case intact.  It yawned wide, but he had no
more paperwork than his colleague.

They both sat, checked their watches, and completed the ritual with
smiles no teeth.
"Two minutes and the other team forfeits.  Kelley runs
this courtroom to the wire."  Tony passed the time.

"No cameras around to play to so he might as well get on with things,"
Bob noted dryly.  Tony snickered.

"Judge just can't think of anything to say without a script, right?"
Tony poked his pal.

"I hear he went to the Springs for a tan because it's tough for him to
get dressed in the morning without makeup," Bob chortled.  Both of them
were just bored enough to revert to nine-year-old humor as they waited
for the day to start.

Tony twirled in his chair, just to be sure there wasn't anyone
interested in their conversation.  He gave a nod to his client, who sat
quietly behind him, and noted a group of schoolchildren farther back.
One could never be too careful.  An out-of-favor judge might somehow
make a comeback.  Then their asses would be grasses if he got word
they'd been disrespectful.

He chuckled, thinking that mighty creative.  Asses.  Grasses.

Whoever said lawyers had no sense of humor was dead wrong.

His eyes flicked over the spectator pews one last time.  Only the bag
lady from Sixth Street had come in recently.  Nothing to worry about.
He checked his watch again.  The opposition was late.  The day was
theirs.

Judge Kelley's bailiff was out and singing, "Everyone please rise.
Department 33 of the Los Angeles Superior Court is again in session,
the Honorable Donald Kelley, judge, presiding."

Tony and Bob stood, this time their hands clasped in front of their
most private parts, their legs spread apart ready for the games to
begin.  They were fearless in the arena, and the emperor was taking his
seat.

Kelley looked up from under well-formed brows, touched the edges of his
carefully tended mustache, spied the two, and checked out the empty
counsel table.  He looked good.  Palm Springs always helped.  His blue
eyes sparkled behind the tasteful gold-rimmed glasses.  The tie that
peeked out from the top of the robe was knit and taupe, a color he
favored, one that set off his excellently groomed, silver-gray hair.
When he spoke, it was with a casualness that belied the sharp mind that
had been called into question of late.
"In the matter of Brooker v. the
Estate of Lionel Brooker, et al."  counsel please make your appearance
for the record."

He looked up from his papers and smiled pleasingly at the attorneys.

"Tony Maglio for the estate of Lionel Brooker, Your Honor."

"Bob Morton representing All Life Insurance, Your Honor."

"Gentlemen."  The judge nodded.

"I see that the offended party has seen fit not to make an appear--"
Kelley sat up straighter.  In the rear, the courtroom door banged open.
The bailiff's hand was on the butt of her gun, her attention arrested
by the commotion caused by the two women who hurried in.

The one in the brown suit figured it out first--they had not exactly
been subtle and court was in session.  She stopped and checked out
everyone who was checking her out.  Her eyes rested on the judge and
she blushed.  He raised a brow.  The nip and tuck of her suit conjured
up visions of The Thin Man, long cigarette-holders and longer legs,
black-and-white nights where the curtains were drawn and everything was
left to the imagination.  Kelley should have held himself in contempt,
because he could see the lady in brown was only concerned with the
lateness of the hour.

She stumbled, then righted herself.  She mouthed sorry before resuming
her step and giving the woman behind her an opening.

When he got an eyeful of her, Kelley had a few other thoughts about
contempt.  This one was resplendent in turquoise.  Her dress ended just
south of the flattest rear end he'd ever seen and stretched across the
most amazing breasts to cross his threshold.  Her hair was teased into
a shape that reminded him of a mushroom cloud.  Her lips shimmered
deathly white, lined with a color he could only describe as clay.  She
seemed to be pushing the other woman forward, but the blonde in brown
wasn't going anywhere without some sense of decorum.  She pushed back
slightly, glanced over her shoulder with barely hidden disdain, and
came up the aisle as if she were headed to a wedding--with a shotgun at
her back.

"Ladies.  You have arrived."  Kelley retrieved his smile.

After all those months in front of the cameras, little could phase him.
He turned to the lady with the briefcase.

"Kathleen Cotter?  Counsel for--" He consulted his notes.

"--Louise Brooker, ex-wife of the deceased?"

Louise moved as if she would speak, but it was Kathleen who got the
words out first.  After all these weeks, she'd learned to talk fast.

"Yes, Your Honor."  The judge smiled at the sound of her voice.  She
would never have made it in talkies; but in a place like this where
strident was the norm, her inflection was a welcome change.

"I apologize to the court for our lateness.

I'm new to the area and ..."  "And I assume, madam, that you are Louise
Brooker?"

Kelley pinned Louise with a graceful turn of his head.  This wasn't
grammar school; he didn't want an excuse.  Kathleen caught Louise out
of the corner of her eye.  Louise was radiating toward the bench.
Kathleen prayed she wouldn't wink.

"You got it.  Judge."  They pushed through the bar as one unit, Louise
scooting tightly after Kathleen.

"We apologize.  Your Honor.  Kathleen Cotter for Louise Brooker, for
the record."

Kelley referred to his papers.  He let his eyes slide toward Louise
once more, as if to make sure she did, indeed, exist.

"She didn't want to pay five dollars an hour for parking, Judge,"
Louise piped in, taking his eye contact to mean he'd like her input.

"She's new in town, so cut her some slack."

Kelley raised a brow and digested that incredible piece of
information."

"Let the record so reflect that Ms.  Cotter is, indeed, the attorney of
record.  You may strike the editorial on our parking fees."

The day had begun.

The lawyers took their seats, Kathleen after her two opponents.

From the corner of her eye, she checked them out.  Expensive clothes
and briefcases even the estate's attorney, and this was not a wealthy
estate.  The two looked right back at her, fully composed.

Kathleen took a deep breath, focused on the judge, and prayed she could
dispose of this matter quickly, erase whatever feeling of duty she felt
toward Gerry, and run for the hills before he found some other oddball
client to throw at her.  At this rate, she'd make a name for herself in
Los Angeles law and it wouldn't be the one she'd hoped for.

"Mr.  Morton, we'll start with you, if you please."

Morton obliged.  His suit was gray, his shirt white, his tie striped in
shades of blue.  He seemed rather handsome until you looked closely.
His carefully coifed hair was receding, his chin multiplying, his eyes
creased from long hours spent over paperwork and short intense hours in
the sun pretending he was relaxed.  She bet he didn't look so great
naked.  She held onto that thought and opened her briefcase, wincing as
the latches opened with a resounding snap.

"Your Honor," Morton began apologetically.

"I hesitate to even take the court's time pointing out the obvious.  In
the last month since we were served with papers regarding this matter,
we have done nothing.  We have not offered to settle, nor have we spent
our time preparing for a court battle.  Quite simply, there can be no
battle when there is no basis for confrontation.

Quite simply, Ms.  Brooker will not be paid benefits to which she is
not entitled."

He cleared his throat as a matter of course and continued.

' "There has been no discovery, no witnesses to depose.  Why?

Because the facts are not contested.  I cite section 4801, subdivision
B of the Civil Code for the proposition that support obligations
terminate with the death of the obliger spouse.  I would also like to
point out that our policy stands in its own defense.

It is a basic policy that in no way veers from industry standards in
language or intent.  Regulations, rules, and policies are clear for all
to see and understand.  This, in our estimation, is a frivolous lawsuit
brought by Ms.  Cotter on Ms.  Brooker's behalf, and we would request a
Summary Judgment in this matter and a dismissal of this suit against
All Life."  It was a poignant moment.  He looked Kathleen's way as if
she were the one who hadn't read the fine print before signing on the
dotted line.  "If there are any questions regarding the language of the
policy, I would be happy to go into it chapter and verse.

I would even be happy to draw a diagram should Ms.  Cotter be inclined
to spend her time trying to figure it out visually."

"I doubt that will be necessary," Kelley muttered cheerfully, oblivious
to the insult.  He'd heard them all, and this was rather mild as
affronts went.  Kathleen, on the other hand, shot Bob Morton a look. It
wasn't as good as the one her mother had used to put her in her place,
though, and Morton remained cocky and confident.

"Ms.  Cotter?"  Kelley turned his judicial klieg light on her.

"Your Honor."  She stood up slowly, her knees weak now that the moment
had come for her to speak.  She was in Los Angeles, not Riverside.  She
was far from home and alone, tackling this appearance under emotional
duress.

"Your Honor."  She cleared her throat, too, but it didn't seem to have
the same calming effect on her as it did on Bob Morton.

"It's not fair."

Kathleen had Kelley's attention.  She had everyone's attention,
including the pod of schoolchildren in for an afternoon outing.  This
was an argument they could understand.  They were disappointed when
there was more.

"Excuse me.  Your Honor."  Kathleen swallowed.  Her mouth was dry.

"I meant it isn't fair, in this instance, to decide upon settlement
based strictly upon the letter of the agreement between Lionel Brooker
and All Life Insurance.  As in many instances with this great law of
ours, there is often the spirit to consider.  And if ever there were a
case where spirit counted, it's this one.  In the case of Mr.  Brooker,
the spirit was definitely willing but the flesh was weak.  Please note
the decision for the plaintiff in Tintocalis v. Tintocalis where the
defendant had neglected to pay the premiums in a similar situation. The
court ruled that the death benefit was to be paid because no one should
suffer by the act of another."

"And we agree.  Your Honor," Bob Morton crowed.

"All Life should not suffer because of Mr.  Brooker's intentional
demise.  I point to Tintocalis, also, and say that the obligation to
sustain support falls directly on the estate.  And, I can cite Lucas v.
Elliot."

Tony moved in his chair and whipped out a pen.  Furiously, he made
notes.  The first was to kill Bob Morton.

"We must consider Mr.  Brooker's intent to care for his ex wife Louise
Brooker, when we discuss this matter.  It is the spirit of that intent
that I ask Your Honor to rule upon.  Tintocalis specifically states
that intent could be taken into consideration...."

Kathleen went on.
"Your Honor."  Bob Morton stood up slowly, raising a
finger though the gesture was unnecessary to gain attention.

"While I can think of no one seemingly more capable of weaving an
intriguing fairy tale than Ms.  Cotter, we are not here to wax poetic
about intent and love and the spirit of anything.  Tintocalis never
ruled on intent and could be is not a legal concept.  We are here to
determine whether, under the law, the agreement made between Lionel
Brooker and All Life Insurance is binding."
"Thank you so much for
reminding me of that, Mr.  Morton," Kathleen responded, hoping that
sounded appropriately cool.

Damn Gerry.  She'd told him she'd never made an argument of any length.
In her previous life, before Gerry's idea of professional heaven, she
had been arbitrator, not aggressor.  The man facing her had never
arbitrated or acquiesced.

Taking a deep breath, Kathleen put on the face she and Gerry had
practiced over the last week--a mask of surety drawn with cosmetics and
practice.  She hoped someone would be impressed.

"The spirit of Lionel Brooker was as strong in its belief that there
are rights and wrongs in this world that supersede the mandates of
committees that attempt to regulate life with rules.  His life proved
that everyone had to live by the rules, but not be ruled by them.
Lionel Brooker wanted his ex wife to be cared for in the eventuality of
his death.  To that end, and in very good faith, he paid the premiums
on an insurance policy for one year, three-hundred-and-sixty-three
days.

On day three hundred and sixty-four, one day before the suicide clause
would have been null and void, Lionel Brooker did something that was an
aberration.  It was an act that contradicted his generous spirit.
Believe me.  Your Honor, when Lionel Brooker took his life, he wasn't
thinking about a clause buried deep in insurance paperwork."

Kathleen moved forward.  It was so hard to stand behind that table, far
away from the judge, with no jury to speak to.  If she were going to
connect, it had to be now.  Kathleen wanted them to know she could
attest personally to the fact that the best of intentions sometimes
didn't mean a happy ending and nobody should suffer because good
intentions went awry.

"Judge, we don't know what drove Mr.  Brooker to such a terrible step.
To take your own life is not as much a decision for death as it is a
belief that life can't go on.  I grieve for Mr.

Brooker, Your Honor, I really do."

Kathleen let her eyes roam the courtroom.  There wasn't anyone who
didn't believe that last statement of hers.  No one except Louise, who
sat with her chin buried in her hand, her eyes rolled to the ceiling.

"I do," she said again.  Louise deflected the reassurance by shifting
noisily in her seat.  Kathleen turned away from her, disgusted.  What
did this woman care about anyone's feelings?

"But whatever drove Mr.  Brooker to take such drastic action, it was
beyond his control.  I'm sure of that.  Judge.  So, since his action
was beyond his control and the intent to financially care for Louise
Brooker was so well-documented, I tell you that All Life cannot hold us
to the letter of their agreement with Mr.  Brooker.  A previous court
ruling established Mr.

Brooker's generous intent; he proved that his spirit was willing to
follow through on his promise.  The fact that he killed himself a mere
day before the agreement was to be nullified in terms of the suicide
clause does not point to a meanness of spirit.  If Lionel Brooker
wished to somehow teach Louise a lesson about greed--" Kathleen
resisted the urge to look at her client."-he could have taken his life
at anytime and his action would still have had the same effect.  Mr.
Brooker didn't count the days to his death; he acted without thought
except to end whatever pain he was in.  When he deliberately pursued
the means to provide for Louise, he was acting in good faith.  He was
acting according to a court order, and All Life should reciprocate with
equally good intentions."

Kathleen moved back to the table and picked up the papers that waited
there.

"Your Honor, I have research that will show how precarious a
suicidal--" Beside her, Louise drummed her fingernails on the table.

Today, they were blue.  Elvis was gone, replaced by a white bearded
man. Kathleen thought it was a summertime Santa.

Louise coldly held up her middle finger for Kathleen to see that it was
Kenny Rogers.

"Your Honor."  Morton interrupted, his middle-aged face set in an
expression of remorse as if he were terribly sorry he had to push his
big, long, sharp pin into Kathleen's balloon.

"We have no need of a psychological profile.  The insurance policy
fulfills the court's directives.  All Life is not responsible for the
deceased's actions after the policy was put in force.

And while we are not as unfeeling as Ms.  Cotter would like to lead you
to believe, we have our rules.  What is the law if not rules written
down so that everyone can understand what their responsibilities and
liabilities are.  The spirit of the law is a thing of Hollywood.
Scriptwriters trot out the concept when they can find no other means to
bring drama to a matter that is exceptionally well-defined.  Mr.
Brooker indicated he had read the policy.  His signature is
acknowledgment of that.  He accepted the parameters."

"But my client didn't have the opportunity for input.  Your Honor,"
Kathleen said without thought, "Your Honor, if I could simply submit
these reports from leading psychiatric journals, I'm sure--" Bob Morton
pushed his pin in farther.

"Mrs.  Brooker's presence or agreement was not stipulated, Your Honor.
Had it been.  All Life would have been happy to comply.  Please--" He
opened his hands to show there was nothing up his sleeve.  "--these are
ridiculous objections.  Ms.

Cotter wastes our time."

"Yes, Your Honor, I understand that it wasn't stipulated, but if I may
cite--" "What she's trying to say is, it wasn't fair 'cause I didn't
know about this clause-thing and I was the one who was going to get
screwed by it.  If I had known, I would have had it taken out."

Horrified, Kathleen swung her head toward Louise.  The woman glanced
disdainfully back, then grinned at the judge, thrilled with her own
input.

"Your Honor, I apologize " Kathleen began, but Don Kelley ignored her
and Bob Morton derided her.

"It seems Mrs.  Brooker believes she is God, Your Honor.

No one can change an exclusion clause except All Life, and I assure you
we would not have been so inclined."

"I wouldn't have let him sign it!  We would have done something else.
We would have made other arrangements," Louise shot back.

"Your Honor, a moment with my client, please."  Kathleen held out her
hand as if she could stop this nonsense like a crossing guard, but
Kelley was having a dam good time.  He had no intention of calling a
truce.  He pointed at Louise with his pen, like a spider nudging the
unsuspecting fly into the web.

"Mrs.  Brooker, are you telling this court that you had prior knowledge
of your ex-husband's desire to take his own life?  Are you telling this
court that you wished to defraud the insurance industry by insisting on
a substantial policy minus the exclusion clause so that you could cash
it in, knowing your ex-husband would meet his death by his own hand? If
you are telling this court that you would have refused the policy
because of said clause, then you must have suspected your husband was
so inclined and that, madam, would constitute fraud."

"Fraud!  No way, Jose."  Louise shot out of her chair.  Test her by
fire and she'd willingly have the flame lit.

"Lionel was the last person I'd expect to check out that way.  I've
lived long enough to know that anything is possible and, sure, I would
have made sure there weren't any strings attached to that policy."

"Your Honor, this is ridiculous.  My client does not speak for "
Kathleen cried, appalled at the turn of events.

"Kathleen!"  Louise howled in frustration.

"There you have it."  Bob from All Life was jubilant.

"This suit must be dismissed, and charges brought against this
woman!"

"All right, enough."  Kelley sat back in his big, black chair and drew
a finger along his mustache trying to hide his smile.

It had been fun, and now it was time for business.

"Mrs., Brooker, sit down.  Mr.  Morton."  Kelley raised a brow, and the
attorney took his seat.  Kathleen was the object of Kelley's
interest.

"Ms.  Cotter.  You're new to our district, but you are not new to the
law."  Don Kelley spoke conversationally, as if they were just having a
bite of lunch instead of his handing her head to her on a plate.

"Can you honestly stand there and tell me that you contest the fact
that All Life is within then rights to set boundaries on the policies
they sell?"

"No, Your Honor," Kathleen admitted miserably.

"Are you going to contest the fact that Mr.  Brooker did not know what
he was signing?"  Don Kelley shifted his chin to his other hand.

Kathleen's head hung figuratively lower.  She whispered in her angelic
voice.

"No, Your Honor."
"Is there any reason that I shouldn't grant the All
Life motion for Summary Judgment since we all agree that the company is
well within their rights to set the rules for their policyholders and
to deny benefits should those requirements not be met?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Then, Ms.  Cotter, the only thing you can possibly contest is that Mr.
Brooker is not dead."

"Of course, he's dead."  Kathleen chuckled pleasantly, grateful the
judge had resorted to levity.  Yet when she looked up, he wasn't
laughing.

"Then will you argue that he didn't kill himself?"

"He killed himself."  Louise again.

"He resented paying me money because I was taking his farm!"

"Louise, stop."  Kathleen pushed hard and Louise fell off the left heel
of her shoe, crumpling just enough for Kathleen to get her down in her
chair.

"Your Honor.  My client is distraught.  She doesn't know what she's
saying."

"I can see that, Ms.  Cotter."  He sighed, accepting a note from his
clerk, muttering while he read it.

"So, if you don't agree with your client, then you must believe that
Mr.  Brooker did not kill himself."
"Perhaps not."  Kathleen's mind
whirled as she tried to figure out how she could extrapolate an
argument to defend that statement from the psychiatric reports.

"And what evidence do you have that there was foul play?"

Kelley jotted a note back to the clerk, then cradled his chin in one
hand and toyed with his mug with the other.

"I didn't suggest foul play was involved."  Kathleen raised her chin,
peeved that he should get his jollies at her expense.

"Your Honor," Bob Morton called.  Kathleen looked over.

The schoolchildren were filing out of the courtroom, uninterested in
Morion's objection.

"I really must object.  I assume Ms.  Cotter has read the police
report, at least.  And if she hasn't, then she is insulting the
integrity of this court by playing these little games without doing her
homework.  Is it her intent to wear us down?  To confuse us?  Well, I,
for one, say this court cannot be confused any more than it already has
been by her nonsense."
"Mr.  Morton?"  Kelley raised a brow and pushed
at his goldrinuned glasses.

"Are you speaking for this court?"

Morton, to his credit, back-pedaled with grace."

"I only meant that this court's calendar has been confused by this
frivolous suit.  Your Honor.  Certainly it was not directed at "
Kathleen's eyes narrowed with satisfaction.  Morton's whole foot might
not have made it into his mouth, but a goodly portion had.
Unfortunately, Kelley had tired of both of them.

"Never mind.  Never mind."  The judge waved them away.

He was ready to take the ball and go home."

"I've heard enough.

I will grant the motion for Summary Judgment and dismiss the case
against All Life."

"Thank you.  Your Honor."

"Oh, damn," Louise muttered, throwing her hands up to her face.
Kathleen glanced at her client only to see the identical nail portraits
of Kenny Rogers winking at her.

"Your Honor."  Tony Maglio moved in for the kill now that Bob had
mortally wounded the opposition, no expressions of professional offense
on his face.  His style was that of the good guy.  He grinned openly.
The court was his locker room.  He snapped his towel Kelley's way.

"We move that the estate of Lionel Brooker be held not liable in this
action also, for the same reasons that All Life has, expressed.  We
also believe there are no contested issues here.

The estate should have no liability because Lionel Brooker did, indeed,
provide for Louise Brooker as stipulated in the previous ruling.  He
secured the insurance policy as directed.  Louise Brooker, by accepting
the policy when it was forwarded and signing the receipt for said
delivery, agreed that stipulation had been fulfilled.  Lucas v. Elliot
is again cited.  Had Mr.  Brooker not purchased life insurance, the
estate could be charged.  However, he did.  Therefore, I see no reason
why we should be in front of Your Honor arguing the matter."

"Three minutes, Ms.  Cotter," Kelley muttered.

"Lionel Brooker did not contest Louise Brooker's request for a life
insurance policy to protect her in the case of his death.  He sought
out All Life; he paid the premiums.  That goes to intent.  Your Honor.
Lionel Brooker proved that he intended to provide for my client no
matter what.  If the insurance company is not liable, then the estate
must be.  This is based on the previous court's ruling.  Louise Brooker
is entitled to support."

"Ms.  Cotter."  Judge Kelley clipped her name off like the end of a
good cigar.  He smiled.  He was ready for another chat.

"How long have you been practicing law?"

"Eight years.  Judge."

"Still close enough to graduation that you must remember your classes
in law school.  There was probably one professor who conducted a
discussion of state of mind?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember hearing that it is impossible for a third party to
attest to state of mind?"  Kelley was grinning.  Sitting high above the
proceedings, his comely looks made the sharpness of his lesson
something akin to a smiling executioner.

"Yes."

"Then, Ms.  Cotter, unless you are going to produce a note from the
deceased--" His fingers twisted like a magician.  "-call a mystery
witness who happened to be in the stall next to Mr.  Brooker before he
did the deed, or call a psychic who will attest to what Mr.  Brooker
had in mind regarding his estate on the day, and dare I say, at the
moment of his death, I would suggest you think twice before going down
this road."

"But " Kathleen began.

Judge Kelley raised one finger and waggled it.  His clerk passed him
another note.  This one seemed to amuse him.  Kathleen raised her chin.
It felt like the Rock of Gibraltar, but she managed to keep it up
while he did some housekeeping.  Louise wiggled in her seat and
recrossed her legs.  If movements were words, Louise's would all be
spelled with four letters.
"You blew it," Louise whispered.  Kathleen's
shoulders went back, ready for any slings and arrows.

"Gerry should have been here."  Under her breath once again.

"That old man's got more on the ball than you'll ever have."

"Be quiet, Louise."  Kathleen never moved, not her head and barely her
lips.  Judge Kelley rolled his baby blues, then glared as best he could
at the bad girls in school.
"I think we're going to have to continue
this discussion with the estate of Lionel Brooker.  I believe that
there is some merit to the case against the estate though, without the
life insurance policy, I imagine the ex-Mrs.  Brooker will find it less
lucrative than she imagined.  Legally, though, I don't see " "Excuse
me?"

Those two little words wafted forward from as far back in the courtroom
as it was possible to come.  The huge seal behind the judge seemed to
tip forward as the sweetest voice sweeter than that of Kathleen Cotter
floated across the expanse of pews and over the shining wood of the bar
and into the well to lay itself in front of the man in black.

Judge Kelley squinted though there was nothing to obstruct his view.
Tony turned not exactly turned but moved his very straight body as if
he were taking a ride on a lazy Susan.

Louise flung herself over the back of her chair.  Kathleen took two
tiny steps and twisted her head.  Bob Morton stopped packing his
briefcase, and the woman who had spoken, a woman so very small and
delicate that visions of Thumbelina came to mind, seemed to shrink
under their scrutiny.

"I beg your pardon?"  Don Kelley's voice softened as if he were talking
to a child.  From their perspective, it appeared as if the woman might
indeed be younger than anyone imagined.

Her long hair was parted in the middle; her clothes were just a bit too
big.  Her long cardigan sweater hung over her narrow shoulders as if it
weighed on her mightily without giving any warmth.  She wore no makeup;
her eyes seemed nothing more than circles of dark, for the lashes were
too light to define the shape of them.  Her mouth remained a tight and
fretful line that was too narrow to make a statement or be considered
attractive.

"Miss, do you have business before this court?"  Kelley called out.

"I do, sir," she said in a voice only a fraction stronger than before.
Although they all looked at the woman, one man acted.

A man Kathleen hadn't really noticed before.  He said something to Tony
as he sidestepped out of the pew where he had been sitting.  Kathleen
wasn't sure if it were a muttered curse or an expression of sorrow. She
couldn't hear anything more.  He was hurrying toward the woman. But she
was quicker still.

Instead of waiting for him to reach her, she seemed to anticipate his
moves and sidestepped, ducking around him so that he had to turn and
follow her with hoarse, quick whispers of objections.  Questions were
thrown her way, but she ignored them all.  Kathleen knew this must have
taken a great deal of courage, the same kind of courage it had taken to
object when her own father had told her she'd never be a lawyer.

"I don't want anything," she called to the judge, waving a childlike
hand as if that would make him understand how sincere she was.  The man
caught up with her.  She turned back to him as he put his hand on her
arm.

"I don't want anything," she snapped, instantly embarrassed by such a
display.  Her attention was back on the court, her bovine eyes darting
Louise way.  Kathleen could have sworn she saw a nicker of fear behind
those eyes.

"She can have it all.  I mean it, Judge.

Louise " She looked directly at the ex-Mrs.  Brooker.

"I don't want any of it.  No money or whatever Lionel had.  I'd like to
keep the house; but if you want that, too, it's okay."  She looked at
the judge with big, big, frightened eyes.

"Please, Judge, just give it all to her."

"Mr.  Maglio?"  Kelley wanted an explanation but was so fascinated by
the woman he never took his eyes off her.

"Yes, Your Honor.  I apologize for this interruption.  This is highly
irregular.  I'll take care of it."  Tony headed toward the man and the
woman, circled both with his long, well-clothed arms, and tried to step
them backward to the door.

"Mr.  Maglio!  What are you doing?  This court is not in recess."

"Please, Your Honor," he called back, unwilling to release the quietly
feuding couple.

"I need only a moment to straighten this out.  Your Honor.  This is
Edward Brooker, Lionel Brooker's brother and executor of the estate.  I
beg Your Honor for a short recess."  He was still hurrying them to the
door, but Kelley was as curious as any of them.

"And the lady?"

Tony Maglio stopped.  His shoulders sagged.  He would have preferred
not to have added another iron to the fire, but now there was no
choice.  Pacing Judge Kelley, he was about to speak, but it was Louise
who spilled the beans.  Losing interest in the whole affair, she
muttered Lionel's wife just before the little woman started to cry and
Judge Kelley called a recess.

Chapter Four

"She just wasn't worth talking about, sweetie."

A new twist.  Louise was throwing endearments at Kathleen like
stones.

"Why didn't you tell me about her!  Lionel had remarried and you didn't
think that's important?  That is information that actually might have
been helpful, Louise.  You've told me every stupid little thing I
didn't need to know a hundred times.  In all that time, don't you think
mentioning a new wife might have been something I might have found
interesting?"  Kathleen controlled herself admirably considering the
fine line Louise was walking.

"My problem was with Lionel and my part of his money."

She jerked her head in the general direction of the hall where the
little lady had been shooed by Lionel's brother and the attorney.

"She's a nothing, sweetheart.  I don't deal with nothings.

I learned my lesson with Lionel.  He turned out to be a big, fat,
sensitive zero.  Looking at her makes me sick.  It only goes to show
how right I was about him.  He could have had me.  He could have made
me happy, and I would have given him everything.  But we get divorced
and he goes to that wimpy little dishrag.  It's insulting."

Kathleen paced behind Louise, who was taking her own sweet time
touching up an already perfect makeup job.  Kathleen glared at the
other woman and wished she had the guts to tell her that perfect
paint-by-numbers does not make a masterpiece just as slight-of-build
and soft-of- voice does not a dishrag make.

Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror, looking away just as
quickly.  She couldn't lie to herself.  No matter how well-drawn the
mask, it was still painted on to hide what was underneath.  Louise
hadn't offered the information, but then again Kathleen hadn't asked.

"Look, Louise, you hired me to " "I hired Gerry, honey."  She nicked at
her eyelash, and a perfect sphere of mascara flew toward the mirror.
Kathleen's face burned as red as the lace bra that peeked from under
Louise's turquoise top.  Louise had met her mark; she'd hit below the
belt.

"You hired O'Doul & Associates.  For the time being, I am the
associate, and Gerry assigned me to your case because he knew I could
handle it."  Kathleen stopped pacing and took her share of the blame.

"I should have stuck with my original gut feeling and stuck by my
advice, as an attorney, not to pursue this matter."  Louise raised a
well-plucked eyebrow and Kathleen's guilt trip was over.

"As a woman I should have told you I thought you were greedy and
ungrateful."

"But you didn't, did you?"

Louise was done.  She turned around slowly and planted her flat behind
on the square sink.  An incredible amount of cleavage heaved toward
Kathleen as Louise Brooker crossed her arms.

The red lace was now well-hidden.

"Okay, Sister Kathleen, let's talk."
"We've talked enough.  If you
don't want to give me information that can help you, then I don't know
what you want to talk about."

"Sure you do, honey.  We need to lay our cards on the table, clear the
air " She smiled wickedly.  " bare our breasts."

Louise chuckled, but her amusement didn't last as long as Kathleen's
embarrassment.

"I gave you plenty of chances to do that these last few weeks.  From
the minute Gerry joined us at the hip, I was ready to give you the
benefit of the doubt.  I figured, if the old man thought you had it,
then you did.  But what I saw that first day, and what I saw in that
courtroom, just proved what I figured out the first time I laid eyes on
you.

You're an okay package and Gerry O'Doul may be your uncle, but you
haven't got half the balls or the brains he has."

"If that's meant to shock me, you're wasting your breath."

"I don't want to shock you.  I just want to do what's right.

I wanted to clue you in so you don't go on thinking you're cut out for
the big leagues."  The door opened.  Both of them looked toward the
young black woman who gave them a glance, took a second look at Louise,
then hurried into a stall.  Kathleen moved closer, but Louise didn't
care who heard her.

"I know what I want.  I figured, if nothing else, you'd do your best to
please Gerry and get it for me.  Or maybe you'd try your hardest
because you had some pride.  But now you're trying to weasel out of
your responsibility by telling me it's my fault you're not going to
win.  Hey, where were you when I was talking?  I gave you what I had,
and you didn't even do me the courtesy of asking me questions.  We lost
because of you."

They heard the toilet flush, and the stall door opened just as Louise
wrapped up.

"Baby, all was lost long before that little broad showed up.

You look good in your own way, but get you out there in the ring and
they KO you without lifting a finger.  You don't have style.  You don't
have a mouth on you.  You're not even quick on your feet.  Your
arguments sounded like a grocery list.  You got all quiet when you
should have stood up for me, so I had to try to do it myself.  So, I'll
just go on back to Gerry and tell him he takes this thing on or I take
my business somewhere else.  I believe in this.  I need an attorney who
does, too."

"It has nothing to do with faith.  What I needed was a case with
merit," Kathleen muttered, never taking her eyes from Louise's.

"A good lawyer doesn't need merit.  They need brains, and you had
enough time before this hearing to use yours.  Gerry didn't need to
know about that woman to get me the insurance policy; you shouldn't
have needed to know to get me the benefits.  Admit it, that mouse
doesn't mean anything."

Louise was wrong, Kathleen was sure, but she wasn't exactly sure why.
Kathleen turned on her heel and walked into a stall.

She locked the door and sat down to think.

When the answer came to her, Kathleen flung open the door triumphantly,
forgetting to pretend she had gone into the stall for any other reason
than to hide.

"Of course it's important.  She wants to give ..."  Kathleen looked
right.  "... you ..."  She looked left.  "... everything."

Triumph turned to defeat.  Louise Brooker was nowhere to be found.
Resigned, she hitched her briefcase and followed her client.

"The woman wants to hand over the estate.  We probably wouldn't even be
here if we'd known that."

As she opened the door and stepped out into the hall, Kathleen looked
for Louise.  She looked right and spied the second Mrs.

Brooker halfway down the very, very long hall.  Kathleen started toward
Lionel's lady, who stood arguing or at least trying to argue with
Lionel's brother.  Her tiny hands moved quickly;

his expression was earnest and frustrated.  No matter how benevolent
her opponent, the woman was obviously losing the battle.

Kathleen's steps quickened when the argument suddenly intensified.  The
man was angry and Alice in Wonderland was hanging her head, poking at
the elevator button.  Even from the quickly closing distance, Kathleen
could see the lady was crying and desperate.  Kathleen's pace quickened
as something clicked in the back of her mind.  Here was a woman
agitated to the point of physical distress, a woman exhibiting all the
signs of fear.  Yes, fear, and that meant there was more here than met
the eye.  High emotion had no place in a simple disposition of an
insignificant estate.

Kathleen almost ran.  The elevator door was opening.  The blond-haired
woman turned.  The man took her arm, only to release it when she shrank
from him in horror.  The man backed away, putting one hand to his brow,
the other on his hip, arm akimbo.  The regular Joe was back, not as
intimidating as she had imagined a moment ago, and the doors were
closing on a sad woman, not a character out of central casting.  Mrs.
Brooker's body was now framed by the closing steel.  With the thrill
of optical illusion, it seemed as if those doors were pushing her tiny
body together, compressing her until soon there would be nothing left.
Kathleen would never know what there was in this estate that was worth
a threat, a fight, and a great deal of fear.

"Wait!"

Kathleen's arm was in the air; her breath was tight in her chest.  She
sprinted the last few steps, but she was too late.  The doors closed.
The woman was gone.  She turned to the man who was simultaneously
turning away from her.

"I needed to talk to her," Kathleen said to his back.  He walked with a
slouch, whether of defeat or nature she didn't know.  She spoke to him
again, scooting around to come parallel with him.

"Is she all right?"

The man stopped, hands in his pockets.  His jacket didn't fit well.  It
wasn't expensive.  His face was long, his nose a bit too short to
balance the eyes and lips.  He looked at Kathleen with little interest.
He'd been around lawyers too long now to really believe she was
worried.

"She's fine, I'm sure.  She's a nut.  Pure and simple.  A nut.

Like everyone in California.  Lionel was weird, but a real good guy.
How strange could it be here?"  He shook his head."

"Well, I'll tell you.  I'm from Michigan.  Lionel and I didn't know
each other very well, but I thought he was a neat guy."

"Was he?"

The man seemed startled by the question.  His eyes swam with tears.
Kathleen had hit a nerve no one else had bothered to seek out.

"Yes, he was.  My brother was the most giving man I've ever known.  He
was a lot younger than I was, but even when he was little he would just
as soon give you the last of whatever he had rather than keep it for
himself."

"Then he was a kind of a martyr?"  Kathleen almost lost the man on that
one.

"No, he was a true and generous spirit.  Hard to believe somebody could
change that much, isn't it?  Hard to believe that he suddenly became a
drug-user selfish enough to take his own life."  The tall man sighed
again and ran a hand over his eyes.

"I'm sad he's gone.  I'm sad he went the way he did.  I was happy to
take care of his estate, though.  You know, do something to show that I
still felt a connection.  Besides, I didn't think it was a big thing. I
mean, what could a guy like him acquire that would take so much time to
take care of?  Lionel didn't care about a whole bunch of material
things."

He began to walk.  Kathleen fell into step and listened.

"Besides, I'm ten years older than Lionel.  Who would have thought he
would kick off before I did?  Stupid idiot."  The man sighed.

"He and Sarah lived in a canyon, raised animals, had a vegetable
garden.  They worshipped all this natural-world nonsense."  The man
shook his head at their stupidity.  Kathleen assumed in Michigan there
wasn't time to worry about worshipping anything.

"And then there are the nuts.  Lionel sure knew where to find them."

Kathleen looked up to see that he had spied Louise.  Lost in their own
thoughts, the two of them stood and watched her.

Kathleen was aware that those thoughts were probably identical.

"Mr.  Brooker, I'd like to depose you," Kathleen said politely.

"Because Sarah showed up?  Because of her, you're going to make this
more than it is?  It should be over by now.  I need to go home. There's
nothing I could tell you that I haven't told you in the last few
seconds.  Lionel was a super guy.  He loved Sarah.  Weird as they were,
they were perfectly suited to each other.  Then he killed himself. 
Who's to say what went on in his mind?  There, that's it.  I just want
to go home."

His tired eyes were still trained on Louise, who lounged against the
wall folding a piece of gum before she popped it in her mouth.

"I've got to do my job, Mr.  Brooker.  I've got to try to get as much
as I can for my client.  But if Lionel loved his new wife as much as
you say, you may want to try to set the record straight so she won't
give everything away.  Lionel would have wanted that, wouldn't he?"

"Why bother?  You want everything.  I can't fight that."

"I want what's fair, "Kathleen assured him.

He glanced from Louise to Kathleen.  His tired eyes looked her up and
down, then he laughed and walked away, his last comment trailing behind
him and meeting its mark.

"Fruits, nuts, and liars."

Kathleen pulled her old plaid robe around her and scratched the back of
her leg with her sock-clad foot.  She was watching her landlord fix the
sink and thinking about her miserable day.

Sarah Brooker's face haunted her.  Louise's words riled her.

Gerry's assertions that she had done her best rang less than true.  And
there was something else that niggled, something that she'd been trying
to tell herself ever since she got home.

She just couldn't quite grasp what it was and her new landlord's
chatter wasn't helping.

"You'll love it.  Come on.  You haven't been out since you've been
here.  You haven't even unpacked your stuff."  He gave the wrench one
more twist.  He was a joy to watch.

"No, thanks anyway."  She was moping.  There was no challenge Paul
loved better than destroying a good mope.

"Come on.  It's a producer's house."

Paul stood up and wiped his hands on the towel on the sink.

He dangled that last tantalizing bit of information as if it were a
carrot.  He was the most gorgeous man Kathleen had ever seen.  Tall.
Dark.  Gay.  When Paul had been fired from his job as an exotic dancer,
Gerry had successfully argued that, being gay, Paul could not be a
threat to any of the ladies he entertained and, therefore, he had been
discriminated against.  The settlement was substantial and Paul's
gratitude un bounding  He could never repay Gerry for his brilliance,
but he kept trying.  Kathleen's rent in his West Hollywood apartment
complex was next to nothing.

"No, thanks.  It was a lousy day.  I think I'll just sit here and lick
my wounds."

"Oh, sure, I've had days like that, too.  You're right.  A party isn't
what you need.  Maybe you should go see Gerry?"

Kathleen shook her head.

"Right again.  If you're feeling that bad, only someone who loves you
will do, and I don't mean love like relative love."

He winked.

"I don't know what I'd do without William.  When I was so low those
days during the lawsuit, he was the only one who kept me sane."  Paul
pocketed his wrench and smiled.

"How do you do that?"

"What?"

"How do you fix my sink and still look so clean?"

"William may adore me, but he also does the laundry.  He'd have my head
if I made more work for him."  Paul chuckled and patted her shoulder as
he left.

"If you change your mind, call us before eight."

He left Kathleen to wallow in her misery.  At least she did that well.
She watched two hours of news, managed a microwave pizza bread, and
balanced her checkbook by the time Paul and William checked with her at
eight to see if she'd changed her mind.  She was in bed by nine-thirty,
staring at the ceiling while images of Louise and Sarah Brooker,
Lionel's brother, and Judge Kelley floated through her head.  They
seemed to make a comfortable party of four, but no matter how hard
Kathleen tried to join them at their table, there was never one more
chair.  Gerry popped in for a command performance, a maitre d' in the
muddled cafe of her mind.  Tony Maglio and Bob Morton floated by on
their way to another table, smiling at her as she drifted into a
less-than-restful sleep.  When her nightmare dinner was served and the
great silver dome was taken off the platter, the waiter announced the
special of the evening was Lionel Brooker.  But Kathleen was too far
away from the table to see him.  Too far away ... and in the small part
of Kathleen's brain that still fought sleep, she realized this wasn't
so odd.  In reality, she had no idea what Lionel looked like.
Strangely, though, Kathleen Cotter's last thoughts were of Paul and
William, William and Paul, and how very, very happy they
were--together.

That did it!

She was awake and excited at one in the morning, inspiration coming to
her in that never-ending dream.  She had the answer and no one to tell
at that hour.  So Kathleen Cotter showered, put her face on, and sat in
her robe at the small kitchen table to make notes.  By six, she'd been
to the bakery, purchased the largest coffee cake she could find, and
left it at Paul's door with a note of thanks.  At eight-thirty, she was
at the office, waiting for Gerry O'Doul.  He came in six minutes later,
and Kathleen began to talk.  Gerry listened, trying very hard not to
let the tears in his eyes show.  He had never been happier in his life,
and he had a funny feeling Kathleen hadn't either.

They filed a motion for reconsideration in the matter of Louise Brooker
v. All Life Insurance by ten and, thanks to Gerry's intervention with
Judge Kelley's clerk, had an appearance scheduled for eleven the next
day.

That evening, Kathleen brought Paul and William a bottle of champagne.
Love, she said, was always an inspiration and they had given her a ton
of it inspiration, that was.

Chapter Five

This time Gerry sat with Louise behind the bar.  Kathleen wore burgundy
and the look of a kid on Christmas morning.

Louise wore a mini-skirt that matched her orange fingernails.

Kathleen had no interest in the rocker of the day.  Judge Kelley's
shirt was white, his tie gray, his black robes fresh.  Bob Morton was
dressed in a suit the color of summer sand.  They were all assembled to
find out if Kathleen had brought them to this courtroom once again to
waste their time or pique their interest.

"Kathleen Cotter for Louise Brooker," she said following the court
courtesies.

"Bob Morton, Your Honor, for All Life.  And, for the record, not happy
to be here.  Your Honor."

"All in a day's work, Mr.  Morton," Kelley quipped.  Obviously a
morning person, his smile was radiant as he turned it on Kathleen."

"Good morning.  Miss Cotter.  Didn't really expect to see you again on
this matter."

Kathleen took his benevolence as a sign of good fortune.

She kept her mouth shut and let Kelley lead.

"You've been granted this hearing based on your motion for
reconsideration in the matter of Louise Brooker v. All Life Insurance."
He pushed aside his notes and crossed his arms atop the high desk.  I
must say, I granted this motion out of curiosity, and a bit of coercion
on the part of my clerk.  I cannot imagine what you have to bring
before this court that was not brought to light day before yesterday.
However, I'm hoping it will be something that will start my morning out
right.  So, you will proceed."

Kathleen cleared her throat, fully aware that Bob Morton was pouting.

"Thank you," she said sweetly.

"I was devastated after my last appearance in your court.  Not because
I believe I had been treated unfairly, not because you hadn't given our
argument slim as it was due consideration ..."

"Your Honor, could Ms.  Cotter just get on with it?"

"Cool your heels, Mr.  Morton.  She'll get to it soon enough, won't
you, Ms.  Cotter?"  Kathleen made a mental note to always jockey for
the morning calendar.

"Absolutely.  I do appreciate the time you're giving me."

Kathleen chanced a glance behind her.  The deep glint in Gerry's eyes
offered encouragement, but his expression was that of only mild
interest.  Louise squirmed beside him.  Kathleen faced the bench
without giving her a second glance.  Kathleen reached for inspiration.
For a minute it wasn't there.  No visions of mother and father rooting
for her, no sense of friends cheering her along.  When it finally came,
she was surprised to see that it came from inside her.  Tenuous though
this courage was, she grabbed it, held it, and spoke.

"When last we met.  Your Honor, you asked whether or not I understood
that a third party cannot attest to state of mind.  I assured you that
I did, indeed, understand that.  I would not waste the court's time
attempting to argue that point.  I will, however, ask the court to
reinstate the action against All Life on the basis that there is, if
not life, a certain amount of communication after death that allows the
deceased to speak for him self."

"Your Honor, please."  Bob Morton was on his feet.  His please, pulled
out like taffy, was left like a sticky lump on Kelley's bench as a
warning not to step in the mess.  Kelley, being a curious sort, ignored
Morton's less-than-subtle advice.

"Go on, Ms.  Cotter."

Base hit.  Now she'd steal home.

"As I was saying, I believe that there is a certain life energy left
behind by the deceased that speaks for itself.  I believe that there
are other ways to address proof of intent.  Your Honor.  I believe that
I can prove that, while Lionel Brooker did, indeed, die from a
self-administered lethal dose of drugs, he did not intend to take his
life that day.  I say intend.  Your Honor.  This is the crux of my
argument for reconsideration."

Kathleen could stay still no longer.  She wandered from behind the
counsel table, considering the floor, raising one hand ever so
slightly.  She was thinking hard, having a conversation with her best
friend and, today, that best friend was the Honor able Donald
Kelley.
"If there were no intent to die at the moment Lionel Brooker
inserted the needle beneath his skin, then there can be no question of
suicide.  A suicide is, by definition, the act of killing oneself on
purpose.  On purpose."  She verbally underlined the word, then paused,
like a preacher allowing for a moment of reflection.

"What I do believe is that Lionel Brooker's intent his purpose was to
get high.  He may have wanted to enjoy himself or relieve himself of
some pressures he had been experiencing.  I believe he intended to
suspend time for a few moments, but certainly not an eternity, and I
believe I can prove that."

"Based on what.  Your Honor!  The man is dead.  We've already
established that no third party can speak to the deceased's intent."
Morton raised his voice.  He didn't even bother to get up.  Kathleen
didn't waste her energy on him.  She was hot.  He knew it and he was
scared.  Instead, she kept her eyes on Don Kelley and waited for divine
intervention from the bench.  When it didn't come, she had no choice
but to forge ahead.

"Lionel Brooker's behavior speaks for itself.  I will show that Lionel
Brooker did not fit the profile of a suicide, persons who have specific
consistencies as documented in journals of medicine and psychology.  I
propose to show that in his work and, especially, his personal life
there were no pressures so great that suicide was desirable or an
option."

Kathleen dropped her voice a note, came close to placing her clasped
hands on the high bench in an attitude of supplication the way she and
Gerry had determined she should, but that wasn't her style yet.
"I
promise.  Your Honor, if you give me this chance, I will prove to you
by the deceased's own actions that the intent to kill himself was never
there.  I will prove that the clause which has excluded benefits to my
client based on the purposeful taking of one's own life is null and
void."

That was enough.  Slowly she walked back to the counsel table, looking
at Morton as she continued speaking.

"Yes, Lionel Brooker is dead.  No, he didn't commit suicide."  She was
behind the table locking eyes with Judge Kelley when she said.

"Yes, Louise Brooker is entitled to collect the death benefits from All
Life.  I can prove all this is true.  That, not the time spent in this
courtroom, is what upsets Mr.  Morton but because All Life is going to
have to live up to its obligation and pay Louise Brooker a quarter of a
million dollars."

Kathleen sat down.  She sat straight in her chair and hoped Gerry
O'Doul, along with everyone else, was duly impressed.

Louise had even stopped fidgeting.

"Mr.  Morton?"  Judge Kelley lowered the checkered flag for All Life.

"Your Honor."  He stood up and buttoned his jacket.

"I find this a great deal of nonsense and beneath my dignity to even
argue this position."

"I see.  Then I suppose I can do nothing less than grant Ms.

Cotter's request."

"Your Honor," Bob Morton sputtered, "I didn't mean I wouldn't argue.  I
only meant that it was beneath me to try and make sense of what Ms.
Cotter proposes."  He was talking fast now, knowing he had lost some
footing.  Kathleen liked Judge Kelley more with each passing minute.

"There is the coroner's report on Mr.  Brooker that rules, in
unequivocal terms, suicide."

"It reads overdose," Kathleen muttered.  Morton talked fast, but it was
clear Don Kelley had heard her.

"That is the only proof needed in this matter, and if Your Honor
considers such a request and agrees to this motion, you will be setting
a dangerous precedent.  You will be setting this court up for reversal
on appeal.  I can promise you.  All Life will appeal."

Kelley's sunny disposition clouded, and his eyes turned icy.

"The day this court rules on the basis of political expediency,
counsel, is the day these robes will be discarded," Kelley said.

"And anyone who suggests otherwise is on shaky ground."

"I only meant that All Life cannot allow a ruling in favor of Ms.
Cotter to pass.  It would wreak havoc with our system, void such a
clause immediately, and take away our privilege to make our own rules.
Your Honor, I cite Cramer v. Biddison where it is clear if the obligor
spouse violates an order to maintain life insurance, a constructive
trust may be imposed against his estate.  That is where the road to
justice lies.  I never meant to imply " Kelley waved Morton away.
"I
know what you meant, Mr.  Morton.  Your argument has as much clarity as
Ms.  Cotter's.  I choose to rule in favor of Ms.  Cotter, for her
argument has not only clarity but conscience and creativity.  It is a
powerful combination.  I charge you to remember that when you are
before this court."  Lacking a gavel, Don Kelley stood up and finished
the proceedings with an authoritative touch to his fine mustache.

"You have the option of a pretrial conference.  If either of you
believes there will be a chance to settle this matter out of court, I
suggest you do so."

"I doubt that will be possible.  Your Honor," Morton said, his pride
clearly wounded.

"Fine."  Kelley opened his calendar, motioned for his clerk, and
addressed counsel.

"Trial is set two months from this date.

Both parties will be present and ready with their arguments.  I
heartily recommend you attempt to make nice with one another.

In the event that you are not able to, I look to Ms.  Cotter to bring a
resoundingly convincing argument before this court " He gave another
one of those looks to Bob.  " so that it will not feel its time has
been wasted or its judgment flawed."

"Yes, Your Honor.  Thank you.  Your Honor.  Thank you."

Kathleen rose in deference and gratitude to the man on the bench.  She
didn't move an inch until he was away.  The minute he was behind closed
doors and the clerk was on to other matters and the bailiff had lost
interest and Bob Morton was packing his things, she whirled to Gerry.

"We did it," she whispered.

"Well done, Kathleen," Gerry whispered back.

"You did it."  There was a catch in the back of his throat.

"I always knew you could."

But Kathleen wasn't listening any longer.  She beat back the sudden
feeling of invincibility, hiding behind the comportment of a woman who
wasn't sure of her own worth.  But she did know her stock had suddenly
gone up.  When she smiled at Bob Morton, he pushed through the bar
without so much as a word to her.  She snapped up her briefcase, as if
for the first time it really belonged to her and she really belonged in
this place.  She felt wonderful as she, too, took her leave.  Gerry was
waiting and they walked out of the courtroom together.

"Sure, wasn't it lucky you decided to stay with me to see this
through," he said as he took her arm.  It didn't escape her notice that
his grip was firm.

"I'm glad I could help."

The pesky little revelation that Gerry could have done as well, if not
better, than she danced around them both as they headed for the door.
He hadn't needed her.  He had taught her.

She had learned and she resented that now, in this moment that should
have been her triumph.

"Help!  Why Kathleen, you're a veritable good-luck charm.

I stopped into the office to find a new client has already come our
way.  Personal injury.  An old, but lovely, lady.  I thought perhaps
you might handle it."  He pushed open the door, following the way
Louise had gone.

Kathleen slowed, holding the door open a bit longer than necessary to
buy time.  But no one came behind them.  She had no choice but to walk
with Gerry, so she said what was on her mind.
"I don't think I should
take on anything else, Gerry.  I thought we'd agreed I'd help you out
with Louise.  We should probably leave it at that."

"Oh, Kathleen, I wouldn't be asking if it were something terribly
time-consuming.  Sure, don't I know that you could handle this with one
hand tied behind your back, and the lady is old.  She'd most likely
feel more comfortable with another woman when it comes to discussing
her injury.  Hip, you know."

Gerry took Kathleen's arm and leaned a bit more heavily.  It was a
subtle rearrangement of his weight that whispered need.

She looked away, resisting the urge to tsk.  Gerry smiled.

"But, of course, you're right.  I'm sorry.  Silly of me to forget.

I just thought it would be all right since Judge Kelley isn't going to
hear Louise's case for two months.  I thought it might be interesting
for you to have something to break up the investigation.  No problem.
I'll handle it.  Though I do have Mr.  Craig's incorporations to deal
with.  That man has more schemes going than a barker at a carnival.
And, of course, I have the small problem with Mr.  Sargeant's will. The
man says he's terminal, but he said that the last time we looked at his
will ..."

"Gerry.  It's not a problem.  I can do it.  Really.  But then I'll
start looking around.  I think it's best."  Kathleen's jaw was as tight
as a guitar string.

"That's so kind, Kathleen.  Thank you.  And, of course, our arrangement
still stands.  Of course."  Gerry let go of Kathleen's arm, leaving her
behind to wonder if he'd heard her at all.

Amazing how his gait had suddenly improved and his voice become almost
boisterous the moment she acquiesced.  Kathleen smiled ruefully and
wondered if she'd ever catch on.  She followed Gerry, whose arms were
held out to the formidable Louise.

"There you are.  You left so quickly.  Sure, aren't you proud of our
Kathleen?"

"Yeah, she did just what you told her to do."  Louise hefted her
white-leather saddlebag higher and slipped her thumb through the gold
ring that held strap and bag together.  Louise didn't even have an inch
to give, so Gerry took it from her.

"Ah, but the strategy, that was hers.  All hers.  She's brilliant, my
Kathleen," Gerry grinned, unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the
voltage that crackled between the two women, Louise's generator by far
the more productive.

"What now, Gerry?"

"Well, Louise, my dear, that's for Kathleen to say."  Kathleen stood at
Gerry's back and he graced her with a loving look.

"Right.  But you're still checking everything.  Now that the mess has
been cleared up, I don't want any more snafus, okay?"

"There haven't been any snafus, Louise," Kathleen said.

Louise pegged her with a shimmering, golden gaze.  Today the eyes were
hazel, the eyelids Inca-like.

"I'll report once a week.

Unless there's something significant to talk to you about.  Then Gerry
and I " Kathleen turned for his corroboration but Gerry wasn't
listening.  His eyes were locked on a target not too far away, just
over Kathleen's shoulder.

Kathleen followed his gaze and let hers rest on the small, unattractive
man who walked down the hall of the courthouse as if he owned it.
Kathleen was about to ask who he was when she realized Gerry no longer
knew she existed.  His face was a play of caution and curiosity.

Gerry moved quickly around Kathleen, walking toward his quarry, hailing
the man convivially.  He hurried, as if he would regret the action if
he stopped to think about it.  The other man saw him.  He stopped.  He
waited.  They came together, subtly wary.

The stranger smiled like a warrior with his foot on the neck of a
fallen enemy.  But that passed, leaving only a pleasant expression of
recognition by the time the two men shook hands.

It was a curious meeting to observe.

"Gerry," the man said quietly with a baritone that was exceptionally
pleasing.  He looked directly at her uncle, yet Kathleen knew he was
well aware that she and Louise straggled behind.  She was also quite
certain the man had assessed them both and reached conclusions that
would never be altered.

"Richard."  The two men shook hands.  The contact didn't seem pleasing
to the small man.  Gerry pretended not to notice.

"I thought you'd given up litigation and left that to those impressive
underlings of yours."

"I like to keep my hand in.  Sweating over budgets can be so boring.  I
learned that from the best before he turned me out.

I see the master is still following his own advice."

"That was a long time ago, between you and me."  Gerry chuckled, and
the other man smiled as if to say how silly old differences could be.

"Now I've got another young lawyer to worry about."  He motioned for
Kathleen to come closer.

"Kathleen Cotter, my niece.  Newly associated with O'Doul & Associates
and only moments ago triumphing over All Life Insurance, thank you very
much."

"That is impressive."  The man with the thin, brown hair and the softly
colored eyes gave her a moment's attention.

Kathleen shook his hand.  It was soft, too.  She had the distinct
impression that those eyes held secrets of immense proportions.

But they didn't linger on her.  She had no secrets.  She obviously was
no challenge, and his gaze drifted back to the man who was.

"Kathleen, Richard Jacobsen is the man who has wrapped up all the city
business.  General partner at Shay, Sylvester & Harrington, don't you
know?  He'll have to watch us, won't he, Kathleen?  I've already talked
to Carl about snatching away some of the city problems."

Richard Jacobsen smiled pleasantly.

"You'll be stepping on my toes then, Gerry."

"Ah, it would be hard to even make you wince, Richard.

We'll settle for the crumbs and be licking them up with style."

Kathleen shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of what was passing
between them, only sure that an undercurrent pulled them into some pool
where they, and no one else, had treaded water before.

"Yo, Gerry, I gotta go."  All three turned toward the sound of Louise
Brooker's voice, surprised to find her still hovering on the outskirts
of their odd triangle.

"Louise, Louise, my dear girl, I'm so sorry.  Come here and meet
Richard.  Richard, the client on whose behalf Kathleen spoke so
passionately.  Louise Brooker, the brave woman who is going up against
All Life with O'Doul & Associates by her side."

Richard Jacobsen's expression shifted, or so it seemed to Kathleen. It
may have been a trick of the light or a genuine look of concern that
flitted lightly behind those eyes or it could have been a subtle look
of surprise.  But who didn't look surprised upon meeting Louise?

"I hope your business with the court is finished now," he said
politely.
"Not likely," Louise shot back.  She nodded."

"Nice to meetcha."  She then left, seemingly satisfied with the day's
proceedings  For a moment, Kathleen wondered where Louise was going.
For a second, Kathleen wondered if she'd be lonely.

Then, she realized that opportunity stood at her elbow and she paid
attention to it.

"Louise can be a little abrupt," Kathleen apologized.  Richard Jacobsen
turned his head toward her, but not until he had apparently satisfied
his curiosity about Louise Brooker.  He smiled at Kathleen as if to say
they alone understood how things could be with difficult clients.

"I trust the problem is as colorful as the lady herself?"

"All the adjectives one could use for Mrs.  Brooker, you could use for
her problem."

Richard looked back to Gerry.  Kathleen was thrown back in deference to
the bigger fish in the pond.

"Did I read about it in the papers, Gerry?  The name sounds
familiar."

"No, no you didn't.  An odd sort of thing.  Louise's ex husband
committed suicide at the Tysco headquarters.  Now she wants the
insurance premiums that are being denied because of an exclusion.  If
the poor man had only waited another day or two, I'm afraid O'Doul
would be out of a fee.  One of those unusual things that keeps us in
business, rest poor Lionel Brooker's soul."  Gerry chuckled.  It was
too small a thing to bore Richard with, and Richard had never had much
of a sense of humor anyway.

"Kathleen will take care of it.  Lovely way she's managed on the
strategy.  Chip off the old block, Richard.

I wouldn't be surprised if her performance were written up in the
journals."

"I'll look forward to reading about it."  Richard stood up straighter
and bowed toward Kathleen.

"Best of luck to you, Ms.  Cotter.  I wish we had a few creative young
people like you around my firm."  He put his hand lightly on Gerry's
arm.

He didn't pat or squeeze; he made only a gesture to familiarity for old
time's sake.  Kathleen's eyes followed that hand and she noticed how
attractive it was.  Well-shaped and beautifully manicured, it was
uncluttered by rings.  When she looked up again, he was still looking
at her curiously before finally taking his leave.

"It was great seeing you, Gerry."

"Nice to see you, too, Richard."  Richard Jacobsen melted away,
swallowed up in the crowd nul ling about the long hall.

Gerry watched even after he was gone and spoke into the space Richard
had left.

"Richard interned with me, Kathleen.  Years ago.  Such a bright young
man.  So focused.  So intense.  I always thought I taught him
everything, but there were some things he did not learn from me." Gerry
fell silent.  Kathleen looked toward the nul ling people, but Richard
Jacobsen did not reappear, so Gerry reanimated himself and touched her
arm.

"We soon parted company.  He went the way of an ambitious young man.  I
had my suspicions that he was walking an unusual path."

"It couldn't have been that odd, considering his success."

Gerry looked at her, a wry upturn of the lips transforming him into the
man Kathleen remembered.

"I think parts of Richard Jacobsen are like a rubber band.

They bend and pull in odd directions.  And another part is made of
quicksand because of the way he absorbs information, making it
disappear as if it never existed, then spitting back his own version.
But mostly, he's made of steel.  One never knows about Richard, and
I've long since been truly curious.

We went our separate ways.  Perhaps I should have gone with him." Gerry
chuckled, then thought again.

"Perhaps not.  And we must do business with all sons, mustn't we? Funny
thing is, I can't really say what sort Richard is."

Kathleen walked with Gerry.  Louise was long gone, and a hush had
fallen suddenly over the now deserted halls.  Those who had business
with the court were either doing it or had been sent away.  Richard
Jacobsen had simply evaporated.  He left behind him a sense that Gerry
and Kathleen were now less than they had been, that the triumph before
Judge Kelley was minor.

Although she might be on a new ladder with Gerry, Kathleen knew she was
still on the bottom rung.  Richard Jacobsen was on the top and he
wasn't looking down.  She'd have to climb some to reach him, but that
was where she wanted to go.  Maybe she wouldn't go all the way to the
top; she wouldn't be that arrogant.  But up.  She wanted to go up.
After this morning's performance, she knew that she could.  If she made
it to the middle of that ladder, Kathleen knew she wouldn't ask for
anything more.

"Shall we stop for breakfast, Kathleen?"  Gerry asked as they stepped
out of the courthouse.  Gerry looked about, squinting into the sun,
Richard Jacobsen forgotten.  Kathleen had forgotten even Gerry for the
moment.

"We have an appointment.  Uncle Gerry.  We need to start on the Brooker
problem right away.  The sooner we do, the sooner it will be over."

And I can start climbing.

Marlene Wong was late.  They were early so they waited in the coroner's
gift shop.  Gerry sat on the straight-backed chair in the corner
fanning himself with the three-page catalogue.

Kathleen, her forehead dotted with perspiration, her hair slicked back
behind her ears, held up a fluffy, white beach towel resplendent with a
black body-outline.  She refolded it, remembering this was Los Angeles.
She wouldn't want to give anyone on the beach any ideas.

There was a mug.

A picture frame.

A call.

"Gerry?"

Kathleen turned toward the door that led elsewhere in time to see Gerry
smile and greet the woman with a kiss on the cheek.

"Marlene, it's been a long time."

"You've been out of the loop lately," she drawled.

"Like the last ten years.  What've you been doing?"  White coat and
clipped words couldn't hide her obvious affection for Gerry O'Doul.

"Haven't I been working, Marlene!  Sure, that's why you haven't seen
me.  How nice you missed me."

"I'll take a working stiff over a regular one any day, Gerry.

Come on, I've got what you asked for."  She cocked her head, her thick,
short, black hair glinting in the fluorescent lights;

the pink-beaded chain attached to her glasses swayed as she moved.

"Come, Kathleen," Gerry held out his hand.  Marlene gave her a
once-over as she joined them.  "My niece and new associate.

She's lead attorney on this; I'm only here to make myself feel
useful."

Marlene Wong sighed at his blarney.

"Then I guess you'd both better come.  But watch out, we're full up and
there's no place for tea."

Gerry held the door.  Kathleen looked straight ahead as she followed
Marlene Wong down the hall to a glass-enclosed office.  There was
nothing to see, but the mere idea that somewhere in this vast building
was a room fall up with dead bodies was enough to make her feel queasy.
They entered a small, neat office.

"Here we are.  Got the file.  Looked it over.  Have a seat, Kathleen."
Marlene Wong was already sitting down.  Kathleen did as she was told,
slinging her purse strap over the back of the chair and putting her
hands in her lap.  Gerry sat after the women were settled.  Marlene
Wong looked at Kathleen."

"What do you want to know?"

Kathleen looked quietly at Gerry, who didn't look back.  She was on her
own, and he waited patiently for her to state what she wanted.

"I want to prove that Lionel Brooker didn't intend to take his own
life.  So I guess what I'd like is any medical information that might
help prove he was just hoping to get high.  Is there any information
you have that might help us prove that?"

"That's pretty broad."

Gerry stepped in, much to Kathleen's dismay.  If he hadn't wanted her
to handle this, then he shouldn't have set her up.
"Is there something
in the toxicology reports, Marlene, that might lead you to believe the
dosage was such that Mr.  Brooker wanted simply to pleasure himself?"
Gerry filled in, gently protective, Kathleen imagined, of her feelings.
He needn't be.

Kathleen was a quick and grateful study, all he needed to do was show
her the way.

"That's a tall order.  I've seen kids in here who look like they've got
everything to live for.  Cheerleaders who jump off cliffs 'cause their
horse has fleas.  How in the heck am I supposed to know what this guy
intended?  Heroin was in his system; he died of an overdose.  He could
have misjudged the dosage; but then again, he could have calculated it
that way."

"Perhaps, then, you could give us a run-through on the report. Anything
that doesn't ring true to your educated ear, we'll listen." Gerry
nodded as if encouraging her to take center stage at a recital for
which she was ill-prepared.

"Okay."  She took a deep breath through her nose, tipped her head back
and her glasses down.

"It wasn't my case, remember.  I didn't do the actual autopsy."

"Not to worry," Gerry murmured.
"Just wanted you to understand.  The
great man himself did this one."  Marlene, practical and political to
the last, gave them both a look to make sure they understood.  "Guess
that in and of itself is pretty bizarre.  By the time they got Mr.
Brooker in here, it was late or early, depending on how you look at
it.

Dr.  Greischmidt is usually out of here by five and doesn't come in
until nine-thirty which is his prerogative.  He has so many
administrative duties to attend to, it must be exhausting."  Marlene
ran her finger down the report in the folder.
"So, I'd say that was
pretty out of the ordinary.  Not extraordinary, you understand, but
somebody would have had to have made a special request.  He wouldn't
have come in without it."

"What was so special about Mr.  Brooker?  I mean, why would Dr.
Greischmidt take notice, especially at that time of the morning?  He
had to have been called from home.  Could we ask him about that?"
Kathleen asked.

Marlene gave Gerry a Cheshire grin that, until now, had been carefully
guarded, but she talked to Kathleen.

"Sure, and we'll invite him to tea."  Marlene and Gerry laughed.

"Dr.  Greischmidt isn't exactly a fan of mine or your uncle's.  About
fifteen years back, Gerry pushed hard during a trial and embarrassed
him a lot.  A young girl had allegedly been killed by her brother three
hours after dinner.  Dr.  Greischmidt had thrown away the stomach
contents which were pivotal to the prosecution.  Gerry embarrassed the
good doctor by making a big deal about that."

"Did you manage to get the brother acquitted?"  Kathleen asked.

"He did."  Marlene answered for him.

"What she's not telling you, Kathleen, is that the boy was guilty. That
one made me think twice, I'll tell you," Gerry mused.

"Ah, the days of maneuvering like that, eh, Marlene?

Kept me young."

"Kept us all young.  Guess that's why Greischmidt lets us underlings do
everything now.  He sticks to the paperwork.  So, back to the work at
hand.  Let's see how good he was on the paper this time."  Marlene was
still smiling as she read.

"Stomach contents were saved.  Brooker hadn't eaten in a while.

Pretty empty except for some grains.  No alcohol.  Heroin in the system
along with an overabundance of vitamin C and E. Our man was a
vitamin-taker.  That's kind of weird if he's a drug abuser

"Would you say it was a massive overdose or miscalculation?"  Kathleen
asked.

Marlene raised a shoulder and cocked her head toward it nonchalantly.

"I'd venture to say just about anything would be considered a massive
overdose.  This guy had to play it safe."  Marlene looked over the top
of her glasses.

"Brooker had an enlarged heart.  Not a terrible problem on its own,
unless you're doing the kind of drugs he was doing.  Then it would have
definitely disturbed the balance in his body.  He wouldn't have been
able to take the same dose as someone who started with a strong and
healthy heart.  Heroin shoots straight to the brain; signals shoot back
down to the heart, and boom!"

"Then he might have committed suicide."  Gerry's comment was
matter-of-fact.  It was too early in the game to throw in the towel,
but Kathleen didn't want to consider it.  She had not only convinced
Judge Kelley of the lightness of her stand, she'd convinced
herself.
"Or it could have meant he wasn't particularly smart,"
Kathleen offered.

"I mean, is there some kind of manual that tells people how much
they're supposed to use?  I wouldn't know how much to use."

"I think, if you know where to buy it, you know how to use it."  She
went on to the next point of interest.

"We also don't know what grade of heroin he was using.  It could have
been contaminated.  Can't tell from this what he knew and what he
didn't, but I'm willing to bet he hadn't been shooting long."

"Why?"

Marlene Wong opened the file and laid it flat on the desk.

It was apparent she didn't want them to focus on the typed form on the
left but on the autopsy photos so neatly tacked to the right side of
the manila folder.

Kathleen looked at the corpse of Lionel Brooker for the first time.
Fascinated and curious, Kathleen was astounded to find herself neither
revolted nor sympathetic.  Were these the emotions of a lawyer?  But
she was a woman with a history of compassion: empathy for her father's
disillusionment, for her mother's disappointment, for her fiance's
limitations.  Funny, she'd thought she'd left only Banning behind; now
she realized she'd left part of herself there.  She wondered if she
should try to find it again.

"I'm sorry.  Dr.  Wong," Kathleen said quietly, her personal epiphany
put away for her to consider later and alone if ever.

"I don't know what I'm looking for in these pictures."

Old eyes still sharp, Gerry had flipped from the full-body photos to
close-ups of Lionel Brooker's head, torso, legs, and finally arms.  He
was the one who answered.

"Here, Kathleen.  Look here."  A long, thin finger indicated the
midpoint of Lionel Brooker's arm.  She followed the instruction and
shook her head again.

"Clear, my girl.  His skin is unblemished.  There are no tracks,
Kathleen, no bruises.  Indeed, Mr.  Brooker may not have known what he
was doing.  Lionel Brooker was not a junkie.  If he had a drug of
choice, it wasn't injected heroin."

"Still sharp, Gerry.  So, it could have been his first try."

Marlene Wong added her two cents.

"There are a few other things that bother me."  She flipped back to the
picture that showed the left quadrant of Lionel's unclothed body.

"There is no note of a fresh needle-mark, but ... see here?  It looks
like ... something ... on the neck."  She made a little circular motion
to draw attention to it.

"This picture isn't great because the good doctor didn't turn the head
fully, procedure I would call sloppy if it were anyone but Dr.  G. But
the really strange thing is, if you look with a glass, there seems to
be a slight tear in the skin.  There's also a contusion on the back of
his right thigh and one on the back of his right arm near his elbow.

"Like he'd fallen," Kathleen muttered.

"No," Marlene said thoughtfully.

"Then what?"

"Like he'd struggled."

Chapter Six

Kathleen had pirated Gerry's slightly larger office to depose Sarah
Brooker, but it was still uncomfortably crowded.  The stenographer had
settled in an upright chair in the corner, her machine at the ready on
a portable stand.  Tony Maglio was sitting in one of the bucket chairs
purloined from me reception area.  Kathleen was behind Gerry's desk and
Sarah Brooker was across from her.  There were approximately
ten-square-feet of floor space that wasn't being tapped upon by a set
of feet.

And, in the free space, Becky flitted about refilling coffee cups or
water glasses.  She looked pale and terrified.  The audience was too
big, the activity more than she'd seen in all her years at O'Doul &
Associates, and she wanted everything to be right.

The air-conditioning was on full-force.  Perhaps that was what kept
everyone from getting hot under the collar.

"Sarah--" Kathleen crossed out number sixty-three on her list of
questions.  "--did your husband spend much time away from home?"

Sarah slid her eyes toward Tony.  Kathleen followed suit.

Tony, unfortunately, wasn't quite on top of things.  His eyes were
crossing.  The expression pulling teeth took on a whole new meaning as
Sarah looked down again and shook her head.

"Mr.  Maglio?"  Kathleen looked for a little help with a raised brow.
She had long since overcome her awe of him.  He cleared his throat and
pushed back his coat, letting his hand rest on his hip.

"You'll have to speak for the record, Sarah."  Tony fell short of
giving her a nudge on the shoulder.  He'd said the same thing
sixty-three times.

This, Kathleen decided, must be legal hell.  Sarah, sitting with her
hands in her lap, her gray sweater hanging over her thin shoulders, her
dishwater-blond hair falling from a middle part to hide her face ...
the court reporter's fingers at the perpetual ready, only to be
stretched for seconds by one-word answers ... Tony playing imaginary
cat's cradle with his fingers and ... "No," Sarah finally said, her
voice as flat as a pancake.

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten the question."  Kathleen looked toward the
reporter.
"Did Lionel stay away from the home for long periods of
time?"

The woman's mouth hadn't moved.  Kathleen glared at Louise  She'd
forgotten Louise, who had been progressively banished farther from the
table where counsel and client sat.  The reporter looked at Louise just
to make sure she wasn't going to say anything else.  When it was clear
that there wouldn't be a duet, she spoke.

"Did Lionel stay away ..."

Kathleen nodded politely.  The woman stopped.  Kathleen and everyone
else in the room looked at Sarah, who looked back with deer-eyes the
kind that were wide and scared and caught in the headlights Kathleen
was shining on her.

"Sarah?"  Kathleen prodded.

"No.  He was always home."  This time her voice was almost defiant.

Louise snorted.  She was ignored by everyone except Sarah Brooker.
Slowly, Sarah turned to look at Louise.  The picture was stunning.
Louise in her black-satin jumpsuit breasts pushing out the top;
high-heeled, sandaled feet pushing out the bottom sat confidently at
her end of the spectrum.  Her nails were white.  Louis Armstrong blew
into a gold trumpet.  Louise's own lips were outlined in pewter and
colored in with plum.

Tammy Faye didn't have a thing on her.

On the other end of the spectrum sat Sarah.  The sweater she'd worn in
court still hung over her shoulders despite the heat outside.  Today it
covered a denim dress, neatly pressed, too long, too big to bring to
mind any prurient interest.  Yet, on her unpainted face there was an
expression of such courage she seemed as formidable as her
counterpart.

"Lionel was home every night because that's where he wanted to be.
That's where he felt safe."  The reporter typed like crazy, happy to
have something to do.  Sarah looked back at Kathleen, her piece said.

"Was there something that made Lionel feel unsafe?"

The odd choice of words alerted Kathleen.  The picture Sarah painted of
her life with Lionel was crucial to Kathleen's argument and Sarah knew
it.  But whatever else was in Sarah's head was now tucked firmly
away.

"Nothing.  There's nothing.  He just liked the feeling of being at
home."  She hesitated.

"Lionel liked being away from every thing loud and vulgar."

They all thought about that for a moment.  Louise inspected the tip
other nail.  The guise of indifference was well-assumed, and, because
it was Louise, believable.

"Did Mr.  Brooker ever verbally or physically abuse you, Sarah?"
Sixty-four was checked off.

Sarah rose to the occasion, defending her dead husband.

"No.  Not Lionel.  Whoever said that is a liar.  Every word out of
Lionel's mouth was truthful and loving toward me."

"No one has accused him of anything, but everybody thinks there was
something wrong at the end of Mr.  Brooker's life."

Kathleen put her hand to her head, winding her fingers through her
hair.  She looked at Sarah Brooker and opened her mind.  The belief
that Sarah wanted to talk was a far cry from knowing how to tap into
that desire.  Obviously her desire was fleeting.

"I want to go home."

Sarah pleaded with her attorney.  She refolded her hands.

Tony Maglio looked through her.  Finally, she turned the full force of
her frightened and anxious attention on Kathleen.

"I want to go home."  This time she appealed to Kathleen.

"I've told you everything there is to tell.  Lionel was a good man.  We
were very happy.  We loved each other.  I know that you people can make
things seem different.  I know you're smart with words.  If I could,
I'd give you all the money just so you would go away and let Lionel
rest.  But I can't.  It's not up to me."  She hung her head and the
curtain of hair fell again.

She spoke from behind it.

"He never did drugs.  He loved the world.  He was a spiritual man and
we were so happy together.  Now he's dead and nobody is interested in
how that happened.  You don't care about Lionel, so just take what you
want.  You can ask me things a hundred different ways, but I can't tell
you that Lionel was ugly or mean or selfish.  He wasn't.  He wasn't."
She raised her head, memories of Lionel giving her courage.

"I know he didn't kill himself.  I know that for sure because" Sarah's
voice rang out like an evangelist.  Suddenly realizing how curious
they'd become, she backtracked.

"I know that because I know him.  I don't know how the drugs got in
him, but you'll never convince me that he was so sad he didn't want to
live.  He finally had a good life."  She slumped back in her chair.

"Now it's gone and you are all picking at his corpse.

That was my husband.  I loved him.  He loved me.  There's nothing more.
So, please, can I go home now?  I want to leave."

The silence was a canvas with Sarah's last words painted on it in big
letters for all to see.  Tony Maglio craned his neck so he wouldn't
have to look at Sarah.  Kathleen looked at her notes.  Never in her
whole life had she felt so guilty.  She had scored one today.  A big
one and she felt terrible because Sarah Brooker wasn't her opponent.
Sarah was only a sad, little widow, afraid of her own shadow.
"Oh,
Lord," Louise finally muttered from her exile."

"Lionel wasn't a saint."  The spell was broken.  The court reporter
typed, and Becky slipped into the room, staying only long enough to
whisper in Kathleen's ear.

Though she listened, Kathleen watched Sarah Brooker closely.  The body
language screamed martyr, but there was something else inside her. When
she glanced over her shoulder toward Louise, Sarah Brooker began to
shake and Kathleen understood.  That something else inside Sarah was
honest-to goodness fear.  The questions were how deep did it go?  and
how real was it?  Sarah's eyes snapped back to her lap, and Kathleen
turned a curious eye on Louise.  There was, of course, one other
question.  Who was causing such fear?

"Mrs.  Brooker," Kathleen said gently, jotting a note to herself
regarding Becky's information before looking at Sarah.

"Can you think of anything in Lionel's life, or yours, that would cause
him to become despondent or to feel as if he would be doing anyone a
favor if he took his own life?  If there is one small thing, it would
help so much to wrap this up."

Sarah shook her head.  When she looked at Kathleen there was no fear,
just an expression of extreme weariness.

"No," she answered softly.  There would be nothing else from Sarah
Brooker, but Kathleen had to try one more tactic, a question she asked
the women in Banning who came to her, bruised and battered, to find out
what they could do to protect themselves from an unnamed person who
wanted to hurt them an unnamed person who usually turned out to be
their husband.

In this case, that wasn't a possibility.  There was, however, another
person whom Sarah Brooker might fear.

"Sarah, is there anyone you're afraid of?"

Sarah Brooker bolted upright, her narrow, fragile shoulders shaking
under the heavy sweater.  If it were possible, her face paled even
more, the freckles across the bridge of her nose taking on a
three-dimensional look.  Her eyes lowered; they slid left toward
Louise.  Kathleen watched closely for any sign of accusation.  Those
eyes slid right toward Tony Maglio and, finally, they looked fearfully
at Kathleen herself.

"I just want to be left alone."

Kathleen stood up.  The court reporter packed up her things, left a
card on the desk, and went away.  The transcripts would be in
Kathleen's hands the next day.  It was hardly necessary.

Kathleen would remember everything: the words the nuances, the
inflections.  Sarah hurried out the door and Becky said goodbye to
everyone in turn.  Tony Maglio stuck out the hand that didn't hold his
briefcase.

"It's been a pleasure," he said.

Kathleen shook his hand.

"It's been interesting."

"Yeah."  He hoisted the case and Kathleen wondered what could make it
so heavy.

"It was pretty painless."

"For you, maybe," Kathleen reminded him.  It took him a minute to
realize he was supposed to murmur an empathetic statement on Sarah's
behalf.  He tried, but it didn't come easily.

"Well."  He had a proposition to discuss.

"Look, Kathleen,this estate isn't worth the paper it's printed on.  I'm
only here as a favor to Brooker's brother, you know.  He liked the
wife.  He didn't know her well, but he has a lot of respect for the way
she felt about his brother."  He glanced over his shoulder.  They were
alone.  He laid it out.

"Anyway, you've got a better shot at getting the bucks out of All Life.
Everything in the estate is tied up with Sarah anyway.  She was
Lionel's beneficiary on the company-paid policies retirement, house,
everything.  She thinks she can just give it away and that will be
that, but I'm here to tell you it would be a mess."  Now he put the
briefcase in front of him and held it with both hands.

He lowered his head close to Kathleen's.  She leaned into him to hear
what he had.

"There was some stock in Lionel's name and a separate savings account
Sarah said he had opened to save for his farm.

The guy worked twenty years and he left less than thirty in personal
assets.  Our fees are going to be substantial because of this suit.  It
comes out of the estate before there's a penny on the settlement. We've
cooperated pro bono on this depo.

What do you say you talk to your client?  I'll expedite the probate.
Sarah will have some bucks in the bank and still have her house.  You
put your efforts into All Life.  That's where the money is."  He
glanced over his shoulder at Louise, knowing her ears were as big as
her greed.

"That's what your client wants anyway.  It's pretty evident.  Cut and
dry.  You're good enough to get All Life.  Why not do it?"

"I'll think about it.  I promise."

She took his arm and moved him out of the office, standing taller under
the mantle of his compliment.  If anything else was going to be said,
she wanted it said out of earshot of Louise Brooker.  She wrapped
things up with him; but before she could go back to Louise, Becky
stopped her.

"This came by messenger.  One for you and one for Gerry."

Kathleen took the cream-colored envelope, noted there was no return
address, and opened the seal.  She was quiet while she read it once,
twice, and then again.

"You okay?"  Becky asked.

"Bad news?  I hope not.  I have some soda.  Want some?"

"No."  Kathleen shook her head and tried not to grin when she looked
up.  She didn't do a very good job.

"No, it's not bad news.  In fact, it's very good news.  Did Gerry get
the same thing?"

"Yep."

"Then pencil me in on his calendar.  We have a date at Shay, Sylvester
& Harrington on the thirty-first.  We've been invited to a fund-raiser
for Carl Walsh.  I guess Gerry's networking is paying off."

"Wow.  That's cool.  Can you imagine?  A party at the biggest law firm
in the city.  You're sure going to meet some neat people."

"Yes," Kathleen muttered, "I think you're right."

She put the invitation back in the envelope and headed toward Gerry's
office.  She wouldn't get her hopes up.  She wouldn't make any plans.
She wouldn't even allow herself to imagine that Richard Jacobsen even
remembered what she looked like.

She wouldn't do anything until the day was over.  Then she'd dream.
Boy, would she dream.  But now, Louise was waiting and she'd give a
dollar to pop any balloon of good cheer Kathleen sent up.  Composed,
Kathleen walked back into Gerry's office, pocketing the invitation.

"So, do we have enough?"  Louise asked.

Kathleen started cleaning up for lack of anything better to do that
would keep her from looking at Louise.

"We've got a lot."

"A lot isn't a win."  Louise stood up and adjusted the top of her
outfit.  Her breasts moved this way and that, only to fall into place
the minute their owner stopped her fussing.  Kathleen put all the
coffee cups to one side, no longer impressed by Louise's antics. Louise
wasn't the kind of client she wanted to represent.  Shay, Sylvester &
Harrington had those clients.

Louise wasn't the kind of person she wanted to know.  Richard Jacobsen
was.

"There aren't any promises, Louise."  Kathleen stopped.  She could only
rearrange the cups so often.  She gave Louise the courtesy of her
attention, limited though it was.

"I'm not asking for a promise.  I just want to know if the judge will
understand this.  I mean it is kind of an iffy thing, this
intention-stuff.  It makes me nervous."

"This intention stuff is what's going to get you what you want, Louise.
If I were you, I wouldn't open my mouth in the courtroom, try to
explain anything, or add to it.  I'm doing everything that needs to be
done, and Gerry knows everything that's happening.  I've talked to a
psychologist and Lionel's doctor; we've deposed Sarah, and I've been to
the coroner.

I've got the police reports to go over.  I'm going to Tysco to check
out things there.  There are still a few things to look into, the
paperwork to do, and the appearance.  Now you know everything I know.
You know that I'm doing everything I can, and I hope that's good enough
for you."

Kathleen looked straight into Louise's eyes.  Today the contact lenses
made them a bright green, the color of money, the color of jealousy.
Kathleen looked deep, trying to sense something in the other woman that
would make her fearful, but there was nothing.  Louise might make her
feel small and unworthy and almost stupid, but all that had changed
with a cream-colored invitation from a man who worked only with the
rich, the famous, and the powerful.  The invitation had brought a
little bit of that to Kathleen.  So now, looking at Louise, Kathleen
only wanted to know if there was an evil in Louise Brooker that Sarah
understood but Kathleen couldn't fathom.

Louise looked back, thinking thoughts of her own.  Instinctively,
Kathleen knew those thoughts were about her.  It was the first time
the two women had faced one another without confrontation.  A truce was
too much to ask, but Kathleen would count herself lucky when Louise
left with only a jab at the way she dressed instead of the way she
comported herself as an attorney.  But when Louise spoke, lucky wasn't
how Kathleen felt.  Thunderstruck was a more apt adjective.

"Okay.  Thanks."  Louise picked up her purse, a curious thing that
couldn't decide whether it was a suitcase or a knitting bag.

In the silence that followed, Louise Brooker turned her back on
Kathleen Cotter and quietly closed the door, remaining inside the
office.  The Louise who now regarded her was tired or worried Kathleen
wasn't sure which but subdued, nonetheless

"I know you don't care much for me.  I know you think this mess is as
low as the lowlifes that caused it.  I can understand that.  I'm not
stupid, you know.  I've got a handle on myself.

I'm not sure you have one on yourself, but everybody has a little
baggage.  If you want to fool yourself that there's more than this out
there, fine.  But I'm straight, Kathleen.  I'm not out to screw anyone,
least of all that little dishwater-blonde.

What I feel about her is pretty personal and wrapped up in a whole lot
of stuff.  I don't have time to worry about it.  If I took the time,
I'd never do anything else.  But the insurance-thing, that's different.
It's got a beginning and it's going to have an end."

"Louise, I'm your lawyer.  I don't need to know any of this.

I don't make judgments about my clients."  Uncomfortable with
confession, she let her eyes drift away.

"Yes, you do."  Louise smiled sadly, a wiser woman than Kathleen.
During the hours of the deposition, her lipstick had worn off and, for
the first time since Kathleen had met her, Louise Brooker seemed less
than a caricature.

"Never kid a kidder, Kathleen.  I didn't want Lionel to die.  I sure as
heck didn't want him to go the way he did.  But it's over and done and
now there are possibilities for me, you understand?  Lionel's life is
over, mine isn't.  It's as simple as that.  I mean, do you think we
went through all that hassle getting an insurance policy because we
thought Lionel was going to live forever?  He was going to kick off
sometime.  So, I don't know why you're looking down on me for wanting
what everybody planned on."

"I'm not looking down on you ..."

Louise stood tall, or so it seemed to Kathleen.  Her eyes took on that
steely look again.  Kathleen Cotter might as well have stepped on her,
so insulting was that lie.

"Yeah, whatever, Kathleen.  Just do what you have to do, and then we'll
call it quits, okay?"  And she was out the door for good.

"Yes," Kathleen muttered as the door slammed.

"Then I'm gone.  I'm gone."

Minutes later, Kathleen was out of the office, too, catching up with
Louise a half a block away.

"Louise."  Kathleen slowed her pace as she approached the other woman.
Wary still, she spoke from ten paces then closed the distance slowly.

"I'm sorry about the way we've been.  I'm not usually rude.  If I have
been to you, I'm sorry.  You just kind of got all caught up in my
expectations when I was way down."

"Funny, that's exactly how I feel about you."

"Fair enough."  Kathleen looked toward the street.  It was quiet.  A
car passed them.  She looked past Louise toward Wilshire Boulevard.
Even two, long blocks away, she could see that the street was packed
with cars.  Most were turning north, not south.  That's where success
was and yet Louise and Kathleen stood here, on South Beverly, below
Olympic, far beneath the people who traveled Wilshire.  None of it
mattered right now.  All that mattered now was the answer to one
mystery.

"If you didn't love Lionel anymore, why are you so hard on Sarah
Brooker?"

Louise smirked and shook her head, amused to find that Kathleen was so
naive.

"It's this way," she said, holding out her hands to help in the
explanation.  Louise Armstrong tooted away on the tips of her nails.

"If Lionel loved Sarah a mousy, weak kind of woman who hides from the
world and if he loved me, then it must mean she and I have something in
common.  I don't want to look at her tortured little face and think
that Lionel saw the same thing when he looked at me.  I don't want to
think I was ever that weak.  I have my pride."

Louise's head was up, her eyes ablaze.  The memory of a man who
disappointed her in life, and disappointed her by marrying someone who
was everything she wasn't, made her angry.  Lionel had negated her.
That was tough to take.

"I don't think Sarah Brooker is weak at all," Kathleen countered
cautiously.

"I think she's scared.  Do you know what she might be scared of?"

"Life," she snorted.  Vintage Louise was back.

"Is there someone she should be scared of?"

Louise put on her sunglasses and lingered a moment before turning her
back on Kathleen without giving an answer.  She walked away.  Kathleen
didn't follow.

Instead, she raised her face to the late-afternoon sun.  She never
would have done that in the desert, but here a privileged breeze cut
the heat down to warmth.

When she opened her eyes again, Louise was two blocks down, one hip
thrust out, her hands on both as she stared at something in a window.
Kathleen wondered if Louise was planning how to spend the fortune when,
and if, it was won.

Perhaps she was looking at something she knew she would never have
because she had no faith in Kathleen's ability.

Perhaps Louise could buy whatever had caught her fancy.  Who knew what
Louise Brooker was really about or what she already had?  There was
money to pay O'Doul & Associates, to have those nail masterpieces
painted, to buy so many cheap clothes that Kathleen hadn't seen the
same outfit twice.  Perhaps it was all smoke and mirrors.  Perhaps
Louise was exactly what she was, an unfathomable mystery.  But solving
that puzzle would bring Kathleen nothing.  Doing her job and finding
out what, if anything, Lionel Brooker intended before that needle went
through his skin was something else.  Much as she hated to admit it,
Kathleen Cotter was hooked on the challenge Louise had brought to her.
One battle had resulted in an uneasy peace between the two women as
they faced the final strife.  It was time Kathleen put together her
arsenal and her armor.

Sighing, she turned away from Louise, feeling lonely.  She seemed to be
the only one who cared what really had happened to Lionel Brooker.
Judge Kelley only wanted enough to allow him to legally override All
Life.  Louise wanted the same.  Sarah wanted to be left alone; she
already knew as much as she wanted to know about Lionel.  If Kathleen
found evidence that Lionel had wanted to take his life, Sarah would
never believe it.  Gerry wanted Kathleen to succeed.  So, there she
was, alone with the enigma of Lionel Brooker, a clear calendar for
midafternoon, and a feeling that today was the day she should spend
anywhere but inside the office with only Becky for company Becky, who
would be crushed to know that Kathleen dreamed that the invitation from
Richard Jacobsen might be her ticket to the other side of Wilshire.

Hurrying back to the office, Kathleen grabbed her purse and briefcase
and was back out the door with a warning for Becky to take any
messages--as if there would be a flood of them.

Feeling free and in control and dedicated to her mission, Kathleen got
into her car, turned the radio loud and the air-conditioning on high.
She drove and pretended that she hadn't heard some of the words Louise
had used that drew parallels between them.  She even allowed herself to
think that some good might come out of this.  If she beat All Life and
Tony Maglio, if she convinced Judge Kelley that her suit had merit,
there would be talk.  And the talk would be of an attorney who had come
out of nowhere and made her mark.  Richard Jacobsen might take notice.
And, if she were so lucky as to actually have the man's ear for a
moment, she would toot her own horn.  Mom would turn over in her grave;
but then again.  Mom had lived and died in Banning.  Now, that was
something to consider.

Pony minutes later, chilled from the air-conditioning, her ears ringing
with the decibel-level of the car radio, plans she wasn't sure she
could carry out still pinging around in her head, Kathleen Cotter
pulled into the parking lot of the sprawling Tysco complex and knew
instantly this was a place where she could hide from the little demons
and big hopes that chased her.

The compound was as big as a city.

To the left, long, low buildings sprawled over acres of land.

Hangars yawned on the south end and, beyond that, scrub brush and,
finally, barbwire-topped fences.  Helicopters stood at the ready; jeep
like vehicles spotted the tar macs  A private jet sat idle, painted
white with the Tysco logo on the tail.  A tall, chain link fence
surrounded a portion of that portion of the complex.

Kathleen's eyes slid right, then left again and finally noted the
tunnel-like building to the north which connected the one story
buildings to the many-windowed high-rise.  A grass strip ran the length
of the windowless tunnel, merging with a flower bed that snaked S-like
out from the last third of the low building.

In front of the high-rise, the landscape became a full-blown
celebration of horticultural ecstasy.  Nestled in this floral
jubilation was a sculpture of the world gone awry.  Huge bars of brass
and steel converged in an oddly shaped sphere.  The artist had left
mammoth gaps through which black metallic arrows were thrust.  The
design was so deftly done that a visitor with less interest in the
place would have subliminally blocked out the dreary south end and
focused only on the northern structure.

Kathleen crossed her arms over the steering wheel and lay against it,
focusing on the high-rise where Lionel Brooker had come every day of
his working life.  Sarah had said it was a long drive from his home in
the canyon.  Kathleen couldn't fathom why he'd made it.  Certainly
there was no glamor in being one of a hundred auditors who labored
anonymously in a place like this.  Then she thought of Banning, Dorty &
Breyer and her caseload.  She had had a reason for being there; Lionel
could have had a thousand reasons for toiling like an ant in a hill,
not the least of which was safety.  No one ever asked you to prove how
worthy you were in a huge place like Tysco or a schlock office like
Dorty.  You simply had to be and do.  At least here Lionel's salary had
been good and the benefits solid.

There was job security, and that was a good thing.  There was
predictability.  That could be a good thing.

"Good things, Lionel," Kathleen said to whatever part of his spirit
had been left here.

"You don't leave good things.

You leave bad things, a world where people don't care.  But Sarah
cared.  Your brother cared."

Lionel left Louise because she wasn't a good thing.  Lionel stayed with
Sarah because she was.  Lionel saved for a farm.

That was a good thing.  Lionel worked and died at Tysco.  Tysco seemed
a good thing, but then again this might be where the good things had
changed.  God, she hoped not.

Reaching for her purse, Kathleen refreshed her memory.

Lionel had been found in the bathroom on the second-floor south wing
just where the tunnel intersected with the high-rise.

There would be nothing to see in the bathroom.  It would have been
scoured clean the moment the investigating cops gave the word.  But
there would be a lot to see on the sixth floor where he'd worked. There
would be people to talk to.  That's where she would go.

She signed in at the huge desk and, sporting the plastic encased badge
that identified her as visitor, followed directions to the elevators.
She stood posture-perfect, as always.  She waited, as always,
patiently.  But when the doors opened, Kathleen's mouth fell open and
she ducked right to avoid the stampede from all six elevators.

Men and women, short and tall, well dressed or not, spilled out at her.
They pushed through the crowds silently, cursed under their breath, or
talked frantically as they headed for the front door and freedom.
One-by-one, the doors closed and the elevators zipped up their shafts
to collect those desperate and left behind.  Kathleen managed to slip
behind door number three.  It wouldn't have waited for God, and she
breathed a sigh of relief when she made it.  On the sixth floor, twenty
people hovered, their faces a collective show of disappointment that
they would have to wait one second longer to allow Kathleen out before
they smashed inside.

Apologizing, she crab-stepped through the crowd as she went.  The other
elevators called and the twenty people disappeared, leaving Kathleen
alone to ponder her own circumstance.

Perhaps O'Doul & Associates was not the most glamorous place on the
face of the earth, but Tysco was akin to being buried alive, judging by
the way people fled at the end of the day.  Perhaps Lionel had simply
snapped, unable to face another day with hundreds and thousands of
people who arrived, worked, and ran.

"Oh, I hope you didn't, Lionel," Kathleen muttered even as she thanked
her lucky stars that she'd never ended up in a place like this.  Dorty,
at least, had always been surprising.  She moved on.

Like the lobby, the office floors were well-appointed though
uninspired.  The carpet was new, short, and easy to care for,
wheat-colored.  A small, wooden plaque on the wall pointed the way to
auditing.  Kathleen followed the directions.  It was one of her
specialties.

She went left and followed the next arrow right until she reached the
end of the hall and her destination.  While the doors on either side of
her opened to single offices of no particular distinction, the double
glass doors ahead of her led to a huge room filled with gray desks.
Kathleen had the almost uncontrollable urge to press her nose against
the glass.  Instead, she stood quietly and looked.

Kathleen prided herself on her ability to sense the state of things.
Her mother's house had been filled with disappointment.

Even after her death, after the cleaning crew had taken everything away
and just before the house was sold, Kathleen could tell that no matter
who bought it, the house would always be filled with disappointment.
Her home had been filled with loneliness.  Gerry's offices were filled
with hope.  Though her first impression had been one of failure, she
had come to realize it was only hope that had collected dust.  And
here, standing where Lionel Brooker had tread, Kathleen didn't sense
discouragement.

No black fingers of discontent reached out to give her a chill, no
Oliver Twist cowered in a corner asking for more.  This was just a
place to work.

A bank of average-size windows and strips of fluorescent lighting ran
the length of the cavernous room.  There were framed prints on the wall
that, from her vantage point, offered a corporate attitude ... perhaps
renderings of goods manufactured elsewhere in the sprawling complex.
There was one tall plant in the corner, but no padded walls divided up
the big room.  There was a water fountain with a bulletin board over
it.  Kathleen wondered where the coffeepot was.  She imagined there was
a grindstone about that these people kept their noses to, yet Kathleen
didn't find it terribly unpleasant.  She pushed through the glass
doors.  If possible, the quiet behind the doors was even more profound
than the silence of the recently deserted halls.  She pulled her purse
closer.

"Can I help you?"

Kathleen jumped.  A woman materialized from a small room cut out of the
beige wall.  Kathleen glimpsed a Xerox machine, noted the sheaf of
papers in the woman's hand, the impatient expression on her face, and
the purse slung over her shoulder.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was trying to
catch up with the rest of the pack.

"I'm looking for the supervisor."

The woman jerked her head toward the back.

"He usually doesn't leave until six.  But there's always the exception.
I saw him in the hall about fifteen minutes ago.  He didn't look like
he was leaving for the day, but you never know."

"Thanks."

Kathleen nodded.  The woman went around her.

"No problem."

She put the papers on the desk nearest the door, pulled open the bottom
drawer, retrieved something that fit in the palm of her hand, and went
on her way without a backward glance.

Kathleen went the opposite way.

Up close, the situation was no better.  The desks were laid out five to
a row, ten rows.  It was a long room and the boss had an actual office
in the back, though office might have been a generous description.
Actually, all the poor guy got was an extra glass wall that cut him off
from the unwashed masses.

Kathleen wondered how long he had had to work for the privilege.

The office was empty and, since anyone who came in could see that she
was not stealing anything, Kathleen was bold.  She went in.

Far from finding anything to steal, she was hard put to find anything
to look at.  The desk was neatly stacked with ledger sheets and memos.
A hand calculator pulsed green with a number in the six figures in
front of the decimal and three after.  It had been left precisely in
the middle of the desk, offset by a lamp, a standard-issue pen, and
three perfectly sharpened pencils  There were no pictures, no
children's drawings, no sport paraphernalia, no joke-gifts given to the
beloved boss last Christmas.  The office gave Kathleen the creeps.  She
imagined a robot-person coolly eyeing those he supervised from his
silent, lonely, glass-enclosed office.

Kathleen's senses were on overload.  The quiet of this deserted place
made her uncomfortable; the starkness of the office seemed ominous.
Deciding another time, a more active time, might be more conducive to a
conversation with the person who inhabited this place, Kathleen turned
on her heel.

She clutched her purse tighter.  She'd make an appointment.

She'd send a letter.  She was about to reach for the door when she saw
him.

It was a Kodak moment.  Music should have swelled.  Her heart should
have stopped instead of stuttered.  The man standing in the huge room,
halfway between the big glass double doors that led to the hall and the
single glass door behind which Kathleen waited, looked neither
surprised nor curious.  He was gorgeous.

He was tall; his hair dark, straight, and thick enough that Kathleen
hardly noticed it receded slightly at his brow.  His face was narrow,
his features refined.  But there was an edge to his good looks: Thick
dark lashes rimmed deceptively serene eyes; the authoritative set to
his lips kept them from being full;

his nose was a bit too hewn to be aristocratic.

There was no pocket-protector; no wing-tip shoes; no shortsleeved,
easy-wash, no-wrinkle dress shirt tucked into sans-a belt polyester
pants.  His tall body wasn't languid, but held at the casual ready.
Lean, it was also defined.  The long-sleeved shirt was rolled up past
the wrist, open at the neck, and tucked into jeans that skimmed a pair
of Dockers.  He was a billboard come to life.

Kathleen, speechless and immobile, could only watch as he walked
slowly, but surely, toward her.  He paused, hand on the knob, then
opened the door without a smile of welcome or a grimace of displeasure.
He walked past to the desk and said, "Are you looking for me?"

"Are you the supervisor?"  Her voice squeaked.  He looked at her.  She
could swear the very tips of his lips moved up.

Almost a smile.

"Am I sitting here?"  She was wrong about the smile.

"Are you always rude?"  She tried to set herself apart.  Perhaps if she
felt superior, she might be able to make it through the next few
minutes without sounding like a love-struck schoolgirl.

She had never been so excited by her own audacity.  He didn't quite
soften, but he did her the favor of sitting back in his chair and
giving her his full attention.

"No, actually, I'm rather nice.  And I don't think either of us meant
to be rude.  I just have a lot to do, and I'm assuming since you made
it this far you knew whom you were coming to see."  He crossed his
legs, laced his hands behind his head.

"What division are you from?  Who's complaining?"

"No one that I know of.  I was hoping you could tell me."

Kathleen looked around, as much to identify a chair as to cool her
heels.  A man like this knew exactly what effect he had on women like
her, and Kathleen didn't fool herself that he couldn't read her like a
book.  Confidence radiated from him while Kathleen's was running for
the door.

She breathed deeply through her nose, dug in her purse, managed to come
up with a business card and a half a stick of gum.  She handed him the
card, noticed the gum, took the card back, and extricated her fingers
from the offending mess.  Redfaced, she handed him back the card.

He hadn't cracked a smile.

Thank God she didn't work for him.

"My name's Kathleen Cotter.  I'm from the firm ofO'Doul & Associates."
He read faster than she could talk and put the card aside before she'd
finished.  She sat down without an invitation, knees together, her
thoughts on his eyes and ways to fill the expectant silence.
Uncomfortable, Kathleen realized the man was still looking her in the
eye as he had since the moment he'd seen her.  As if he read her mind,
taking pity on the poor girl he had to know wasn't as sophisticated as
she looked, the supervisor glanced once more at her card.  Before she
could breathe, he was looking her in the eye again.

"Michael Crawford.  What can I do for you?"

"I'd Like to ask you some questions about one of your employees."
Kathleen cleared her throat.  She sounded better.

Not great, just better.

"Should I have a representative from our legal department here?"  he
asked.  She was just another part of his day.  She resisted the urge to
tug at her skirt.

"I don't think you need to, but you're welcome to call someone if it
will make you feel more comfortable.  I don't mind waiting."  Kathleen
mentally whacked herself.  She sounded as if she were asking if he
wanted a pillow for his feet.  She cleared her throat and added an
addendum.

"But it really isn't necessary, I assure you.  From a legal standpoint,
that is.  But if you start feeling uncomfortable--" "Okay."  He picked
up a pen and ran it through his fingers.

Long fingers with a streak of red across the knuckles.  An injury he
couldn't have gotten pushing papers.

"Shoot."

She licked her lips, which were dry--from the recycled air, more than
likely.

"Yes.  Fine.  Sorry."  She laughed once.  She smiled.  So did he, thank
goodness.

"Okay, I appreciate you giving me some time.  I won't take up too much
of it.  I represent a woman named Louise Brooker.  Her husband Lionel
worked here and we are in litigation with the insurance company
regarding Mr.

Brooker's policy.  I'd like to ask you a few questions and determine
if, perhaps, a deposition might be in order or if, perhaps, an
affidavit might provide me with the information I need."

Or if, perhaps, you have a clue as to what I'm talking about.

Kathleen paused for breath.  That really wasn't bad.  Off the cuff,
just enough legalese and him looking at her all the while.  He didn't
say a word.  What else could she say?

"We don't believe that Mr.  Brooker intended to take his own life," she
explained.  Nothing.

"I'd like to get some comments from you regarding his state of mind at
work.  I won't subpoena you unless it is absolutely necessary."  He
lowered his arms, no longer cradling his head, and tossed the pen on
the desk.  His scrutiny made her uneasy.

"Even then, it's likely you won't have to appear in court.  I'll make
this as painless as possible for you."

"That's very kind of you."

"Not at all," Kathleen said quietly.  He shifted in his seat, leaning
over the desk.  Everything he did looked comfortable and casual and
made her feel uptight and prim.  She bet his mind worked the same way,
casual and sure.  She would kill for a mind like that.

"Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be giving you anything, or going
anywhere, much less to court.  I haven't got a whole lot to tell you
that a judge would be interested in."

"Mr.  Crawford, I promise you the information you share with me will be
used verbatim.  I don't want to do anything to hurt Mr.  Brooker's
memory, but I also don't want to go into court with a losing
proposition and waste my client's time and money.  I just want to
understand his state of mind so I can make a decision regarding this
suit."

Michael laughed.

"I don't care who you tell about our conversation  I'm one of those
people who actually has nothing to hide.  You can believe me when I
tell you I doubt I know anything that's going to help you, really."
"He
did work here, didn't he?"  Verbally she tapped her toe.

He wasn't phased.

"He did."

"You are the supervisor of this department aren't you?"

"I am.  The problem is I've only been in this department about two
months.  Lionel Brooker died a few weeks after I came on board."  Now
his smile was big.  His teeth were white and straight, and smaller than
she imagined.  The overall effect was charming, and there was no doubt
he was having fun.

"Oh."  Kathleen slumped.

"Darn."  She crossed her legs, and for the first time, he took his eyes
off her face.  She didn't notice.  She stared stage left with her chin
planted on her upturned fist, then she looked back at him.

"You know, I

thought I was being so smart.  I came all this way without calling
because I wanted to experience where Mr.  Brooker worked.  I wanted to
see if I could get a feeling for him."

"Would you like some coffee?"  Michael didn't move.  A man of few
wasted gestures, he waited for her answer.

"No, thanks."  Kathleen shook her head.

"Just as well.  It's not bad in the morning, but by this time of day, I
wouldn't vouch for it."  Michael picked up a pen, then discarded it
once again.

"I don't know if I can give you a feel for the guy.  The best I can do
is tell you that Lionel seemed to march to the beat of a different
drummer.  He was right out of the sixties: hair, dress, kind of a
spiritual quality about him.  I'd bet my bottom dollar he didn't do
drugs, though.

He knew his job.  He did it well.  He went home on time."  He shrugged;
the smile disappeared, replaced with an expression of charming hope.

"Does that help?"

"You didn't notice anything before he died?  Nothing suspicious in his
behavior?"  Kathleen dropped her fist and folded her hands.

Michael leaned forward.

"This isn't the most personal place, Ms.  Cotter."  He didn't have to
refer to her card.  "I suppose I should restate that.  This isn't the
most personal place unless the powers that be want to single you out
and make it personal.  Then it can get downright intimate.  In fact,
the company can live in your hip pocket.  I didn't really know Lionel,
but I'm pretty sure he wasn't the kind to draw an undue amount of
attention to himself.  When he died, I went through channels and asked
some questions."

"That's sort of odd since you hardly knew him."

"He was in my division.  It didn't seem that anyone else was going to
bother.  There were a few things that appeared odd enough to me that I
thought someone should at least ask a question or two."

"Like?"

"He was found dead four floors down in a transition area of this
building, for one thing.  Our work in auditing doesn't take us
traveling.  It's all paper."  He considered his desk ... the calculator
that pulsed, the pen, the three pencils.  He took inspiration from the
simplicity or at least he ordered his thoughts with it.

"There were other things.  The man had never been late, never stayed
late, was never disoriented.  In the few weeks I had to observe him, he
didn't do anything that could be considered clandestine and the only
personal phone calls he ever made were to his wife.  I know that
because he asked permission."  Michael Crawford raised only his eyes to
her.

"That's not the profile of a drug-user."

"I thought you couldn't tell me much," Kathleen said.

"I can tell you what I saw.  Even in a few weeks, I would have seen
some sign if he'd been a junkie.  I'm a very observant person."

Her heart didn't stop, but the heat went up.  He was looking her in the
eye again.

"Did you point all this out to the authorities?"  Kathleen's fingers
went to her fringe and she combed through it briefly.

"The Tysco authorities, yes."  He fiddled with the calculator.

He flipped it off and shoved it aside, looking displeased.  This was
the second time he'd intimated Tysco wasn't the benevolent, if boring.
Big Brother Kathleen had assumed.

"I was never asked to talk to the police."

"You went to a lot of trouble."

"I don't think so.  There are some things that are just right to do."
Michael Crawford's head tilted to the side; he seemed boyish and
animated.

"That's it?  You did all this because it was the right thing to do?" It
wasn't the answer she'd expected, but then this man wasn't whom she'd
expected to find in this place.

"Yeah."  He nodded and sat back again, bouncing a little in his
junior-executive chair.

"What're you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to prove that Lionel Brooker didn't intend to kill
himself."

"That's admirable."

Kathleen blushed.

"It's my job."  Kathleen stepped over his comment and went on.

"I want to prove that Lionel didn't want to die.  If he was an addict
which is getting hard to believe from the little I

know about him--I want to prove that Lionel might have meant to get
high but that he wanted to live."
"Sounds like his ex-wife must really
have loved the guy to have hired you to prove that.  Too bad the
marriage didn't work out."

"She's the beneficiary on a life insurance policy.  She can't collect
if he actually committed suicide.  I need to prove Lionel had a lot to
live for," Kathleen said bluntly, still anxious to distance herself
from Louise.

"You're a funny lawyer."

"I don't mean to be," Kathleen said.

"I meant unusual-funny.  You're very honest."

"I try to be."  Kathleen needed some fresh air and she needed it
fast.

"Look, I'd just like a little history on Lionel Brooker, even if it's
recent history.  Was he despondent?  If so, over what?

Was he given to emotional outbursts?  That kind of thing.  I honestly
believe Lionel Brooker's death was an accident.  That's it.  It's
nothing more unusual than that."

"Think you can prove it?"

Kathleen's eyes widened.  She blushed.

"Yes, I think I can if it's true.  So, could you just help me out a
little?  Please?"

Michael Crawford actually grinned.

"It's been a long time since someone said please to me."

"That's too bad," Kathleen answered.

"Yes, it is.  I appreciate the courtesy."  His glanced up long enough
to let her know he really meant it.

The blue-bound book he put on the desk looked official.  The drawer
shut with a metallic click.  Michael Crawford flipped through the
pages.  They were blue, too, and made a restful, flapping sound,
spreading themselves neatly under his strong fingers.  The motion
stopped as quickly as it had begun.

"Look, I'm sorry I can't make this easier on you, but at least I can
try to point you in the right direction.  You need to talk to Lionel's
former supervisor.  He worked with him for a good number of years.  I
was going to give you his extension, but why don't I try to set
something up?"  He picked up a pencil, made a notation, and closed the
book before he stood.

He looked at Kathleen's card, then at her.

"I'll call you and let you know what I find out."

Kathleen stood, too.  He was even taller than she'd realized.

"Shall I call you?"  she asked.

"No.  I won't forget."

"Okay."  She checked him out, looking for the lie.  It wasn't there.

"Okay, then, I'll wait.  But I don't have forever."

"I understand."

"Well, I'd better let you get back to--" She waved a hand over his
desk.  But on the back swing, she felt him take her hand.  He shook it.
Nothing personal, yet her body reacted like it was.  She let her
fingers slip through his.

"You don't seem like the kind of man who would be working in a place
like this."

"You don't seem like a Beverly Hills lawyer," he countered.

"I'm not.  Not really.  Not yet," Kathleen admitted, knowing it would
be hard to explain that to a man like Michael Crawford.

"I'm not really an auditor."

Kathleen smiled.  She said all the right words of goodbye, sure that
she didn't sound too reluctant to go.  She didn't look back until she
was on the other side of the glass double doors.

He was working, not watching her, but Kathleen wasn't disappointed.

She knew she would hear from him again.

Chapter Eight

The day was a good one.

Henrietta Poole had been wheeled into Kathleen's office by a male
nurse.  The woman, although in her eighties, was gorgeous, sharp, and
knew exactly how the carpet company she was suing had been negligent.
She'd brought photos of the establishment, of herself lying on the
floor (though how she'd managed to convince the carpet store-owner to
take that picture was beyond Kathleen), and X-rays of her hip.  She'd
brought doctor's records and a few stories of a very well-traveled and
colorful life.  Her case was valid, and she was a far cry from the
proper, old woman Gerry had led her to expect.

Kathleen would have loved to have pointed this out, but Gerry was gone,
as he always was these days, coming back late in the afternoon with
reports of whom he'd talked to and what kind of business they might
expect and always bright with the belief the hoped-for work would be
forthcoming before the end of the millennium.  Kathleen listened to the
dreams.  It was the best she could do since she didn't share them.  Nor
did she remind him that at the conclusion of Louise's suit, she planned
to find more mainstream employment.

Life had fallen into an oddly comfortable routine with just enough
normalcy, just enough challenge, just enough work that Kathleen had
almost forgotten what it was she had wanted from this leap out of
Banning.  So, Kathleen listened to Henrietta Poole, filed the proper
paperwork, directed Becky to have the subpoenas served and to follow up
with the clerk for a court date once the case was assigned.

Michael Crawford called while Kathleen was with Mrs.

Poole, and Kathleen found herself holding the pink message slip close
to her breast when she walked back to her office and closed the door.
By the time Kathleen had composed herself, and put on the lawyer cap
she needed to wear when she called him, he had left his desk.  She
wondered if he'd managed to set up an appointment with Lionel Brooker's
previous supervisor.  She wondered if he had found out anything that
might have an impact on her case.  Then she wondered if, by some
stretch of the imagination, he might just want to talk to her.

Kathleen went to lunch an hour late, just in case he came back and
called.

She found a dollar on the sidewalk when she went to lunch and returned
to find she had a new client Becky's boyfriend.

He wanted her to handle the articles of incorporation for his new
business.  Kathleen charged him Dorty & Breyer rates.  In her heart of
hearts she still wasn't sure she was worth the $170 an hour Gerry
charged for her time, and she knew Becky's boyfriend couldn't afford it
if she were.  Maybe when his business flourished, Gerry would thank her
for the lapse and reap the rewards.

At three, she picked up her new dress from the tailor, a dress she'd
insisted she didn't need and Gerry had insisted she did.

By five, her makeup was perfect; pale-as-porcelain skin,
redder-than-red lips, and eyes just smoky enough to make a statement.
She slicked back her short, blond hair and donned her new dress.  She
felt almost as beautiful as Gerry told her she was; she felt more vital
than she ever had in her life.

Kathleen Cotter knew it wasn't the clothes but the destination that
made her feel this way.

"Don't forget, Kathleen, the people I told you about.  Carl, of course,
is one you wish to impress along with Richard.

There's also James Ellis, who is Carol's right-hand man.  Gloria
Pennin is a big supporter of Carol's, and she runs Power Records.

Oh, what am I saying.  Talk to everyone, hand out your card.

Let the world know you're here and that here is O'Doul & Associates."

"I know.  I know.  And if you talk about it any more, I'm ' going to
start getting nervous."  Kathleen turned Gerry toward her and
straightened his bow tie.  She stood back.  He patted it.

"Don't let them see that you're on edge.  Who would want to hire a
nervous attorney?"

He laughed.  Kathleen didn't.  He was absolutely right.  Who would want
to hire her if she appeared less than capable?  There wasn't another
moment to even consider it.  The elevator doors opened, and Kathleen
Cotter saw what she had expected to see all those weeks ago--offices of
stunning proportions that screamed success.  They stepped out into the
reception area of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.

People were everywhere, drinks in hand, balancing plates of food,
laughing without really sounding amused as they passed.

A low hum of conversation was background music to the conga line.  Most
of the women were dressed in dark suits.  The few women in dresses
seemed to hug the walls.  Spouses, Kathleen decided.  Men followed the
same pattern as their professional female counterparts.  This was the
A-team, no slouches about.

Kathleen blessed every article in every fashion magazine she had ever
read.  On Gerry's arm, she moved into the heart of the firm.

Here the serious gathered.  People smiled as they engaged in deep
conversation while their eyes searched for someone they could engage in
an even deeper, more lucrative dialogue.  There was a subtle difference
in the way these people were dressed, the jewelry they wore.  Kathleen
smelled money.  Kathleen was finally north of Wilshire.

A waiter passed by with a tray full of small cakes, and Gerry moved
into his wake.  The first person who stopped to nibble was reeled in by
Gerry O'Doul.  Kathleen was thrilled to be cut loose so soon.  The ball
had just begun, and she was determined to make it to midnight with her
shoes on.

"Carl?  A refill before you face your supporters?"

Richard held up a decanter, its many facets catching the light and
shooting prisms toward the corners of Richard Jacobsen's office.

The mayor looked over his shoulder, checked out his glass, and shook
his head.  He was tired and looked it.  Facing a camera or a city
council meeting, a group of well-wishers or a reporter, he bloomed.
Alone, without the jarring light of public scrutiny and the fuel of
public adoration, Carl Walsh was a shadow man, blending into his
surroundings.  Tall and stooped, he looked less a politician than a
disenchanted college professor.  But out there, he became animated and
talkative, back-slapping and glad handing

"No, I'm fine.  I'm just worried."

"No need.  Everything is going very well.  Out there you'll find some
of the most sycophantic folks in the entire legal system, all willing
to reach deep into their firm's coffers--and their own pockets--to
support you.  They believe you will be their next senator.  They want
your good favor, Carl.  They want your ear when you reach Washington."
Richard poured himself two fingers, replaced the stopper, and held his
glass.

"And in here, you have your campaign committee.  Me, myself, and I.
Believe me, between everyone out there and me in here, you haven't a
worry in the world."

Carl walked from one end of Richard's office to the other.  It was one
of the most beautiful he had ever seen.  Richard, unattractive as he
was, had a marvelous eye for beauty.  Carl couldn't have begun to
describe the place or figure out how he managed to pull it all
together--antiques, modern furniture, artwork, and collectibles.  He
made a statement so elegant, visitors almost forgot who, and what,
Richard Jacobsen was.

Carl put his glass on a small table nestled by a big chair and walked
back to Richard, sinking into a carved chair that had a mate on the
opposite end of the long table that served as Richard's desk.  He
propped his elbows up.  He'd had a bit to drink, just enough to put him
on the edge of depression.

"I'm not sure we should make the budget-thing our lead on the
campaign.  I mean it's an incredible story, but I don't want to get
caught up in anything you know that the press could make anything out
of."

"Carl, Carl, Carl, please."

Richard laid his head back on his chair.  He sounded weary.

Unlike many small men, he hadn't opted for a power-chair.

The one in which he sat was tasteful and perfectly proportioned to his
short, almost-misshapen body.  Everyone who realized this nod to
practicality was impressed by it.  Richard Jacobsen, they assumed, was
a man with no ego.  He put his fine mind to work brilliantly for the
clients of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington and he put himself second. They
assumed wrong.

"Don't use that voice, Richard," Carl begged, his head now falling into
one upturned hand.

"You sound like a schoolmarm."

"And you sound like a man who doesn't really want what he says he
wants.  You sound like a child, and all this time I thought I was
playing with a big boy."

"Richard," Carl whined.  Both hands were over his face now.

"It's just that now we're going to start screaming about it.  It's one
thing to have it on paper where the press can pick it up, but I don't
want to debate " "If you're tired of everything, go home.  If all you
want to do is practice instead of pitch, I'll find someone else to
support for the Senate.  I need a candidate who is willing to take some
risks.  I thought you were that man."

"I am," Carl grumbled miserably.

"I was only saying that I think the emphasis on issues should be spread
out a bit more to protect us.  All of us, Richard."  He tried to give
Richard a knowing and harsh look.  He succeeded only in looking as if
his bodily functions had suddenly gone awry.  He tried again.

"What we've been doing isn't going to be so easy when we're dealing
with federal budgets.  You know that and I know that.

A city is one thing.  I controlled the city, but Washington is
different.  With the way the press is these days, if I toot my horn too
much on one topic they're going to come back at me hard.  I don't want
anyone snooping around.  I just want to win this election, settle in,
and leave it at that."

"It will never be left at that, Cari.  This is politics.  Nice looking
as you are, I'm afraid you won't be able to swing votes on that
alone."

Richard Jacobsen stood up in a surprisingly fluid motion.  He was a
legal vampire, appearing and disappearing with little fanfare, but
always carting away the blood while everyone else was still arguing
about how much there was to suck.  He was a smart cookie, and Carl had
done well listening to him.  What Carl lacked was Richard's surety that
everything he did was what should be done.  Richard never attached
words like right or proper or moral; he simply did what he had to do to
reach an objective that seemed logical to him.  There was little he was
passionate about, and his passion was usually reserved for very special
people.  Carl was not one of them.

He wrapped his hand around Carol's upper arm and helped him up, though
Carl wasn't sure he had wanted to go just then.

Richard steered him toward the door.

"It's time to meet and greet.  Put on the face, Carl.  It's a wonderful
one.  Tomorrow, have your medication checked.  I think your chemical
imbalance has shifted again.  Leave everything else to me.  Everything.
It will all be just fine.  You will be hailed as a fiscal God; I will
have what I want, and my good friends at Tysco will have what they
want.  That is even more important to me than your ultimate
destination.  No one will get in our way.  I promise you.  No one."

Richard opened the door to his private office.  It was a stuning
design.  Though he could see many of the three hundred people milling
about in the outer offices, they could not see him.

"Look at them, Carl.  To them you're already in the Senate.

To them you've already got the power.  All you have to do is turn on
the charm.  Shake their hands.  Tell them what they want to hear. We've
talked about that.  It's a different story for these people than it
will be for those on the street.  These people want to know their money
is being spent right.  The guy on the street wants to know that you're
saving him a buck.  Just do what you've been doing, and all will be
well."

"You really think so, Richard?"  Carl asked, looking into the short
man's soft, brown eyes.

"I know so, Carl.  I know so."  Richard gave him a pat on the back.  It
felt good to both of them.  Carl smiled, but the glow faded quickly.

"Oh, Lord.  He's here.  Gerry O'Doul.  I don't want to talk to him."

"I think you should.  I think it might be a very, very good thing,"
Richard mused.
"I think it would be dangerous as hell.  That old man is
sharp as a tack, Carl.  I don't want him anywhere near city
business."

Carl moved back into the shadows.  Richard remained at the door, eyeing
Gerry O'Doul and the woman beside him.

"You might be right.  I don't know," Richard said, more to himself than
to his candidate.

"Just give him some rein.  Keep him on the line.  With a name like his,
it wouldn't hurt.  There are still those around who remember.  If we
can get you elected and out of the mayor's office before he becomes a
problem, then you're home free.  Just keep smiling.  Tell him you and I
are working on something for him--for old time's sake."  Richard
watched Gerry without a sigh of admiration or compassion.  It would be
good for Gerry O'Doul to concentrate on something other than the
Brooker business.

"The old can be so tedious, but they do deserve some consideration.
Some more than others."

With a slight push, Carl Walsh was out the door, Richard looking after
him.  It was a sight to see, Carl Walsh turning on.

People were his batteries; he glowed the moment he plugged into them.
He would do well in the coming months.  Very well, indeea, and Richard
Jacobsen would do even better because his hands were on the reins
guiding this wagon train.  As long as CArl remembered to head in the
direction Richard pointed, all wjould be well.

The door was almost closed when Richard saw Gerry O'Doul moving in on
Carl Walsh.  Richard paused, watched, and was satisfied that Carl was
giving Gerry just enough of his time and attention.  Richard's eyes
darted over the immediate crowd surrounding the two men.  O'Doul's
niece was nowhere to be seen.  Richard closed the door.  He wasn't
surprised.  She was probably out on her own.  A handsome woman like
that wouldn't be clinging to an old man when there were so many other,
younger, more interesting men around.  He knew so well how hard it was
to keep the interest of a young and handsome companion.  Kathleen
Cotter, he wondered, what is it that would keep you around?

Closing the door, Richard went to the private bathroom, the door a
hidden panel in the wainscoting of the wall.  It was as well-appointed
as the office.  He washed his hands, combed his hair, and managed a
glance at the woman in the picture he kept on the antique bureau in the
small dressing room.

How he loved her.  How little she understood him.  He slipped out of
the bathroom, out of the office, and into the flow of the human river
that ran through the offices of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.

"Do you like them?"

Richard Jacobsen was beside her and Kathleen hadn't even sensed his
coming.  It would have been understandable if she were still in the
middle of the muddle near the main bar, but she wasn't.  She was alone
in a conference room, smaller than the impressive one in the main
office.  Meaning to stay for only a moment, Kathleen had been
mesmerized by the amazing oasis she had stumbled on.

Hung on the sand-colored walls were paintings so surprising in their
brightness and intensity, their fluidity of style, that Kathleen felt
positively transported to an exotic place full of life and passion.
They were happy paintings, feel-good paintings inspired by white,
romantic beaches on exotic islands.  Kathleen couldn't imagine what
kind of legal work was ever accomplished under their influence.

Perhaps it was the comforting influence of the paintings that kept her
from being startled by Richard Jacobsen's sudden appearance.  After
all, in exotic places, strange and wonderful things happened.

"Do you like my collection?"  he asked as if they'd been together
contemplating the big canvases for some time.

"Yes, I like them very much."

"I do, too," Richard said, moving over a few steps to stand in front of
one that was long and bright.  Tall houses huddled happily together
like good friends leaning into one another with great camaraderie.  The
houses were painted in shades of peach, red, and yellow.  She wanted to
live in one.

"This one is stunning, don't you think?  The artist has caught the
feeling of community.  He seems to rejoice in that sense of
belonging.

It's as if the houses and buildings cannot exist without the next one
to hold it up."

"I hadn't really thought about it like that.  I'm not much of a
connoisseur."  Kathleen chuckled quietly, looked at the painting
through Richard Jacobsen's eyes, and wondered what in the heck she was
supposed to say next, given this surprising interpretation of the
art.

"I don't think you have to be."  He turned his face toward her and she
was struck again at how sad a face it was.  Now it seemed softer than
it had in the corridors of the court building.

Perhaps, in this room, he could relax and let down his guard;

perhaps, in this room, he dreamed of the places that he considered
better than the one he was in.  Funny that bigger-than-life flowers,
boats, and beaches were the subject matter of Richard Jacobsen's
daydream.  He looked back at the canvas, diverting her attention.

"I think you have to feel certain things.  This artist is from the
South.  Alabama, I believe.  Mathis.  Tom Mathis is his name.  A
wonderful find, don't you think?"

"Absolutely."

She waited for Richard to speak.  She wanted to be led in the direction
that would be most impressive to him.  Her hand was warm around her
cold drink, and she worried it would slip from her fingers.  Then he
would see that she was someone he shouldn't waste his time with.  But
Richard Jacobsen didn't seem to notice how tautly she held her body,
how bright her eyes were with interest.  He spoke to her as if she were
a friend.

"Yes," he said again, "Mr.  Mathis will be very popular soon.  I've
found him before the masses, and I enjoy him every time I use this
room.  My personal conference room."  He said the last as though it
were underlined and Kathleen came about.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't know.  I thought the entire office was open to
the party.  I apologize."  She moved toward the door.

Her purse still lay on the table; she retraced her steps to retrieve
it.  He stepped in front of the path of retreat.

"No, Miss Cotter, please.  I didn't mean that at all."  Richard almost
smiled, his calm a wonderful contrast to her fluster.

"It's very nice to find someone who appreciates the same things I do.
It's unusual these days to have anyone linger over paintings in a law
office.  Usually their noses are buried in paperwork.  They don't
bother to look up."
"Maybe they can't look up.  They don't have the
time.  Billing pressure in a firm like this must be incredible."
Kathleen came right back at him.

"I never thought of it that way."  Richard chuckled.

"You only get to look up when you're my age and you're the one with the
personal conference room.  I suppose when you're trying to get there
you keep your eye on the ball."

Richard Jacobsen was metamorphosing before her eyes.  His uncouth
features melded into the kindly visage of a man who has overcome much
and who, recognizing a need in someone else, is generous with his time
and experience.

"I suppose.  I don't know."  Kathleen moved about the room, unsure if
they were having a conversation or if she were simply listening to his
musings.

"You don't?  That's very interesting."  Richard Jacobsen turned to her
full-face, the paintings forgotten.

"Aren't you shooting for the stars along with all your
contemporaries?"

"Yes, I am."  Kathleen laughed, then sobered.

"I am.  I'm just a little late getting on the rocket that's going to
take me there."

"I can't imagine you feel that way at your age."

"I only feel that way because of my age.  My resume isn't very
impressive.  I don't know that a solid, good firm would feel
comfortable letting me handle anything."

Kathleen tried to chuckle, but it was impossible.  Standing here, in
the midst of the trappings of such great success, she realized how
little she could bring to the table.

"Most young people want to earn the big bucks.  It's funny you should
mention clients and responsibility."  Richard pulled out one of the
chairs surrounding the simple table.  Kathleen sat, looking up at him
over her shoulder.

"That's because this profession isn't really about money, is it?  It's
about what we can accomplish, the truth we can reach when we're working
with laws we didn't write.  I've always been fascinated by that.  But
only the large firms get a chance to practice that kind of law.  The
rest of us just dance around it and talk ourselves blue in the face
trying to take care of everyday problems."

Richard's hands lingered on the back of her chair as he watched her, a
moment short of making her uncomfortable.

Easily, he perched on the table so that he looked down on her.

"That's an unusual take.  But then, when your uncle is Gerry O'Doul, I
can understand the calling.  Gerry was never one to worry about money
first.  With him, it was style ... challenge justice.  He built a
career on such high ideals.  You should be very fulfilled working with
him."

Kathleen stopped moving.  She almost stopped breathing.

This was a moment that could be used.  Conscience pulled at her.  She
owed Gerry more than to talk behind his back, but Richard Jacobsen was
here, now, waiting for her to say something.

He'd given her the opening.  She couldn't pass up the chance to do
something for herself.

"No, Mr.  Jacobsen, I don't think working with my uncle will be
fulfilling.  Interesting, yes, but not what I was hoping for.  I didn't
realize that his firm had fallen on hard times.  The clients that come
to him aren't the clients I had hoped for.

They're unusual, to say me least."

"Are you by any chance referring to the problems of the lady I saw you
with the other day?"  Richard chuckled, a dry and papery sound.

"Louise Brooker?"  Kathleen gave him a wry look.  They shared a
collegial chuckle.

"She is different, and the case is unusual.  Her husband was found dead
in the bathroom at Tysco Industries at their manufacturing facility in
Culver City."

Kathleen was revving up, but hadn't quite hit her stride.  She was
still lucid enough to realize that her audience was not,

perhaps, as interested as she'd thought.  Richard Jacobsen was staring
at her.  He seemed to be listening, but his mind was a million miles
away.  She pulled up short.

"I'm sorry, I'm boring you.  You've got so many guests, and I'm
monopolizing your time."  Kathleen started to stand.  Her exit would be
graceful.  If nothing else, he would remember that.

"No, not at all," Richard insisted, suddenly shaken out of his reverie.
He put out his hand, insisting she stay though he didn't touch her.

"I'm sorry.  I was just thinking that it seems a bit unusual that Gerry
would be handling a murder case.  I'd understood he was semi-retired
and doing only civil work."

Kathleen laughed.  So, mat's where he'd been.  In the past, trying to
place the Gerry of long ago with the old man who milled about in the
outer office.

"No, it isn't anything like that.  He died of a self-inflicted drug
overdose.  Louise's alimoay agreement included a life insurance policy
on Lionel Brooker.  Now All Life won't pay off because his death was
ruled a suicide.  I think we can prove that he never intended to take
his own life.  I think--" "Richard, there you are!"

Carl Walsh bounded into the room, followed by two tall, strong men who
were less than light on their feet Kathleen's eyes flitted over them.
They looked back at her.  They weren't lawyers.  Richard slid off the
table and went to meet his guests.

He ignored the big guys, shook Carl Walsh's hand, and turned him so he
faced Kathleen squarely.

"Carl, I've been having a wonderful chat with Ms.  Cotter here.  She's
Gerry O'DouTs niece, his associate now.  A very, very bright young
woman.  Perhaps you can convince her to volunteer for you.  You're
always looking for intelligent, attractive young people."

Kathleen glowed under his compliments.  She stood and proffered her
hand.

"I've heard a lot about you."

He shook her hand.

"deny is a sweetheart," Cari answered heartily.

"Don't believe a word he says.  Richard either."

"Even if they say good things?"  Kathleen flirted.  From the corner of
her eye, she saw Richard Jacobsen' sbenevolent smile.

She was fitting in, on her own.

"Oh, if they're good things, I want to hear all about them," Carl
laughed, and the two men behind him unwrapped packaged smiles.  Carol's
eyes followed Kathleen's.

"My associates.  Bob and David.  Gofers  You know, go for this, go for
that."

Kathleen nodded their way, watching for any sign of embarrassment.

There was none.  Richard still sat quietly on the edge of the table.
Carl laughed into the silence.  Kathleen was suddenly uncomfortable.
Somehow she had ruined the party and wasn't sure how.

"Well, I should leave you to your business."  She turned to Richard.

"Thank you for the gallery tour.  It's wonderful."

"I hope you'll come back again."  Richard took her hand in his.

"I still want to know the end of your story, though."

Richard put his hand on her arm.  She looked at it, then up at him.  He
was smiling.  Carl Walsh was not.

"It's been a long while since I've heard something so intriguing.  What
is it you plan to do for Brooker's widow?"

Jacobsen's hand fell away, his touch had been so light she hardly
remembered the feel of it.

"Oh, Louise isn't his widow.  Sarah, his second wife, is.

But Louise was due the death benefits.  It's kind of crazy and
complicated.  I just hope to prove that her husband wasn't suicidal so
that we can get past the suicide exclusion."
"A unique solution.
Unprovable, I would think.  I'm surprised Judge Kelley gave you the
go-ahead."

"I convinced him that there are actions taken by reasonable men that
wouldn't be taken by a man ready to take his own life.  I'll dig until
I find those reasons," Kathleen said humbly, praying this man would
think her strategy as meritorious as Gerry did.
"Fascinating.
Commendable," Richard breathed, then added quietly while he kept his
eyes on Kathleen, "isn't it, Carl."

"Very," the other man answered, but it was obvious he hadn't been
listening.  Kathleen was so taken with the attention of Richard
Jacobsen, she didn't notice that Carl Walsh was tired of her and
anxious for her to leave.

"Perhaps you'll keep me up on the progress, Kathleen."

Richard, sensing the change of mood in the room, guided her toward the
door.

"I'd enjoy being young again, pursuing such colorful matters."

"Just say the word."  Kathleen would jump from the tallest building to
keep Richard Jacobsen interested in her professionally.

Both of her hands were in his as he wished her goodbye.

"I just might, Ms.  Cotter.  I just might.  Thank you for such a lovely
respite.  Now, I'm afraid, there's business at hand.  Good night and
thank you for coming.  You have no idea what it meant to me."

"Or to me," she said, and there could be no doubt she sincerely meant
what she said.

Outside Richard Jacobsen's private conference room, Kathleen Cotter
took a deep breath and pinched herself.  She checked her watch. Fifteen
minutes alone with a man who could make Carl Walsh a senator. What
could he make her if he took the time to think about it?

Aglow, Kathleen floated through the throng.  More than one head turned
to watch her go, but when Gerry looked up from his conversation to give
her his leprechaun smile, guilt tarnished that glow.  If it hadn't been
for Gerry, she never would have met Richard Jacobsen or roamed the
halls of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.  If it hadn't been for Gerry,
she'd still be in Banning.

Then again, if it hadn't been for Gerry and her mother, Kathleen would
already have the resume that would make a man like Richard Jacobsen
take notice.

Pretending she hadn't seen him looking proudly and expectantly at her,
Kathleen turned toward the bar.  Her white wine was replaced by a
scotch.  She stood alone and listened to Cari Walsh's speech, his
promises of the same fiscal responsibility on the federal level that
he'd shown as mayor.  When he was done, when she had written a check to
his campaign that was small but, she was sure, noticeable, Kathleen
found Gerry.  She took his arm, knowing she had taken steps that
evening to secure her future.  Midnight was striking when they left the
party.  The book was closed, the place marked, but the fairy tale
wasn't over.

She dropped Gerry at his house, kissed his cheek, and waited for him to
get inside before she drove away.  Her message machine was blinking
when she got home.  Michael Crawford was asking her to meet him at
two-thirty in Marina del Rey.

Undressed, she crawled beneath the covers and listened as William
called out love messages to Paul from the street below.

"You're not in Banning anymore, Kathleen," she murmured.

Just before she fell into an exhausted sleep, with images of Gerry and
Richard Jacobsen and Michael Crawford melding together in her head, she
muttered, "Thank God."

Chapter Nine

"You were wonderful, Henrietta."

Kathleen pushed the wheelchair that Henrietta sat on like a throne.
They'd done their work well this morning.  Henrietta had given her
version of the accident in clear tones and precise language.  Kathleen
found nothing in her statement that would keep her from testifying in
front of judge or jury.

"Thank you, my dear.  I thought I did rather well."  She fussed with
her gloves, carefully pushing her fingers into them.  Go , her
strapping nurse, took over for Kathleen as soon as they exited the
building.  The women were now side-by-side.

"They aren't going to settle, you know."  Kathleen slipped on a pair of
sunglasses, new ones that gave her a sort of Jackie 0-gone-platinum
look.

"Oh, I know that," she tsked, suddenly facing Kathleen as her chair was
twirled wrong-side around and placed on a platform that would lift her
into the van she'd rented precisely for this purpose.  Go was behind
her, waiting patiently until they'd finished their conversation to turn
on the lift motor.

"So, you ready for court?"

"I think it will be a great deal of fun."  She leaned forward and gave
Kathleen a pat.

"We're such a fine team, how can they possibly turn us down?  I didn't
ask for this to happen, after all.  There was no warning whatsoever.
That bolt of carpeting came out of nowhere.  There were no signs
indicating a loading zone.  I'd been led there by one of their own
representatives and told to wait.  No one called to alert me that I was
about to be torpedoed.  I think the judge, or whatever, will be very
sympathetic."

"You know what I think?"  Kathleen leaned down and whispered, "I think
you could argue this without me."

"Oh--" Henrietta giggled.  "--you are ridiculous.  Of course I need you
to do that.  It's perfect staging.  You look as if you could be my
granddaughter.  Who could resist that?  A granddaughter fighting for
her poor, old grandmother.  I think it will all work very well.  And
we're not asking for the moon, you know.  That should go over well.
Just asking for a proper and moral settlement for all my pain and
suffering."

"You think fifty thousand dollars is enough?  You've been suffering a
lot."  Kathleen looked over the van, the handsome attendant,
Henrietta's perfectly coifed hair and lovely clothes.

"I know, dear, and I'm bearing up as well as can be expected," she
teased back.

"I'm sure fifty thousand dollars will do something to ease my pain."  A
final tug on the gloves.

"Can I drop you somewhere, Kathleen?"

"No, thank you.  I've got some paperwork to do, then an appointment at
two-thirty.  Busy day."

"I hope some of it will be fun.  Go have a facial, dear.  It does
wonderful things for the psyche."  She gave a barely-there wave to Go,
and he moved further back into the van.

"I'll remember that.  But today's a little tight."

"Well, whenever.  I'll tell you what--" she called, her voice drowned
out when the gears on the van-lift kicked in.  Henrietta was raised
above Kathleen.  She looked perplexed when the mechanism jolted to a
sudden stop.  Composing herself, she spoke again.

"I'll treat you to one with our settlement."

"Gerry would have my head if I knocked a few dollars off your fee for a
facial."

"Don't be ridiculous.  That man thinks you walk on water.

Besides, this would be a tip for services rendered."

Henrietta was pulled into the interior of the van.  Go secured her. She
called goodbye, and the doors closed.  Kathleen waved, though she
doubted Henrietta saw her.  Henrietta was a busy woman, too busy to
linger over the niceties.  Kathleen didn't have much time either.

She took care of her paperwork over a burger in a corner coffee shop.
By the time she'd indulged in a piece of chocolate, banana cream pie,
it was time to hit the road.  Marina del Rey was a new part of the
world to her, and the last thing she wanted was to be late for her
meeting with Michael Crawford.

Marina del Rey wasn't a bit like Oz.  It wasn't green.  It wasn't just
one color at all but a whole scheme--blue set off by white and denned
by brown.  Blue skies over blue water... white sails on the boats
dotting the bay, white hulls on those moored to white docks ... tanned
bodies lounging on teak decks or speeding along the walk on roller
blades.  There were restaurants with names like Charlie Brown,
Acupuico, Thank God It's Friday.  It seemed like a playground for
adults who preferred not to grow up, where the happy hour was perpetual
and youth extended like a taut rubber band.  Kathleen figured that out
when she stopped for the third time to ask directions within the
concentric circles of the area's layout and she dashed into a small
shop she'd passed more than once.  Surrounded by the smallest bikinis
she had ever seen and assisted by a curly haired girl in a backless
dress, Kathleen was finally pointed in the right direction.  Her
destination wasn't a house, an apartment, or a business, but a slip
where a boat was moored and a man was sitting.  A man who was
definitely not Michael Crawford.

"Excuse me."  Kathleen stood beside the boat and called up to him.  He
sat on a deck chair and looked as out of sync with his surroundings as
Kathleen felt.

His hair was cut short and slicked down as if to stretch it back to
some fetching length.  His glasses were big, black, and broken.  Tape
held the nosepiece together.  His shirt was blue and short sleeved. His
shorts were plaid and baggy.  His socks were white, his shoes black,
his skin as pure as the driven snow, and his voice as deep as a radio
announcer's.

"Are you Kathleen Cotter?"

"Yes, I am.  I'm looking for Michael Crawford."

The man nodded and put down his book, a hardbound anthology of MAD
cartoons.  He picked his way gingerly over the deck.  Kathleen looked
away when he disappeared below.

She took a few steps down the dock, stopped and just stood.  The whole
world moved up and down as if the ocean were sighing in its sleep.
Toward the horizon she saw the curve of the breakwater that helped
shelter the harbor.  Sailboats floated out to sea.  A perfect day for
sailing.  The slips were quiet; only intermittent sounds broke into die
songs of the gulls that flew overhead.  Under their wings, the water
glistened and stretched large and Kathleen Cotter was overwhelmed. Life
could be so beautiful.

"Hi."

Twirling, she squinted toward the sound of the greeting, but the sun
was in her eyes, shining behind the man on the deck of this more than
respectably sized boat.  All she could see was his silhouette but there
was no doubt it was Michael Crawford.

Still tall.  Still lean.  Still well-turned-out.  His hair ruffled as
the breeze picked up strands and the sun shined through them.

Smiling, Kathleen moved so that she could really see him.

When she did, she saw that he was reaching for her.  She took his hands
without a second thought.  They were warm and strong.

"You'll have to give a little jump now," he instructed, nodding toward
the deck, men looking back at her.  His eyes went up and down.  He gave
up.

"Not going to work.  Hold on.

It'll be tough in that skirt.  Would you rather sit on the grass?"

She glanced at the boat.  Polished, well-kept, inviting.  Painted black
and gold and white, it told her more about Michael Crawford than me
pristine office where she'd initially met him.

She wanted to go on deck, poke about, and see what else she could find.
Instead, she said, "I suppose it would be better on the grass."

"I could lift you.  It's nice up here," he coaxed.

"I have no doubt," she answered and wondered if her voice had been too
soft for him to hear or her blush too faint for him to take notice.  He
stayed where he was, giving her a chance to change her mind.  He
changed his first and jumped down onto the dock.  It rocked gently; he
stood his ground as if shaky was where he felt comfortable.  Michael's
guest came out of the galley.  Kathleen reluctantly changed her
focus.

"Michael, I have everything."

The MAD man was back.

"Thanks, pass it on down."  Michael reached up and, with one hand, took
a canvas bag the other man held with both hands.  Interesting, if this
were evidence he was about to turn over to her.

"Come on down, Harold.  Ms.  Cotter isn't quite dressed to climb up on
deck."

"Okay."  The bespectacled man climbed over the side, but with an
awkward jump, he ended up sitting at Kathleen's feet despite all his
precautions.

"Hi.  Harold Douglas."

"Nice to meet you."

They shook hands.  She helped him up and they both followed Michael to
a grass strip.  Today he wore shorts, frayed at the hem.  His legs were
long and strong.  He wore a T-shirt that touted the virtues of a bar in
the Baja.  Another place she'd never been.

Folding himself onto the grass strip, he pushed his dark glasses up his
nose, though they seemed well-settled without the effort.  A
neon-orange tube of fabric was attached to both ends of the glasses and
looped around the back of his head.

Here, he was a happy man.

"I don't know if you've eaten, but I figure everybody likes to munch
while they're talking.  I've got beer, soda, cold chicken, and
pretzels.  Oh, some Twinkles."  He held up the plastic-wrapped,
lemon-yellow cakes with the three distinctive, cream-filling tattoos on
the bottom.

Kathleen laughed.

"It's a feast."  She sat beside him.  Close but not too close, legs
politely tucked beneath her.  She wished the skirt on her dress were
full.

"I'll take a beer and the pretzels."

"No Twinkles?"  He twirled one to entice her.  He grinned when she
shook her head.

"That's what I like, a woman with self-control.  Harold?"

Michael's eyes were on the skinny fellow who appeared to analyze the
grass for signs of something distasteful before' sinking to his knees
and leaning back to rest upon the heels of his very hard shoes.  His
hands were on his knees.

"What is it you have again?"

"Chicken, soda.  Twinkles, pretzels," Michael said patiently.

Harold shook his head.  He shuddered.

"No, thank you."

Michael took him at his word and served himself, taking a beer and a
chicken leg before crossing his legs.  The floor was open for
discussion.

"I've been trying to get hold of Lionel's previous supervisor, but it's
been tough tying him down."  He shrugged.

"Sorry about that."

"That's all right."  Kathleen nibbled on a pretzel then took a sip of
beer.  It had never tasted quite so marvelous as it did on this August
afternoon.  Even her disappointment was easier to swallow.

"But I brought you the next best thing.  Harold was a friend of
Lionel's, and I thought he might be able to help you."

Michael used the chicken leg like a baton.  The floor belonged to
Harold.

"Correction, Mr.  Crawford.  I wasn't a friend.  I never would have
presumed upon my relationship with Lionel by assuming anything as
intimate as a friendship.  I was his admirer.  I was grateful to be his
student.  I was working on being worthy of his friendship, but fate
did, indeed, step in and remove that particular prospect from my
agenda.  Much, I might add, to my distress."

Harold's fingers were incredibly long and bony.  He tapped his knees
with them.  He bit his nails.  A subdural twitch seemed to grip Harold
Douglas, yet his body remained rigid, his voice remained calm.  He
never cracked a smile.  Sincere and serious,

approaching his topic as though presenting his credentials to the
queen, Harold Douglas had no time for small talk.  Yet he seemed in no
hurry to leave.

"How long had you known Lionel, Mr.  Douglas?"  Kathleen asked.

"I'd worked alongside Lionel for four years.  Miss Cotter.

They were the best four years of my life."  He glanced down, lifting
his fingertips ever so slightly, as if to hold up history for her
approval.

"I have no delusions.  Miss Cotter.  I know that people like me are
considered throwaways.  Nerds.  Society has little use for the
less-than-stylish, the less-than-self-confident, the
less-than-beautiful.  We are a reviled subset of our culture when we
are in our formative years and ignored when we have passed through
them."

Harold took a breath, keeping his eyes on her.  He almost began again
but changed his mind.  Quicker than lightning, he reached into his back
pocket, withdrew a huge white handkerchief, and sneezed a sneeze of
incredible proportions into it.

Even Michael took notice--not that he hadn't noticed everything that
had happened up until that point.  Kathleen was not unaware of his
intense interest in Harold and in her.

"Forgive me."  Harold honked once more, put the handkerchief away, and
resumed his speech.

"I apologize.  I've drifted from the subject.  I only wanted to paint
the background so you could see why I thought so highly of Lionel
Brooker."

He stopped and blinked at Kathleen.  Waited.  Nothing.

"And why was that, Mr.  Douglas?"  she prodded.

"What?"

"Why did you think so highly of Mr.  Brooker?"  Kathleen repeated
clearly.  Beside her, Michael uncrossed his legs, reclining on one
elbow to watch the proceedings.  Kathleen looked at him, mentally
tripped when she focused on his legs, then looked back at Harold,
trying not to make any comparisons between the two men--or think to
which she was more suited.

"Lionel Brooker managed to break the mold, of course," Harold answered
with dignity.

"He had crossed over.  A man completely aware of the status as a
second-class citizen, yet somehow he rose above the discrimination
afforded men like us.  Lionel had style.  He had heart.  He had
confidence.  Lionel Brooker knew exactly what life was about."

"And what was that, Mr.  Douglas?  Can you tell me?"

Kathleen set aside her beer.  It toppled in the lush grass.  She
reached for it at the same time Michael did.  Their hands touched.

"Thanks."

"Hate to waste a good brew," Michael said.  Harold Douglas watched the
exchange with not a small bit of awe.  Kathleen resumed her
questioning.

"Did you know a lot about Lionel's life outside the office, Mr.
Douglas?"

"Lionel's life was perfect.  Miss Cotter."  Harold paused, sad for a
moment.  Removing his glasses, he breathed on them.

Lacking an appropriate cloth with which to finish the job, he put his
glasses back on, looking at the world through a slowly disappearing
fog.

Uneasily, Kathleen watched, chancing a glance at Michael Crawford to
see if he, too, was affected by Harold.  Michael looked at the man from
behind dark sunglasses.  his feelings cloaked.  When Kathleen finally
saw Harold's eyes again, they were trained at some point beyond her and
swam with tears.

"There was no reason for Lionel to take his own life.  I don't know
what happened in that bathroom.  I don't know that there was anything
in the world that would have caused him to harm himself.  Lionel was a
very spiritual man, you must understand."

Harold shared this with both of them equally but finally settled on
Kathleen.

"He believed in nature in its purest form.  That's why he held no
animosity toward his first wife.  He said then- divorce was just part
of the journey.  We would have lunch and he would share his journey
with me."

"You mean he was sort of a born-again Christian?"  Michael asked.  He
reclined now, propped up on his elbow, one knee up and one leg
extended.

Harold shook his head, "No, it was more than that His journey was one
of personal growth.  He was the only man

I ever knew who thought so deeply about himself and his environment. He
continued to try and carve a place for himself that was self-satisfying
while honoring his responsibility to the world at large.  He felt
guilty about Louise.  He felt he'd married her without giving thought
to how they fit together in the universe and that was why they hadn't
made it.  Do you understand?"

Kathleen was all sympathy.

"I think so.  Like when people marry too young and find out that
there's no place for the captain of the football team and the head
cheerleader in the real world."

"Exactly."  Harold pushed his glasses up, smiling quite a lovely
smile.

"That's exactly how Lionel felt, and that's why he took responsibility
for Louise.  He believed he had done her a disservice."  He was excited
now, warming to his subject.

"You see, Lionel believed everything was tied to nature.  It was
Louise's nature to desire material things.  It was natural for her to
be upset when she realized that Lionel had never valued the things
money could buy.  Her nature was unchangeable.

His was at least refinable, if that makes sense."

Harold knelt up, tiring of leaning on the hard heels of his shoes.

"Lionel was gentle, spiritual, kind, respectful of all the living
things mat inhabited his world, even the people who sought to take
advantage of him.  He took pride in his 'job because he believed that
he was using his God-given talents to the best of his ability.  He was
taking care of his first wife and his second by honoring the commitment
he made to Tysco.  In short, Lionel Brooker was a very proud man and I
say he had every reason to be."

"And no reason to kill himself?"

Harold glanced at Michael, surprised to hear him speak and looking
almost peeved that his soliloquy had not been allowed a moment of
respectful silence.  When he'd spoken of Lionel, he had seemed to grow
taller, his shoulders had become broad with pride that he'd known such
a person.  But Lionel was gone.

Harold shrank back, sitting on his heels once more.

"No, there was no reason for him to kill himself.  He was upset in the
weeks before he died about something mat had happened at work.  I might
even go so far as to describe his behavior as distressed.  He didn't
confide in me except to say that life is full of disappointments and
sometimes you just have do what you can when you run into them."

"And you didn't take that to mean that he was resigned to solving his
problem by taking his own life?"  Kathleen questioned him now.

"No."  Harold shook his head slowly, thinking hard about his answer
because he knew it was important.

"I didn't.  In fact, I don't believe it was Lionel's problem.  The way
he spoke of it was more like he was angry at other people.  I don't
think Lionel made a mistake.  I think someone else did and he was
taking it upon himself.  At least, that's the impression I had.

He wasn't depressed.  If anything, he was energized."

"Did he say how he was going to do this or who else might be involved?"
Michael was sitting up again, offering Kathleen the chicken.  She shook
her head.

"I'm sorry."  He looked Kathleen's way.

"We weren't intimate in that way.  I admired him.  I don't think he
knew how much.  We ate lunch together, said good morning and good
night, but I wasn't privy to Lionel's most private thoughts.

Without Lionel's opening the door, I would never have burdened him with
mine."

"He must have been a very special man."  Kathleen's voice was another
note in the summer sounds.  She waited for a car to pass through the
parking lot behind them, then leaned forward and put her hand on
Harold's.

"I hate to ask this, Mr.  Douglas, but I have to.  If you weren't the
best of friends, how do you know that Lionel might not have turned to
drugs?"

Harold turned a cold eye on Kathleen.

"I know because Lionel wasn't that kind of man.  I would testily to
that in court, my hand on the Bible.  If no one else will speak for
Lionel Brooker, then I will.  You see.  Miss Cotter, people like Lionel
and me, we realize very early that we are life's square pegs.

That's why our senses are honed and our thought process is keen.  From
the time we are young, we know that we won't have many friends, so we
treasure the ones we do have.  Lionel was a lucky man.  He had Sarah
and he had me.  I will speak out for Lionel Brooker.  I will be his
character witness."

Kathleen sat silently, considering the grass.  There were a few large
blades that would have made marvelous whistles.

Had she been a girl, she might have plucked one up and whistled a tune.
But she was a grown woman with a purpose, and that purpose had suddenly
taken a very personal turn.  She wouldn't be swayed.  Harold's feelings
were not evidence.

"You're very astute, Mr.  Douglas.  I appreciate your honesty and your
insights.  But the information I need has to be more concrete.  Did
Lionel ever share with you any plans for me future in the last weeks of
his life?  That would be truly helpful if you could come up with some
concrete evidence that Lionel felt he had a future."

Her voice was hypnotic.  The sea breeze took her words.

spoken so gently, and spread them between the two men.  Beside her, she
could almost feel Michael Crawford's mind turning as he tried to help
her.

"He talked about the farm he wanted to buy someday."

"Did he talk about that in me last few weeks?"

Harold hung his head.  There was nothing more he could add and his word
alone wasn't enough to convince anyone that Lionel Brooker thought he
had a reason to live.

Kathleen patted his hand.

"I wish I had a friend like you, Mr.  Douglas."

"I'm surprised you don't.  Miss Cotter," he answered with equal
sincerity.  Michael Crawford had no comment.

"Well, if you can think of anything else, I would appreciate hearing
from you."  She poked into her bag and pulled out a card.  Harold took
it reverently, tucking it safely away in a zippered change bag that
hung from a clip around his belt loop.

"I promise I'll call.  Right away."  He stood up.  His knees were
pocked with the pattern of the grass; one white sock had worked its way
down around his ankle.  Michael stood up and shook Harold's hand.  He
said all the things a boss would say to an employee, but he said them
with impressive warmth.

"I appreciate your coming all the way out here, Harold.  I'll see you
at work on Monday."

"Sure thing.  I was glad to do it for Lionel."  Harold tugged at his
blue shirt, bent and picked up his book.  Before he left, though, he
had another thought.

"Mr.  Crawford?  Has Lionel's desk been cleaned out?"

"It has.  I thought the same thing, Harold."

"Too bad.  It might have helped to look at his desk to see if there was
anything he held back," Harold suggested.

"Well, if there's anything else, let me know."

He gave a waist-high wave with his goodbye.  Kathleen shaded her eyes
to watch him go, only to call him back briefly.

"Was there anyone at all whom Lionel disliked, Harold?  Or anyone at
work who particularly disliked Lionel?"

Harold shook his head.

"Lionel gave everyone a fair shake, even if they didn't reciprocate. No
one ever really dislikes guys like us.  They just don't pay us much
mind."

"They don't know what they're missing, Harold."

"Thank you.  Miss Cotter."

With that, he was gone.  A mince and scurry and he was at his car.
Kathleen watched him go.  Michael Crawford watched her watch.

"I'm sorry that wasn't much help."  Michael was already sitting down,
leaning back on his elbow again.  Kathleen's legs were cramped.  She
stood a few seconds longer before joining him on the grass.

"Not at all.  It was very helpful to meet him.  I think you can tell a
lot about people from me company they keep."  Kathleen finally picked
up the beer and popped the top Michael had put back on.  She took a
sip, thinking while her tastebuds adjusted to me cold, bitter taste."

"Lionel sounds very nice.  Accommodating.

Worried more about other people than himself.  He was either one in a
million or he was on drugs and that's why he was always on an even
keel."

"Maybe, but I doubt it.  It's hard to hide something like a habit.
Especially heroin.  It can be done, but it takes someone extremely
controlled."

"You sound like you know something about it"

"Something."  Michael crumpled the pretzel pack and cleaned up the
chicken bones.  Kathleen handed him the napkin she'd been using.

"Have you talked to his wife?"

"Same story from her.  Lionel was this perfect guy, content in his own
little world.  But even she confirmed he was upset about something. She
didn't give me any indication mat it was anything earth-shattering. Did
you get that impression from Harold?"

"Nope.  It just sounded like Lionel had something to take care of.  He
was playing it close to the vest and that all seems very mysterious,
but it sure didn't affect his performance.  If the problem drove him to
suicide, I'd assume someone would have seen some majorly
out-of-character behavior.  I'd say whatever had his feathers ruffled
was in the context of normal, everyday living.  No big problem
there."

"Shows what you know."  Kathleen nibbled on her last pretzel.

"Any good attorney can take a molehill and build a mountain faster than
you can say "I object."  And the insurance company's attorney is pretty
good."  Kathleen chuckled and waited for Michael to politely speculate
that she could probably give as good as she got.  He didn't.  She
stopped laughing and cleared her throat.

"Look, I appreciate your going to all this trouble.  I didn't expect
you to get quite so involved.  I know it's been an imposition."

Michael shook his head.

"Not really."

"You don't say much, do you?"  Her legs were going to sleep.  She
recrossed them, put the beer aside, laid the unfinished pretzel on top.
Michael took it all and put it into the trash bag;

that went into the backpack.  They made a great housekeeping team.

"Sorry.  It's a failing.  I guess I like to watch and figure out what
needs to be said, then I say it."

"Smart thing to do, as long as you don't lose your nerve when it comes
time to say what you've been thinking."

"I've never lacked for nerve, but I must say I'm pretty dam careful
about what I say and whom I say it to."  Michael stood up, towering
over her.  He hoisted the backpack and looked ten feet tall from where
she sat.

"Do you have to be somewhere right now?"

"No."

"Feel like working anymore?"

"No."

"Good."  He held out his hand.  She took it.  Michael pulled Kathleen
up until she was not just upright but close.  She still had the
flutters, still the ridiculous awareness of the sheen of his hair, the
feel of his hand in hers; but now she felt something more, and the more
didn't have an adjective to go with it.

He hoisted his bag and held her hand tighter.

"There's nothing like the open sea to clear the brain."

"You mean sailing?"  Kathleen choked.

"I've never seen the ocean before today.  I don't know if I'm ready to
bob around on it."

"Come on.  What's it worth being alive if you do the same thing every
day?  Come on."  He tugged at her hand and grinned.

"We'll just go past the breakwater... unless you've got something
better to do ... someone waiting for you."
"No.  No one waiting,
nothing better to do."  Kathleen looked at the beautiful boat.  She
would like to sit on the deck chair, her face turned up to the
late-afternoon sun.  She'd like to feel something other than the hard,
unforgiving ground under her feet.  She'd like to spend a minute more
with Michael Crawford.

"Okay.  Why not?"

"Good.  Great."  He gave her hand a squeeze, friendly and inviting.
Kathleen thought no further than beyond the next minute.  Lionel
Brooker was forgotten.  Louise could leave a zillion messages.  Gerry
could hold down the fort without her.

The day belonged to her and Michael.  But they hadn't cleared the grass
before they were stopped.

"Mr.  Crawford?  Miss Cotter?"  Harold was back.  He was leaning half
out the window of his car.  Kathleen crossed to the white picket fence
that ran me length of the marina and separated it from the parking lot
Michael waited where he was, still close enough to hear.  Harold was
flushed, perspiratioa dotting his forehead and me bridge of his nose.
The little car lacked air-conditioning."

"I remembered something else.  I don't know if it's important, but
Lionel was wearing a suit on the day he died.  He never wore a suit. It
was just something I thought was odd.  Him wearing a suit.  That's all.
 Just odd."

His car stuttered.  He revved the motor and drove away again without a
wave or a second look.

Chapter Nine

It was more beautiful than Kathleen could ever have imagined.

The horizon was endless, the sea stitched to the sky with the delicate,
invisible thread of some brilliant cosmic seamstress.  The blue of the
water had changed from robin's egg to the deep navy that can seem black
in the endless reaches.

Here and there white sails dotted the grand expanse, canvases
billowing.

Michael hadn't bothered with his sails.  Instead, they cut through the
water powered by an unseen and almost silent motor.  Their wake was
pleasing to the eye, the slight rock and rise of the boat soothing to
the soul; and when Michael Crawford cut the engine and sat beside her
on the deck, he redefined the meaning of the words alone together.

Michael had brought drinks with him.  Water, this time, in clear,
plastic bottles.  He handed her one, the plastic fogged and perspiring
with cold.  Kathleen took it and held it, not wanting to disturb her
perfect posture.  She was reclining in the chair, hands crossed at
waist level, face tilted toward the sky but at an angle where she could
slide her eyes toward him.  Her legs were stretched out, her stockings
and shoes discarded--privately in the cabin below--to make maneuvering
the slick deck easier.

"So, what do you think about the suit-thing?"  Michael kept his eyes
on the sea, his hands on the steering wheel that guided the craft he
had named Gentle Reminder.

Kathleen didn't move.  Contentment had paralyzed her.  Never in her
wildest dreams could she have imagined a day quite so perfect.  She
wouldn't spoil it for anything.

"I'm not sure I should think anything about it.  Sometimes people feel
like dressing up.  Or is that just a female-thing?"

"It's been known to happen in our ranks, too."  Michael chuckled.
Kathleen laughed lazily.  He reached down and pulled a lever or pushed
a button, the conversation never breaking stride.

"It is unusual at a place like Tysco, though.  Especially in a
department like auditing.  We don't do the big meetings.

Lionel reported to me.  I report to those above me.  It's very cut and
dry, and I've never required anyone to dress when they meet with me.
What's really strange is that he died in another part of the complex.
He really had no business being there.

That's always bothered me.  Who in the heck was he going to see?  Now,
add the suit and you've really got a mystery."

"Maybe he was dressing up for someone.  You know, like a lover.  Do you
think Lionel Brooker could have been having an affair?"

"That would be a case of still waters running more than deep."  Michael
laughed, and she knew he was looking at her from behind his black
glasses.  His gaze lingered, his voice softened.

"Besides, he was already dealing with two women.

That's more than enough for any man."

"Could he have been interviewing for a position in another division?  I
mean, can't people move around within Tysco?"

"His wife would have said something.  If they were such soul mates, he
wouldn't keep plans like that from her."

"Maybe he was in another area so no one would recognize him and ask
what he was doing because he truly was an addict."

That didn't sound right even to Kathleen, but Michael played along.

"What about the suit, men?"

"True."  She licked her lips.  They tasted like salt.  Her lipstick was
long gone.  That gave her pause, but Lionel Brooker was a more
interesting subject to consider.

"Okay, how about this?

He dressed up to kill himself.  People do that, right?  They have some
big statement they want to make.  So, Lionel got dressed up because he
wanted to be found in his Sunday best."  Kathleen's fingers drummed on
the back of the chair.

"But what was his statement?  This particular day was important to him.
He was going to try to escape some dissatisfaction by taking to drugs
and the suit signified the transition ..."

Michael snorted, but it was an elegant expression of disbelief rather
than off-putting.

"Never happen.  A man doesn't plan to become a junkie like he plans to
go out to dinner.  It just happens.

Lionel had to have tried it once before, then he had to want to do it
again.  It's not like you can decide to take up drugs the same way you
take up smoking.  You can't buy heroin at a corner drugstore.  He'd go
back to whoever turned him on in the first place, buy the stuff, get
the syringe, pick a time, worry about being caught."

"Unless he did want to kill himself, then he wouldn't worry about being
caught."

"Then he'd be near his normal department.  I mean, whose feelings would
he be trying to spare by doing it a few floors down?  Harold's?  Naw,
he wouldn't worry that he was dressed right to make a buy if he didn't
worry about what he wore to work every day."

"Okay.  Bear with me.  I'm just throwing things out.  If Harold thought
the suit was so unusual, then there had to be an unusual reason for
wearing it.  Obviously nobody bothered to look into what Lionel was
trying to say by dressing so out of character.

His statement was lost because ... because ..."  Kathleen searched for
the logical conclusion to her argument.  Michael stood up and looked
out to sea, then back to her.

"You are really something."  Michael abandoned his station.

Going past her, he settled himself in the middle of a padded bench that
did double duty as storage.

"Do you always think the best of people?"

Kathleen raised a shoulder.

"I suppose.  Why not?"

"Because for the most part there is no universal best in people.  Most
people aren't concerned with what's right or wrong but with what's
expedient, easy, and self-serving.  You want to know why nobody
wondered why Lionel Brooker was dressed to kill excuse the expression?
Nobody cared what kind of statement a man like Lionel Brooker wanted to
make.

They wanted to push it under the rug.  If there had been a note, it
probably would have made the six o'clock news.  Since there wasn't a
statement, his suicide meant nothing."

"That's pretty cynical," Kathleen complained, vexed to find this
handsome, rather personable, obviously intelligent man was so
mean-spirited, so small-hearted.

"Not at all.  That's just the way things are," he answered evenly.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you generalizations are dangerous  Don't you
know that there's an exception to every rule?"

she shot back, surprised at her own intensity.

"Are you the exception?  Would you have thought to wonder why Lionel
Brooker was wearing a suit?"

"I might have."  He rolled his eyes.  She sat up straight and leaned
forward.

"I just might have."

"And if you had and if you'd found out that Lionel Brooker was making a
statement about being so unhappy with his life that he dressed up and
purposefully took it, your whole case would be blown right out of the
water."  Michael sat back and the boat bobbed.

"You've forgotten one thing.  I'd at least know the truth."

Kathleen tapped the middle of her hand with one finger.

"But you'd have to find some way around that truth in order to do your
job," Michael countered.  Something had changed.

The edge in his voice had sharpened; his words felt dangerous.

Kathleen sat up and paid close attention.

"You're assuming I would continue with this case if I knew that to be
true."

"But that's what lawyers do if they find a truth that doesn't suit
them.  They rearrange it."  His superior attitude was more infuriating
because it was presented with such maddening confidence

"Boy, you sure know how to ruin a perfectly nice day."

Kathleen threw up her hands.

"You're full of assumptions.

What makes you think that I don't care about the truth or that all
lawyers do the most expedient thing?  You are an incredibly negative
person.  Look at the life you live.  You have a safe job that pays for
this boat.  You haven't got a worry in the world, and you don't have to
prove yourself.  You don't have to make life and death decisions every
day.  You live in a safe little cocoon between your office and this
boat.  You have nothing to be afraid of, but maybe Lionel Brooker
did."

A speedboat passed.  The swell it created caused the boat to tip.
Kathleen slid forward in her chair, and Michael Crawford moved quickly.
He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her so she didn't end up
sprawled at his feet He looked into her eyes, and she could just see
his through the smoky lenses of his glasses.  When he spoke, his voice
was low and flat.

"I'm not cynical, I'm realistic.  I'm not afraid, I'm cautious.

And there are other forums besides the public one in which you
operate."  He set her back on her chair, bent over, let his elbows rest
on his knees, and took off his sunglasses.

His eyes were beautiful, but they had no depth.  They were hard and
honest, and Kathleen knew she had made a big mistake in challenging
him.  She waited for him to speak, but he had changed his mind.  He put
his glasses on and went back to the wheel.  The engine came to life.
Michael threw the wheel.  The boat responded, kicking up a question
mark of a wake as it headed to shore.

Kathleen was alone, looking back at the horizon toward which they had
been headed.  She didn't want to go back to shore, back to her
apartment, or back to the office.  She stood up and then found herself
beside Michael Crawford.

"I'm sorry.  That wasn't very nice of me.  I shouldn't make
assumptions."  Silence.  A sigh.  She tried again.

"When I came here, I assumed that my uncle was still the handsome,
successful attorney he'd been when I was a kid.  I was angry when I
found out he wasn't.  I guess I made assumptions about you, too.  I
don't know which if not all are wrong, but I'd like you to set me
straight.  When I meet the real Michael Crawford, then I'll apologize
to him."  Kathleen waited a beat and added, "If it would be
appropriate."  Another beat.

"Is that fair?"  A gull cried.  Kathleen asked, "Michael?"

He started talking when they passed the breakwater.  It took twenty
minutes to maneuver me boat back to its slip.  In that time she found
out that Michael was an army brat.  Ten schools by the time he was
fifteen.  High school in Germany.  He loved Germany.  He loved the
chance to learn and do anything new.

The world was just full of opportunities no one took advantage of.  His
father was a desk jockey, his mother a housewife.  His parents had an
extraordinary marriage, especially considering they were a military
couple.  There had been a brother, Michael's twin.  His name was
Charlie and he'd been killed in Vietnam.

Kathleen helped secure the boat while Michael analyzed me differences
between his brother and himself.  Charlie had been more outgoing and
adventurous, Michael more intellectual.

Michael was a thinker who sought out experiences, Charlie had taken
them as they came.  Charlie was a ladies' man; Michael liked a
commitment.  He had been engaged once but never married.  He couldn't
really explain why.  Perhaps they hadn't been right for one another;
perhaps he had waited too long and analyzed the situation too fully.
Marriage was an important step, but maybe he should have tried it out
instead of letting it die on the examining table.  He wanted it to last
forever.  His caution, perhaps, made his intended feel like the
courtship would last forever.  He couldn't blame her.  There was also
me risk factor.  His posting in Vietnam with the Special Forces wasn't
idyllic.  Even Kathleen understood the implication of that piece of
news.  Michael Crawford was the best of the best, me most courageous of
men in America, a man of impeccable credentials.  And she, a woman from
the desert who had lived her whole mundane life on the cautious edge,
had accused him of taking the easy way out.

Michael stopped long enough to let her get back into her shoes and
stockings before he leaped onto the dock and held his arms out for her.
She went into them without a second thought and, in a movie-moment, me
sun seared red and gold as it sank behind the horizon before he put
her down.  They walked toward the marina and a small Mexican restaurant
where they found cold margaritas, hot salsa, and a back booth.

"My parents are still living.  They're retired in Palm Springs."
"I
spent my life in Banning, not too far from there," Kathleen said.

"I know where it is."  Michael nodded and had the decency not to
comment further.

"Do you see them often?"  Kathleen asked.

"I confess to being the perfect son.  I see them as often as their
schedule allows.  They're pretty active.  I think the happiest day of
my dad's life was retiring from the service."

"What about you?  I would have thought that the service for someone in
the Special Forces would be an ideal life."  Kathleen rested her arms
on the open menu.  The waitress had been over twice and had finally
figured out they probably wouldn't be ordering any time soon.

"I really loved the military.  I went in with my eyes open and I served
well, but I was ready for something different.  I wanted to live like
the rest of the world.  Heck, maybe I just wanted to see how I looked
with longer hair."  Michael shook his head back like a fashion model
and Kathleen laughed.

"Fine."

"What?"

"You look fine with longer hair.  More than fine."  Kathleen took a
chip and too much salsa.  Thankfully the spice brought tears to her
eyes.  When she looked back, she couldn't see him clearly.  It would
have been awful to have found her compliment wasn't welcome.

"Thanks."  There was a scarlet tinge to his skin that could have been a
trick of the light or a blush of pleasure.

"Anyway, Tysco was there waiting in the wings.  I was snapped up and
put in the computerized weaponry division, international con tracts. My
business card was pretty neat."  He chuckled and she knew it was at
himself for being so impressed by something like that.  Kathleen looked
at the table.  They shared a failing.

She hadn't thought he ever failed.

"I bet you wore a suit and everything."

"Very astute."  Michael dipped into the salsa, but it dripped back, his
chip forgotten, as he continued.

"I was on that fast track, Kathleen.  I was interfacing with the
military, making huge bucks--" "The boat?"

He put the chip aside and raised his salt-encrusted glass to toast the
lady.
"You think an auditor could manage that?"  Michael grinned, but
there was a sadness in his hindsight.

"Anyway, I found out I had been signing contracts that weren't viable.
The products that were being delivered weren't up to contractual
specs.

Tysco was cutting corners and what they were shipping was dangerous.  I
went through channels.  I protested.  I did my homework and wrote
extensive reports, then I was patted on the back and told not to make
waves."

"So, what did you do?"

"I blew the whistle."  The pride in his voice was shaded with regret.

"I went to the military, explained the situation to men I thought would
understand the danger.  They didn't.  Those men were bureaucrats.  They
said they would look into the problems.  For all I know, they did.  But
that's where their interest stopped.  The men on the line, those guys
like me, weren't in a position to do anything about it.  The equipment
being shipped was substandard.  They might be killed by it or because
of it, but they couldn't do anything to stop the corner cutting Michael
took a long drink, stabbed a new chip into the salsa, and ate the whole
thing.

"I went to the press, but Tysco had a great PR machine."  He shook his
head.

"Poor Lionel if he went the same route.  I wish he'd asked me before he
did anything."  There was no pain when he looked back at her.  He'd
dealt with that long ago.

"Anyway, the stories were buried.  Nothing ever happened except that
I'd rammed my head into a brick wall.  It was almost terminal."

"I can't believe they didn't fire you."  Kathleen was all ears and
disbelief.

"You're the lawyer.  Think I would have had a great discrimination
case?  That would have gotten a heck of a lot more press than what
Tysco is really doing."

The waitress was back.  This time she wasn't leaving without an order.
Kathleen looked at the menu, ordered a burrito.

Michael did the same.  Anxiously, she leaned close.

"So they kept you on and " "And made life miserable for me ever since."
Michael munched another chip, taking his time with a story that had
obviously been long lived.

"That was three years ago.  In that time they have transferred me four
times.  Finally, I ended up in auditing.  In the very unglamorous world
of defense work, Beading up the auditing division is about as bad as
you can get.  They took their time, but finally they put me in my
place."

"Lord, Michael, what on earth are you still doing here?

How can you exist in a situation like this?  How can you work for
people like mat?"

"How can I not?"  he said evenly, without a hint of the martyr.

"Every day I walk the halls of Tysco, I am a reminder of their
failings.  They know what's in my head.  They know they're the ones
between a moral rock and a hard place.  They've done me worst they can
do.  I still exist; so does me problem.

Even if I never see the men who called themselves my peers, the ones
who gave me not only me opportunity to do my work but the
responsibility to do it well they know I am still around.

I'm a watchdog that no one bothers to feed."  Michael laughed, pushed
the chips away, and sat back.  He eyed Kathleen casually.

The outrage had flared then burned itself off like good cooking wine,
leaving behind the essence of itself.  Few knew of his situation. Fewer
still agreed with it, dunking his life wasted in a vain attempt to take
a stand that would never accomplish much.  Now he'd laid the problem in
front of Kathleen Cotter.

a woman he barely knew.  Now he would know a little more.

"So, what do you think?"

She didn't hesitate.

"I think you're a very unusual man."

"A stupid man?"  he asked.

"A brave man," she said.

Michael smiled.  It was enough.  All he'd ever needed to hear.

"I appreciate that.  Unfortunately, this brave man is in no position
to really help you.  I'm a nobody in a place that only reacts when
you're somebody.  I can't even get Lionel's old supervisor to call me
back.  The guy seems to spend more time out of the office than he does
in."

"That's okay.  I have a feeling that if you're determined to get in
touch with him that's exactly what you're going to do."

"And when I do?"  Michael asked, one finger trailing her hand
lightly.

"Do you think you might be available to discuss it over dinner?"

"Just let me know when," she answered, knowing she'd discuss physics
sitting inside a cave at high tide with Michael Crawford.

Chapter Ten

"Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence put before you today may seem
minimal, but I assure you it is not.  It is powerful in its simplicity.
There were no signs to warn my client she had wandered into a loading
zone ... my client who, I might add, is eighty-eight years old and
unable to rush even if the devil himself were after her."

Kathleen looked over her shoulder at Henrietta Poole, who was
appropriately turned out in a subdued, gray suit and white gloves.  She
sat primly in the very, very big wheelchair she had rented for the
occasion.  Henrietta believed it would make her look smaller and more
vulnerable.  All the world is a stage, she had intoned gleefully to
Kathleen when she'd arrived in the monstrosity.  Kathleen let her gaze
linger just long enough.  She was finally getting the hang of this
jury-thing thanks to Gerry's tutelage and her own blossoming talent.
She raised her arms wide.

"There were huge rolls of carpet all around her.  To anyone, it would
seem like an extension of the showroom.  She was thinking about what
color would look best in her home when, out of nowhere, a roll was
flung in her direction by two men.

As you heard from their own testimony, through the court's
interpreter, they didn't look where they were throwing the bolt, they
didn't call out in warning.  The salesman on the showroom floor had
stepped out for coffee because, as he testified, he assumed his client
would soon realize she could not afford anything in the
establishment.
"Well, of course that shouldn't even be a consideration
when it comes to providing service, or simply being chivalrous to a
woman of her years."  Kathleen clucked as if they were all good friends
who were chatting about the matter over tea.  She dared to put her hand
on the railing that separated her from the jury.  The woman closest to
her smiled.  Kathleen smiled back.  She bet the lady had a daughter
just her age, unmarried no doubt.  She'd seen enough of those smiles to
know.

"So, what I'd like to do today is to ask you to find in favor of my
client, a woman who was doing nothing more than browsing in a public
place when she was struck by six hundred pounds of nylon plush in pony
beige.  Think of your own mothers and grandmothers.  Think of their
welfare and send a clear message to those who serve the public that the
public's safety should be first and foremost in their mind.  I ask that
you award my client not only her medical fees but also punitive damages
for pain and suffering in the amount of $50,000.  I ask that you make
your decision today so that Henrietta " Kathleen's beautiful eyes
rested briefly but affectionately on her client.

" when she is lifted out of her wheelchair tonight, may rest easy
knowing that, at least for now, her future is secure.  Thank you."

Another touch.  Another smile, this time to a man in the third row, who
gave his shyly and then looked at the judge.

Kathleen returned to her seat and offered a pat on the hand to
Henrietta, who, in turn, gave her a surreptitious wink.  A satisfied
client was a lovely thing.  If only Louise Brooker could be equally
amenable.  Kathleen folded her hands and listened as the judge gave her
instructions to the jury.  The points of law were tedious and there was
nothing in the instruction that would obstruct the verdict Kathleen
hoped for.  The fee would be wonderful; Henrietta would be satisfied,
and Michael Crawford would be calling one day soon.  Life couldn't get
much better.

Instructions over, there was a bit of a flurry as those in the
courtroom rose and left through different doors--the jury through the
one on the side, preceded by the bailiff; the judge through one cut
into the paneling, her chambers hidden behind;

and Henrietta out the back with Kathleen following.  Kathleen was past
the third bench when her step slowed.  She didn't stop, but it took all
her self-control to walk through the door behind Henrietta and not turn
to look behind.

"I'm going to the coffee shop, Kathleen.  Would you like to come?  I'll
buy even though we don't know if I've won my case."  Henrietta winked.
It was a charming invitation, as always, but Kathleen declined.

"Thanks, no.  I'll wait out here for a bit just in case I've been so
smooth the jury comes back in five minutes."

"If they do, give me a holler.  The way the elevators work around here,
it will take that long for one to call up.  Come along."

Henrietta tapped the mute Go with her gloved fingers and they were off.
Kathleen looked about.  The hall was empty, which was not surprising
since spectators had been few and it was close to three.  Kathleen
waited, counting the seconds as they ticked by.  She'd give herself
five more before she went back into the courtroom, but she only needed
three to be sure she had seen whom she thought she'd seen.  He came
through the swinging door and looked directly at her as if he expected
her to be there.  The man never wasted a movement, or a thought, she
was sure.  What she couldn't fathom was what had brought Richard
Jacobsen to the very courtroom where she was arguing a minor personal
injury case.  Whatever it was, she didn't care.

Kathleen stepped into the opportunity, heart pounding, wishing she had
had time to redo her lipstick.

"Mr.  Jacobsen, I thought that was you."  Kathleen smiled and held out
her hand.  Lord, it felt damp.  He took it without comment and shook it
without verve.  His smile seemed faded under the fluorescent lights,
but his eyes were sharp and on her.

"It's delightful to see you in action, Ms.  Cotter.  You have quite a
way with the jury."

Richard Jacobsen had somehow managed to back her into a corner between
the wall and a concrete bench.  Kathleen felt too tall, too big for the
space, and suddenly Richard Jacobsen looked properly proportioned,
almost graceful.

"Thank you.  I'm honored you stayed to watch."

Kathleen's fingers suddenly ached.  She'd been clutching her briefcase
tight.  She loosened her fingers.  The word relax flashed in her mind.
Richard Jacobsen was only another lawyer, after all.  A man.  A rich
man.  A well-known and powerful man.  Her fingers tightened again. He'd
stayed to see her perform.  She felt sick.  She smiled anyway. Even her
dead mother's ghost rising from the grave wouldn't distract her from
what she was about.

"Actually, I'd expected to meet a colleague, but it seems I had the
wrong information regarding his whereabouts."  Richard held out his
small hands, fingers pointed toward her as if she could put the right
information in them.  Would that she could.

"But if you have to be somewhere else, Ms.  Cotter, I shouldn't keep
you."

"Not at all.  I'm delight--" Kathleen paused and cleared her throat.
Her voice had risen an excited octave.  She lowered it, rotating her
neck as if she could twist out the knot of nervousness that had made
itself at home.  "--delighted to run into you.  I should have written
you a note.  I enjoyed our talk in your office very much.  I wanted to
thank you."  She sounded like an advertisement.  Her smile broadened
and she tried desperately not to try too hard.  Richard Jacobsen
wouldn't stand for anything so crass as groveling.

"You were very kind to spend so much time with me."

"Not at all.  It was truly my pleasure."  He moved and Kathleen
followed.  The sign of a true leader is that he moves the troops
without a word or a look.  He led her out of the corner and in front of
the bench.

"I've actually been thinking about you."  Kathleen almost fell off her
pumps.

"That's why, when I realized it was you arguing, I thought I might stop
and watch.

It's always good to see both sides of someone who has left an
impression.  The professional and the personal.  You liked my artwork,
that was enough to give you an A on the personal front."

"And professionally?"  Kathleen asked.

"You did very well.  But I must confess, I was hoping I would find you
working on Mrs.  Brooker's case.  It sounded terribly interesting.
Truly unique."

Kathleen laughed uneasily.  He hadn't been impressed enough.  He wanted
to see her tackle something more intricate than Henrietta's hip.

"We're on Judge Kelley's calendar.  I could call you."

"No, no.  As delightful as that would be, I think I've seen what I need
to see."  He began to walk again, with short thoughtful steps. Kathleen
kept pace, hoping he didn't hear the disappointing thump of her heart. 
There must be something she could do to keep his interest.

"When do you expect to wrap up your work with Mrs.

Brooker?"

"Six weeks," Kathleen blurted out.

"Do you feel confident, Ms.  Cotter?  Do you believe you'll triumph
over the insurance company, big as it is?  I've known Bob Morton for
years.  Do you think you can best him?"

Kathleen stopped.  This time he followed suit.

"Yes, Mr.

Jacobsen, I think I will.  I believe I can prove that Lionel Brooker
wasn't suicidal.  I think, given time, I could probably prove that Mr.
Brooker wasn't even a drug addict.  The more I hear of him, the more
convinced I become that there is some mystery to his death."

Richard Jacobsen's face changed.  He was every skeptical teacher
Kathleen had ever had.

"And now you'll become an investigator, not an attorney?

That would be such a loss to our profession."

Kathleen laughed uneasily.  She'd never been able to please her
teachers.

"No.  That's not in my future.  I'm just hoping to get All Life to
consider a settlement."

Richard tried to laugh.  Kathleen thought he needed more practice.

"A challenge, to say the least.  Attempting to prove more than his
state of mind, to prove there was no intent to take his life at the
moment of his death, is a unique and risky road."

Kathleen couldn't believe he'd been listening so carefully during the
few minutes they had had together in his office.  She was flattered
beyond words.

"Would you quit?  Would you pursue this course?"

He looked at her hard, and his face changed again.  Though
unattractive, he suddenly seemed ugly; quiet, he suddenly seemed eerily
silent.  Finally, he spoke.

"I wouldn't presume, Ms.  Cotter, to advise you on any matter while you
work with O'Doul & Associates."

"Of course not, forgive me.  That was very forward of me.

I apologize."

Richard reached out and took Kathleen's free hand.  He held it between
his palms.

"Unless, of course, you don't feel that Gerry is on top of this.  If
that's the case, then, of course, I'd be willing to help in any way I
could."

In another moment Kathleen would have thought something was amiss with
Richard Jacobsen; but the light changed as they were jostled by the
group of wailing women who suddenly came out of Department 36 followed
by two bewildered children, and Kathleen realized he had meant only to
be helpful.

"I would like it very much if you would call on me to fill in the gaps
of the fine education Gerry will give you."

"Thank you."

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye.  And thank you, Mr.  Jacobsen."

He turned in a fluid motion and Kathleen was forgotten.  Or so she
thought.  He wasn't gone three steps when he came back to her and
asked, "Are you happy where you are, Ms.  Cotter?

Happy with the rather odd problems you're handling at O'Doul &
Associates."

Kathleen didn't breathe when she answered.  She did hesitate, though,
but for just an instant.  For a second, while Gerry's face flashed in
front of her mind's eye.  It was the face first of young Gerry, then of
his old and wizened visage.

"No."

"I thought not."

Richard Jacobsen left her.  She wished she were walking away with
him.

Michael had seen him before.  They called him Jack.  Nobody knew his
real name or how long he'd been at Tysco.  The best estimate was that
he'd worked there for twenty-six years.  The best guess on what he did
was something in the quality-control section--not hands-on, just
paperwork.  No one Michael had ever talked to knew where Jack's office
was; they had no idea where he lived, and most swore they'd never heard
him speak.

Jack had fallen through the cracks of the mega-corporate Tysco system.
He pulled his pay; he showed up and--if the twenty six year guestimate
of employment was correct--he would be eligible to retire in four years
fully vested.  Until then, he wandered the halls like a specter,
dressed in his corporate camouflage:

brown shoes, brown pants, brown tie with a gold-tone 25-years tie clasp
and white, short-sleeved shirt.  He carted a sheaf of papers with him
so that if anyone had the inclination to stop and ask him where he was
going or what he was doing he could hold them up as proof he was a
necessary cog in the wheel.  Michael had thought long and hard about
Jack.  He shared, after all, a rather sad affinity with the man.  But
there was one big difference.  Michael had no intention of
disappearing.  He refused to be relegated to the land of the living
dead, and Lionel Brooker was the catalyst who propelled him through the
halls of Tysco, past Jack, up to the tenth floor of the main building,
and into a suite of offices that shared a common reception area and
secretary.

"Morning."

Michael smiled at the woman behind the desk.  Cute.  Late twenties.
Sedately dressed.  She still had the idea that this was her ticket to a
career.  Little did she know.

"Good morning."  She swiveled on her chair.  Michael was reminded of
android technology, so smooth was her chair, her delivery, movement,
and smile.

"I'm looking for Jules Porter."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Nope.  I've been trying to get one."  Michael turned on the charm.  A
warm smile, a casual leaning toward the desk, a helpless opening of his
palms.  It didn't work.

"Mr.  Porter is scheduled today."  Her movements were silk.

Porter's calendar was open.

"He isn't available until at least three this afternoon.  I can pencil
you in, but of course, mat would be subject to change if Mr.  Porter
finds himself running over."

Michael had the most marvelous images of Porter as a bath tub, Porter
as beer.  No doubt he would run over.  No one in this place ever did
anything with urgency, and efficiency was questionable.  Suddenly,
Michael had an image of Porter mat was three-dimensional when me man
himself walked purpose fully through the door and into me office mat
bore his name etched into a brass-toned plate.  Michael gave the very
efficient lady behind the desk a thumbs up and walked right after the
man.  The lady at me desk protested briefly but was apparently terribly
attached to her chair.  She didn't try to follow.

"Jules Porter," Michael said heartily, hand out The other man took it A
natural reflex from olden days when knights protected themselves by
extending their lances.  Today it was their hands.  Keep me opponent at
arm's length until you can figure out who he is and what he wants.

"Michael Crawford.

I inherited your old desk over in 42B.  You've come up in the world."

"Yes.  Yes," Porter extricated himself; me half smite faded.

Michael was under him in the pecking order.

"What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you'd have a minute."  Michael slid into a chair.  It was
nicer man any they had in auditing, and his people sat all day.  He'd
have to do something to rectify that situation.

"I've been trying to get you for a couple of days now, and I understand
how busy you guys can be, running me company and all."

Michael smiled amiably.  Porter appeared perplexed or tired.

He was definitely cranky and off his game.

"I'm afraid I'm still very busy.  You should make an appointment with
Miss Hutchinson, though, I must say, I don't have time to help you with
anything at the moment I would suggest you go through channels.  If
you're having difficulty with the department, there are procedures
outlined in the handbook.  If it is something that I initialed, you can
send it interoffice.  I'll get back to you when I can."

Jules Porter dismissed Michael easily.  Michael ignored him
graciously.

"Well, look, this problem really doesn't have a solution in the
handbook and it sure as heck doesn't have anyone's initials on it. It's
sort of a personnel problem."

Jules Porter removed his Italian jacket, took a black-and gold Mont
Blanc pen from his pocket, and sat down in his standard-issue, Tysco
executive chair.  Instead of giving Michael his attention, he opened
the dark-brown portfolio he had carried into the office and
concentrated on his papers.  His dark head was down so that Michael
could see the meticulous part.  Moments later, Jules Porter was looking
at Michael Crawford's large hand as it covered the multiple-columned
financial report.  Porter looked up.  Crawford was ready for him.  He
smiled.  Porter did not.

"Look.  I know who you are.  You're a troublemaker and I don't want any
trouble."

"Then give me a few minutes of your time, Mr.  Porter, and I promise
not to make waves."

Porter considered this, then made an executive decision.  He sat back.
Michael closed the portfolio and put it aside, patting it into place
like a father putting away a slow child's toys.

"Jules.  I may call you Jules?"

Silence in the war of types.  Porter despised men like Michael Crawford
those who hadn't the courtesy to dress right, speak when spoken to,
offer only the kind of creative ideas that would please those on the
next rung.  But he also feared men like Michael Crawford because you
just never knew what quirk of fate would put them on that rung above
you.

"Well, Jules, I have a question about a man who used to work for you
and me, for a few weeks.  I assume you'll remember him.  He had a long
history with the company.  A history as long as yours.  But he's not
in a nice office like this.

He died in the John, on the second floor, quite a ways away from
auditing.  Apparently he killed himself.  A suicide in our hallowed
halls."

Porter turned his head away.  He looked pale.  Some people lost all
blood pressure when they were angry.  Some when they were guilty.  Some
because they were simply the sensitive type.

"Can we get on with this?"

"You're right.  This has got to be tough for you.  It must be difficult
to speak about someone you must have been close to."  The sarcasm
wasn't lost on Jules Porter.  He moved in his chair, trying to
rearrange the coals in his belly that fed some emotion at Michael's
impertinence.

"Who told you we were close?"  Jules demanded, his head whipping back
Michael's way.

"I want to know who told you.

It's a lie."

"It was just an assumption," Michael said, curious about such an
emphatic reaction but not willing to let Jules Porter know that.

"I figured since you'd worked with the guy for almost ten years you
probably took some kind of personal interest."

"I knew him.  Lionel Brooker.  He was a troublemaker, too," Porter
grumbled.

"I didn't find that to be the case.  He seemed quiet and efficient. But
then, I imagine we would have differing views on things."  Michael
settled into his chair.  He crossed his long legs.

"I'm just interested in the facts of his employment during the time you
were his supervisor.  I've talked to others who worked with Lionel, and
their impression was that he cared a great deal about his work and his
job here."

"The man didn't know when to quit.  That's all I can tell you.  He was
not efficient.  He was a nitpicker.  He thought he knew how the whole
place worked.  He took everything very personally.  This is a business,
Mr.  Crawford, a big business."

Porter found at least one of his balls and leaned forward in his
junior-executive mode.

"People like you and Lionel Brooker think a conglomerate like Tysco can
be run like a corner grocery where you give credit to the widow who
needs some bread.

But we don't deal in bread.  We deal in products that make the world
work.  There's pressure here.  No one expects the world to be perfect
or the structure in which our goods are manufactured to be impeccable.
We all simply try to manage the beast;

and if you try to micromanage it or give it a name and a personality,
then you sacrifice efficiency."

"What about someone's life?  Someone who might have been so upset about
what happened inside these walls that he took his own life or tried to
forget his worries with drugs."

Jules Porter stiffened.  He looked sick.

"That is only one person and he was obviously unbalanced.

There are over twelve thousand who work here.  You don't see all of
them committing suicide, now, do you?"

"I'm not sure that Lionel Brooker did.  I think he might just have been
looking for a little peace.  With your kind of attitude, I might have
tried a little junk myself."

"Don't get personal, Mr.  Crawford.  Bad things happen to people who
get too personal."

"That sounds oddly threatening," Michael drawled.

"But don't worry.  I have no intention of trying to, Mr.  Porter.  I
believe it would be next to impossible to get personal with you."
Michael stood up.  He was itchy.  Only something physical would relieve
his discomfort and he didn't want to do anything he'd regret.  Not that
he'd regret popping Jules Porter all that much.

"What was Lionel Brooker up to just before he died?

Anything you were aware of?  Think carefully before you answer, because
I have to answer to a lawyer who is looking into Lionel Brooker's
death.  If she doesn't like what I tell her, you might just end up on
the other end of her subpoena.  And you know how much time that would
take out of your busy day."

"Have you checked with legal on this?"  Jules Porter demanded, still
under the false impression that anything he said would make an
impression on Michael.

Michael spread his hands on Porter's pristine desk and got up close and
personal.

"Fuck legal," he whispered.

Porter thought about that, men began to talk.

Michael thanked him when he left, but it was Jules Porter who had the
last word.

"You know, nobody really cares about you anymore.  You and your stupid
stand.  You know that, don't you?"

Michael kept walking.  One of these days, he would return the knife
Jules Porter had just put in his back.

"Hello, hello!  Becky, the next burrito is on me.  What a day!

The jury came back in an hour and a half and gave Henrietta five
thousand more than we asked for.  She was ecstatic."

Kathleen closed the door behind her and tossed her briefcase onto one
of the reception chairs.  She was just about ready to sink into another
one.  Becky stopped her without ever looking up from her typing.  The
in-box was always full now, and Becky was on five days a week.

"Don't even think about it.  Gerry's waiting.  He's got company."

"New client?"  Kathleen righted herself.

Becky shrugged.

"Haven't a clue."  She stopped typing long enough to open her top
drawer.

"I hope he's got terrible problems.  I wouldn't mind seeing him every
day or more.  Cookie?"  She held up something white with dark chocolate
and a green-icing dome.

Kathleen made a face and picked up her briefcase.

"Then I better give my hair a brush and get to it."  She was in and out
of her office in record time.  She rounded Becky's desk, knocking on
wood.

"Remind me to tell you what else happened."  Her hand was on the
doorknob.

"What's this guy's name?"

"Michael Crawford."  Becky sighed.  The cookie disappeared at the same
time Kathleen did.

"Kathleen," Gerry admonished, "You didn't tell me Michael was such a
delightful young man.  I think she wanted to keep you all to herself."
He winked to show his pleasure, then stage-whispered.

"Worried that I'll become too stimulated

with all the changes around here, but this ticker is just fine.

Sure, though, I don't know what I'd do without my Kathleen around
here."

Kathleen refrained from rolling her eyes.  She'd caught on.

Gerry was about as much an invalid as she was.  He had her number and
dialed it often, but Kathleen knew she was just about on the verge of
making it unlisted.  She grinned at him, nonetheless, and then unproved
on it when she took Michael's hand.  She talked to Gerry; she looked at
Michael.

"It was hard to describe Mr.  Crawford.  I wouldn't have wanted to do
him an injustice."  Kathleen settled herself.

Michael half stood, put his hand on the back of her chair, and said
hello.

"Isn't that just like you?"  Gerry chuckled.

"Mr.  Crawford, indeed.  After all the wonderful things he had to say
about you, I would have thought you were on a first-name basis."

Kathleen shifted.  The twinkle in his eye was downright embarrassing,
the interest in Michael's completely welcome.

"We've spent some time together.  But it was purely professional."
Kathleen was flirting, and it felt great.

"Yes, yes, yes."  Gerry nodded, with a wink at Michael.

"A

sail on the sea is always a good way to depose someone.  Did I ever
tell you I tried my hand at boating, Kathleen?  Michael, perhaps I
could impose one day ..."

"It would be a pleasure, Gerry."

"All right," Kathleen interjected.

"I give up.  You two have obviously been at this for a while.  I can't
imagine you came all this way to tell my uncle what a great guest I was
on your boat."

"You're right, of course."  Gerry still smiled, but Kathleen, now used
to the signs, understood they had done more than talk about the boat.

"Niceties aside, I'm afraid Michael does have some news that's very
interesting, Kathleen.  In fact, it might create a bit of a problem
when you argue for Louise."

Kathleen's butterflies that had batted about in honor of Michael
Crawford's pheromones now took a different, more ominous turn.  She
unfocused on his eyes, his hair, his lips and focused on what was
coming out of them.  She sat down, noting he checked out the lay of
her legs as she crossed them.  His interest lasted a second more, then
he looked up at her.

"I finally spoke with Lionel's previous supervisor.  Jules Porter, by
name.  He toes the company line like ninety-nine percent of Tysco
employees, but this guy believes the chapter and verse.  He was wired
tight.  I'm beginning to think Lionel was either crazy or a saint to
work in a department headed by that guy.  Ten years, no less."  Michael
shook his head as if Lionel's feat were more heroic than his own.

"What did he say?"

"Lionel was upset specifically with Porter.  Seems that Lionel had
received an interdepartmental envelope that had been misdirected.
Instead of repackaging it and sending it on, Lionel took a really good
look."  Michael spoke to Gerry.

"Lionel was one of those very smart guys.  Almost a photographic
memory.  He took one look and the numbers were analyzed instantly." His
head swiveled again.  Kathleen was all ears and motion.  She'd taken a
pad of paper from Gerry's desk to jot notes.

"So, he didn't send it on because he had instantly determined that the
information didn't add up.  He took a closer look, then brought it to
Porter.  Porter took one look at the departmental designation and told
Lionel to get back to work and not waste his time.  It wasn't any of
their business."

"Wouldn't that kind of support make you want to do your best for the
company?"  Gerry mumbled.

"Incredible incentive," Kathleen agreed wryly.

"The whole thing seemed incredibly urgent to Lionel, but Porter didn't
want to be bothered.  He had his agenda; Lionel was asking him to
deviate.  And it wasn't just the time that concerned Porter.  Believe
me, I talked to him long enough today to figure him out.  He's a guy
who chalks up ten percent of product to loss.  If there were a
discrepancy in the billing, he'd rather see it go through the system
than rectify it."

"Just gives you a lot of faith in the people who are making our bombs,
doesn't it?"  Kathleen muttered.

"They make toilet paper, too."  Michael chuckled.

"I sup pose, in a way, Porter has a point.  I mean, what do we care
about the paperwork as long as the damn things don't explode before
they get where they're going?"

"So."  Gerry pushed them along.

"Lionel was very unhappy with what he'd found and received no
satisfaction from his supervisor when he tried to rectify the matter.
How long was it before Mr.  Porter left the department and you came
in?"

"About three weeks, maybe a month.  Lionel had discovered the problem
at least a month earlier.  Porter says he lost track of the whole mess.
He couldn't even remember the specifics.

A guy like him wouldn't have remembered what Lionel looked like the day
after they talked."

"And Lionel never brought it up to you?"

Michael raised a hand and rested his chin on it.

"Nope.  He never approached me about anything.  Not that I can blame
him.  If one guy tells you it doesn't matter, why would you think the
next one to take the chair would think any differently?

Even if he went over Porter's head, he probably got the same reaction.
Remember, Lionel had been there ten years.  He knew what was what."

"But whatever he saw made him angry enough to try to buck the system?
Do you think he was angry?"

"I don't know.  Porter wasn't great with adjectives.  Basically, he
said Lionel was a pain in the ass."

"I'm sorry to hear that."  Kathleen tapped her pen on the pad of paper.
Her notes consisted of circles in which she'd written Porter and
Brooker.

"Well, what do you think we've got with this bit of information?"

"I think you have a problem with your theory, Kathleen.  If Michael's
Mr.  Porter is called to testify and gives the same impression to a
jury that he has given to Michael, that jury might see justification
for Lionel's taking his own life."

"Because he was dissuaded from bringing up a billing discrepancy?"
Kathleen scoffed.

"I don't think so."

"Because his job might have been jeopardized," Michael filled in and
Gerry nodded in agreement, beaming at the younger man.

"I see.  What you're saying is, with a supervisor like Porter, Lionel
might have felt threatened."

"Exactly," Gerry agreed, opening his hands in a papal and inclusive
gesture to show his delight.

"That's a powerful motive for suicide.  Look at what you know about
Lionel."

Kathleen ticked off the list.

"He was conscientious."
"Not a good thing in a corporate structure like
Tysco unless it is to work only within designated guidelines," Michael
offered.

"He was spiritual, gentle."

"Could be interpreted as high strung, delusional."  Gerry added his two
cents.

"He was honorable."

Both men thought for a moment, and it was Michael who commented.

"Might be viewed as a man with a conservative complex.

Sort of a born-again type.  His version of right was the only one."

"And therefore, Lionel would be highly distressed if he felt the entire
twelve thousand employees of Tysco thought nothing of the problems he'd
found," Gerry added.

"He had a goal.  To own a farm and live a quiet life with his wife,"
Kathleen offered.

Michael countered.

"He believed his dream wouldn't be attainable if he lost his job."

"He was consistent, a ten-year work-record," Kathleen shot back, hoping
to salvage some positive shred of evidence.

"He was unemployable elsewhere," Gerry pointed out.

"Paranoid and afraid to leave, but feeling himself above the rabble at
Tysco.  He was between a rock and a hard place.  Many would become
homicidal in that instance.  Look at the postal workers.  Gentle,
mystical Lionel possibly became suicidal."

Gerry ended with a nourish, the old skill still intact.  If Kathleen
had been on a jury, she would have bought into the argument that rather
than a gentle, caring soul, Lionel Brooker was a paranoid rascal with a
personal agenda that was designed to set himself above and apart from a
system that was well respected throughout the world.

"Oh, Lord."  Kathleen sighed.  Defeat made itself comfortable in her
lap.  It was a heavy child.

"Kathleen," Gerry tsked.  He let his head hang as he stood up and came
round his desk.  Leaning against it, he raised his hand.  For a moment
Kathleen thought he was going to pat her head the way he used to when
she was small.  But he let his hand fall, along with the tenor of his
voice.

"Are you going to give up so easily, my girl?"

"I don't know what else to do."

"Why not ask yourself the question you'd ask the jury?"

Kathleen raised her eyes, but not her head.  Michael was sitting
quietly, watching Gerry intently.  There was a deeply thoughtful look
on his face--almost too personal.

"What question?"

Gerry let his eyes linger on Kathleen an instant longer before looking
over his shoulder at Michael.

"Why would they believe that about Lionel?"  He looked back to
Kathleen."

"Aren't they good people themselves?  People who understand that honor
and truth and empathy are the most valuable qualities in the world.
Aren't they people who have been mistreated by employers, companies,
and associations, too?  Aren't they folks who have been misunderstood
because of their very pure motives?  How many times have words been put
in their mouths and their efforts to do the right thing been foiled?"
Gerry pushed himself off the desk and stepped around Kathleen so that
his hands were on the back of her chair.  With him came an energy that
pulled Kathleen up straight as if he were tugging at her puppet
strings.  He leaned close but spoke in a voice that commanded
attention."

"Make it personal, Kathleen.

Point to the lovely widow Sarah--if she'll come to the proceedings as
proof that Lionel was a good and loving man.  Find out how he lived.
Did he pay his bills on time?  He was saving for a farm, for goodness
sake!  The great American dream.  Put Mr.

Douglas on the stand.  Paint them a picture of your Lionel, Kathleen.
The Lionel you believe existed and Sarah believes existed and even
Louise believes existed."

"Yes, that's exactly what I need to do.  That will work, won't it?"
Kathleen sat forward in her chair and asked the question first of
Michael, then of Gerry.

"Who knows?"  Gerry laughed, and Kathleen's face fell.

Reaching out, he touched her chin, lifted it up, and spoke only to
her.

"But if you believe, then you'll be able to convince them.  Everything
is in that heart of yours, Kathleen.  When you translate that and speak
it loud and clear, there's every chance you'll win."

Kathleen covered his hand with hers, sure he was right.  Then he
dropped his hand and Kathleen looked at Michael, and the hole in her
heartfelt confidence opened a bit.  There was always a chance that
she'd speak her heart and mind and lose.  It happened to good people
like him.  She just didn't want it to happen to her.  Not now, not when
someone like Richard Jacob- sen was watching and someone like Lionel
Brooker was waiting for vindication.

"If it helps--" Michael leaned over and touched her shoulder.

Kathleen came out of her reverie, putting away her ridiculous thoughts.
She could be in worse company if she lost.

"What?"

"If it helps, I went through Lionel's records.  He was a whiz when it
came to his records.  There wasn't anything out of the ordinary.  If
he'd been upset, I imagine he got over it and sent the docket back
where it belonged.  I'm no lawyer, but I'd imagine without the
documents it's your word against Jules Porter's about how upset Lionel
was."

"Guess I'll have to have a talk with Mr.  Porter, huh?"

"It'll be tough.  I don't think he's at his desk longer than fifteen
minutes at a time."

"Then I'll go where he is.  Think you could arrange that?"

"No, I don't think I was Mr.  Porter's favorite visitor, but I could
sneak you up to his office and let you see how far you can get on your
own.  It will have to wait until tomorrow."

Michael stood up and put his hand out to Gerry.  When the old man took
it, Michael covered it with his other hand and moved closer.

"Gerry.  It's been a pleasure.  If I come back for Kathleen at
five-thirty, do you think the day's work will be done?  She promised me
if I delivered I could take her to dinner."

"You don't need my permission."  Gerry beamed.

"But if you can't convince her, then I'll step in.  I'll order her to
go as my associate."

"You'd better watch what you promise, Gerry," Kathleen said, standing
shoulder to shoulder with Michael.

"It seems I have another professional admirer, and if you don't treat
me right, I'll just have to pay a little more attention to him."

"Oh, ho."  Gerry grinned from ear to ear, still holding onto Michael's
hand.

"There's competition.  I knew it wouldn't be long before the word got
out that she was an enterprising young woman."  He dropped Michael's
hand.

"I hope I don't have the same problem when it comes to her social
life."

Michael held out a hand.  Kathleen walked into the gesture and they
both went to the door.

"I'll see you about five-thirty."

Kathleen followed him out the door.

"Kathleen," Gerry called.  She stopped.  She turned and held onto the
open door.

"Just so I know what I'm up against, who is it that's nipping at your
heels?"

"Richard Jacobsen.  Shay, Sylvester & Harrington, Gerry.

He came to watch me in court today.  How's that for hitting the big
time?"

Kathleen looked at the old man, knowing the minute the words left her
mouth that she had meant to wound her uncle.

In that instant, she thought she paid him back for the years of silence
and the disappointment of finding out life wouldn't be what she'd
imagined.  She hated herself for it, especially since there was the
element of a lie in her story.  Richard Jacobsen had made no offer; he
had done nothing more than inquire about her status.

"Impressive, Kathleen.  Very impressive, indeed."  Gerry smiled, but
the light in his eyes dimmed.  The words were hard for him to get
out.

She closed the door gently.  Behind her, Gerry whispered to himself.

"Oh, Lord."

"What's your pleasure.  Chinese?  Japanese?  A burger?

Johnny Rocket's?"  Michael ticked off the list.  Kathleen sat beside
him, her head leaning against the upturned window, the air-conditioning
blowing her hair back from her face.

"Are you not hungry or just not listening?"

"Michael, I'm sorry.  I am hungry.  In fact, I'm really, really
hungry."  Kathleen scooted around so that she was cradled between the
door and the seat.

"But I can't eat until I have some answers.  Would you be up for a
little drive?"

"Mountains, beach, downtown, desert?  You name it; I'll head that
way."

"You're scary, you know that?  You're far too obliging.

Don't you have any faults?"

"Stubbornness.  If I didn't have that fault, I'd be somewhere else
making a ton of money, have a great car and fabulous babes falling all
over me instead of sitting in a ten-year-old BMW, sticking my tongue
out at Tysco managers who've all but forgotten why they hate me, with a
..."

"... thirty-year-old lawyer who doesn't quite know what she's doing and
talks like she's been breathing helium?"

"With one fabulous babe," he whispered, laying his arm across the back
of the seat, making sure his fingers touched her bare neck.  She
believed him.

"Thanks for that."

"Thanks for giving me something to care about again.  I was digging
that rut pretty deep at Tysco.  I'm glad you fell into it."  Michael
touched her hair.  He touched her arm.

"You're cold.  Sorry."

He flipped the switch and the air went from hurricane force to a
mechanical version of a breeze.  Kathleen crossed her arms and rubbed.
Goose bumps marched under her short sleeves, under her bodice, and
across her chest.  Air-conditioning had nothing to do with her goose
bumps.

"Wow," she whispered.

"Yeah.  Twelve years on the road and still going strong.  I don't know
many marriages you can say that about, much less cars."  Michael
readjusted some of the vents then sat back, satisfied.  Kathleen
watched him, taking in every nuance of his body, every inflection in
his voice, and packaging them away just in case he got tired of chasing
around with her.  She'd want something to dream about.

"You're a really nice man, Michael."

"And you are a really nice lady.  So I think we'll just assume that we
will keep exploring how really nice we can be together."

He gunned the engine and threw it into gear.  The car purred.

"But right now, what is it you want to do?"

"I want to see Sarah Brooker.  I want to ask her about this problem at
work and get her perspective on it.  I want to find out how mad Lionel
was at Jules Porter.  I've got her address.

Is it far?"  She showed it to him, noticing the gold streaks that shot
through his hair when he leaned over to look.

"No problem.  I have a general idea where it is.  It's the mountains
just above Malibu.  We'll find it."  He sat up.

"So.

Eat first or drive first?"

"Drive," Kathleen said, and he did.  He was already in traffic when
Kathleen confided, "I can't do what Gerry wants me to do.  I'm not good
enough to defend Lionel if I'm not telling the truth.  I'm not as good
as Gerry thinks I am."

Michael opened his mouth, but changed his mind about what he was going
to say.  Instead, he covered Kathleen's hand with his own and said,
"Let's just talk to Sarah."

Chapter Eleven

By the time Michael turned the car around and headed back through the
canyon for the third time to begin at the beginning, Kathleen had come
to two conclusions.  Southern California was an amazing land of
contrasts.  She'd been impressed by the difference between Banning and
Beverly Hills.  Marina del Rey and the ocean were fabulous.  West
Hollywood was more than colorful, and now this.  Up the coast from
Santa Monica and inland from the ultra-rich Malibu colony, there were
mountains full of brush and canyons that looked like fairy-tale
forests.

It was also amazing that, in a state with more than a million people,
Sarah Brooker seemed to have lost herself.

"There it is."

Kathleen peered through the Hansel-and-Gretel dark.  The sun had set an
hour ago.  Signs that were difficult to read in the light of day were
almost impossible in pitch-black.  There were no lights on the road and
the few homes that could be seen at all were hidden by trees and
bushes, accessible off small tangential roads.  Michael turned the car
onto a narrow paved road and Kathleen relaxed.  Asphalt, the bread
crumbs of the modern age.

"There are people in the desert who live like this.  Way out,

away from everyone.  Most of them are crazy."  The sound of her own
voice added another dimension to the comfort of the asphalt.

"You spent time with Sarah Brooker," Michael reminded her.

"Do you think she's crazy?"

"I wasn't thinking about Sarah.  I was worried about breaking down
before we find her.  I don't want to ask to use the phone at one of
these places."  Kathleen lifted her chin to indicate a house nestled
behind a stand of eucalyptus.  Three pickups defined the perimeter, two
were on blocks.  A Confederate flag covered the front window, and an ax
leaned leisurely near the front door.  They were past it before Michael
could look, even if he had had the inclination.

"Keep the map handy, but I think we're just about there.  If this is
the access road, the Brooker house should be up at the top.  Boy," he
mumbled, focusing on his task, "Lionel must have had to start at five
in the morning to get to work on time."

"Not my idea of fun," Kathleen said back before they both fell
silent.

The map was open on Kathleen's lap, but she didn't bother to look at
it.  Her eyes roamed the forest as if it were an alien landscape.  It
all seemed blacker than black, yet the moon was full and there was
enough light to see that there was nothing to see but shadows and
shapes and imagined spooks.  This was the kind of place where people
disappeared.  This was the kind of place where hikers happened upon
bodies in shallow graves.

"Here we go."

He slowed, pointing the headlights at a free-standing, bright blue
mailbox.  A gray whale had been lovingly painted on the side, its huge
mouth opening to gobble up whatever the postman brought.
"This is the
place."  Kathleen laughed quietly."

"Lionel drove Louise crazy with his interest in whales."  The map
crackled as she shifted her weight.  Sitting straighter, she strained
to get a better look at where they were going.

"Doesn't she sound special?  I don't think I've ever met anyone who
hates whales."  Michael took his foot off the brake and maneuvered up
the long drive, which was really nothing more than a wide clearing
through the forest.  Michael stretched his right arm.  His shoulder
popped.

"You did tell her we were coming, didn't you?"

Kathleen shook her head.

"I was afraid we'd scare her off if I called."

She leaned forward, suddenly anxious.  Images of Sarah Brooker came at
her fast and furious, all jumbled up with Louise's pronouncements and
her own observations.  It was Louise's assessment of the lady that won
out.  Sarah Brooker was a mouse, small enough to scutter through an
opening where Kathleen certainly couldn't follow.  A phone call would
have been wrong, Kathleen was sure.

"What if she's not home?"

Michael pulled to a stop, stretched his arm across the seat, and put
his hands against Kathleen's neck as they sat in the dark.  She
trembled when he did.  She wanted to throw herself into his arms.  Lust
was the last thing on her mind, the need to hide from ... something ...
was the first.  A specter in the night had skittered over the hood of
the car and poked its pallid puss through the windshield.

Mom?  Dad?

Kathleen took hold of herself.  The other life had been banished.

She was surprised it didn't know its place.

"Believe me, she'll be home."

These were only trees.  She was used to the desert.  This was a canyon,
and down was not her favorite direction.  She was anxious because she'd
made a decision on her own, without anyone's permission, to intrude
upon this person.  She still wasn't used to that--making decisions or
intruding.  Nor did she like the claustrophobic feeling of the night
here.  But those same trees, this same dark, probably made Sarah feel
safe.

"She's there," Kathleen muttered, more to herself than Michael. Without
Lionel, where else was there to go?

"I wouldn't bet on that."  Michael no longer touched her.

He draped his arm over the steering wheel.  He was studying the
well-kept cottage in the partial illumination of the headlights.

Every window was dark.

"Maybe she goes to bed early.  The car is here."  Kathleen pointed.
Michael looked.  The nose of a Volkswagen peeked out of the shed to
their right.

"You want to wake her up?"  Michael's eyes were on her, blacker than
the night and, to her credit, Kathleen was able to look right into them
without any thought but to do what they'd come for.  The sooner they
did that, the sooner they'd be out of here and looking at each other
over a glass of wine.  Then she would have very different thoughts.

Kathleen's hand wrapped around the door handle.

"After everything it took to get here, I'll camp out before we drive
back again."
"You'd be sleeping on the ground alone."  Michael
chuckled.

Simultaneously they got out of the car and closed the doors behind
them, leaving the headlights on.  Standing side by side, they
considered the house.

"This is a neat place, isn't it?"  Kathleen whispered, her little-girl
voice sounding almost wistful.  Gone were the creepy craw lies of a few
minutes ago.

"It looks just like I thought it would.  Sarah and Lionel were probably
very happy here."

Relaxing, Kathleen put her hands on her hips and breathed in the clean,
still air.

"I'm glad I came.  Seeing this makes me realize that there is no way
Lionel Brooker killed himself.  He wouldn't have wanted to leave
this."

Kathleen took a step toward the house.  Night dust danced in the twin
beams that burned two holes through the darkness.

"And the drugs?"

"There's got to be some explanation for that.  It just doesn't add up.
Oh, look, a raised garden ..."

Kathleen's heels crunched on the gravel that transitioned the drive to
the area around the cottage.  Michael reached for her arm, his mouth
open to warn her about the uneven lay of the ground.  Kathleen turned
her head.  She was smiling.  His fingers brushed her arm.  That's when
it happened.

The wooded silence erupted with a deafening explosion.

A bright light flashed to their left.  Then it flared again and
disappeared like ball lightning.  Kathleen wasn't sure if another
explosion came the second time since her ears were still ringing from
the first horrendous noise.  The ground around them seemed to implode,
but it was only the kick of buckshot slamming into it that made it
shudder and sputtered beneath their feet.

Kathleen screamed at the same moment Michael hurled her to the ground.
Her head hit hard, her shoulder was on fire with pain.  Before she knew
what was happening, Michael had rolled atop her, driving the air out of
her from the bottom up like a toothpaste tube.

Another shot.  She bucked and screamed again.

Michael barked an order Kathleen couldn't hear, but she knew enough to
understand that he wanted her to be quietly hysterical.  She whimpered
and took flash-card comfort from the fact that she wasn't alone.  She
didn't have long to linger over the thought.  They were moving.
Turtlelike Michael raised up and flipped her over, ordering her to
hightail it to the raised garden, the only bit of protection within
twenty yards.  Breathing hard, they threw themselves toward it, rolling
on their backs behind the wooden forms no more than a foot high.  There
was at least enough cover to afford them a moment to think.

"Okay.  Okay."

Michael whispered as he squeezed Kathleen's hand tight.

Hers shook so hard her bones seemed to rattle.  His was steady, dry,
and strong.  His breathing was even; hers came in ragged bursts.
Michael's heart beat tight and fast in his chest--the proper,
controlled, combat reaction.  He could only imagine what Kathleen's
heart felt like if his was thundering in his body.  He rolled his head
her way.  The ground was hard packed and well-kept.  No loose dirt to
blind them, only a few stones to cut them.  These were good things, he
would tell her that when she calmed down.  She wasn't about to listen
now with her cheek pressed down hard as if she could squash herself
into the earth.  Her eyes were covered by her hair.  With his free
hand, Michael brushed it away.

"We're fine.  We're fine.  Kathleen, I need you to open your eyes."  He
laid his fingers on the side of her throat, leaving them there until he
could feel her breath coming in deeper gulps.  The panic left her
reluctantly.

"Okay, honey.  Okay.

That's it."

He was careful to keep his voice lower than low.  The enemy was about;
and every sense he had was reaching out to the world around him, trying
to figure out where that enemy was.

When he was sure Kathleen was breathing almost normally, Michael lifted
his head slowly.  In another moment his eyes would just clear the
wooden forms.  In another second ... "Sarah!  Sarah!  Call the
police!"

Michael, cool under fire, jumped out of his skin and flattened himself
again.  Rolling over Kathleen, he clapped his hand over her mouth and
slapped his cheek against hers so hard their jawbones ground painfully
against one another.

"Shut up.  Kathleen, shut up, for God's sake," he hissed, but either
she wasn't listening or couldn't respond.  Kathleen's mouth worked
against his fingers.

"Quiet."  His hand tightened until he could press no harder.  Her eyes
flew open, big and bright, blue and horrified.

"Quiet.  Okay?"  He pushed once more for emphasis.  This was no game
and she'd hurt a lot more if she couldn't figure out how to play it
now.  Whoever was out there with the gun wanted them dead.  Those had
been shots that missed their mark, not a warning to stay away.

"I'm going to take my hand away, okay?"  Kathleen nodded.

He loosened his hold.  She remained quiet.  He released her, letting
his hand hover near just in case.  Her mouth motored, lips flapping
silently until she finally found a shard of a voice.

"Michael, Michael ... we've got to let Sarah know ... we're out here,
Michael.  She's the only one who can help.

She's the only one for miles.  Michael.  Michael.  I'm so scared.

We have to tell her.... We have to ..."

He shook his head vehemently, their brows as close together as they
could be, their lips kissing-distance.  Kathleen watched those lips
carefully, knowing she'd go mad without focus.

"No.

No.  We have to figure out what's going on first.  If you call to
Sarah, you'll let whoever's out there know exactly where we are."
Michael cupped her head with both his big hands and pulled it even
further toward his.  He smelled like dirt and sweat.

He smelled almost safe.  Brow-to-brow with her now, he closed his eyes
and talked.

"They may already have Sarah.  We don't know.  But to save ourselves,
and help her, be quiet.  Please,

please, Kathleen.  You're with me, right?  You can be brave, right? You
can.  We've got to figure out what the situation is ..."

Michael stopped talking, primed to pounce again if he had to.  Kathleen
had gone rigid beneath him.  Opening his eyes, Michael raised his head
slightly.  Kathleen Cotter wasn't looking at, or listening to, him any
longer.  The tip of a gun barrel pressed into her temple seemed to have
distracted her.  Black, double-barreled, and in good condition, it was
the most frightening thing he'd ever seen.  Sliding his eyes down, he
saw legs, but before he could look higher, Kathleen managed one more
strangled word.

"Sarah?"

The gun barrel pushed deeper into Kathleen's temple.  Cautiously,
Michael turned his head a millimeter.  Sarah Brooker stood above them,
holding a gun almost bigger than she was.

Alice in Wonderland turned Rambo.  She had the butt firm against her
shoulder.  If she pulled the trigger, the kick might send her flying,
but Michael and Kathleen wouldn't be around to see where she landed.

"Sit up."  The barrel of her gun still leveled at Kathleen's head,
Sarah stepped back slowly.  That step was sure; her voice was not.

"I said sit up, both of you."  Michael moved, but he was too fast.  The
barrel swung his way.

"Slow."

He eased off Kathleen as carefully as if she were a sleeping lover. But
Kathleen didn't sleep, nor was she aware of Michael.

She remained frozen in position, her mouth open, her eyes on Sarah
Brooker.  Michael sat on his heels, his hands in plain view.  Sarah's
knuckles were white she gripped the gun so hard.  There was fear in her
face and, sadly, determination.

"Her, too."  Sarah was more comfortable with the situation now.  Her
voice didn't quaver.  Neither did the gun.

"Get her up."

Michael pulled at Kathleen, but it was like trying to move a corpse.
Rigor mortis couldn't have made her stiffer.  Still, he did what he had
to do.

"Come on, babe.  Do what she says.  Come on," Michael murmured.
Finally, Kathleen was sitting beside him, her legs sidesaddle.  It was
an unfortunate position if she needed to move quickly, but it would
have to do.  He looked directly at their captor.  Sarah Booker was
satisfied.  She stepped forward once more.

"Who sent you?"  She pushed the barrel closer to Kathleen, who went
cross-eyed as it neared her nose.

"I want to know who sent you."

Mutely, Kathleen's lips formed the words no one.  She shook her head
frantically, her eyes still focused on the barrel of the gun as if
begging for another chance to do better.  She found her voice.

"Nobody.  Nobody.  Nobody, Sarah."

Kathleen swallowed hard, then took a deep, deep breath that actually
reached her lungs.  She shuddered, yet instead of collapsing, she came
together.  Afraid still, her voice was stronger this time around and
she managed to force herself to look at the other woman instead of the
shotgun.

"Sarah, I'm sorry we didn't warn you we were coming.

Don't you recognize me?"  Kathleen's voice started shaking.

She took another deep breath.

"I'm Kathleen Cotter, attorney for Louise Brooker.  You were in my
office.  This is ..."

"I don't care who that is!"  Sarah's scream was punctuated by a hiccup
or a sob, and this time the gun shook.  Not a good sign.  Kathleen
closed her mouth, clamping her lips shut until they hurt.  When moments
had passed without anyone doing anything, Kathleen slid her eyes toward
Michael.  Through the dark she could barely see him, but she knew that
he was looking right at her.  It was hard to focus on him or know what
he wanted her to do.  Taking a stab in the dark, Kathleen kept talking
since Sarah refused to acknowledge Michael's existence.

"Sarah," Kathleen began cautiously, "I just want to ask you some
questions about Lionel's work--" A ratchet ting sound stopped Kathleen
cold.  Even she knew Sarah had racked a round.  She was going to die in
the middle of a nowhere that was worse than the nowhere she'd come
from.  At least Banning had been her home.  Now she was staring down
the barrel of a shotgun held by a crazy woman in a forest in a canyon.
Kathleen hadn't soared skyward, she'd sunk to new lows.  And for what?
If Sarah Brooker were crazy, then Lionel probably was, too.  Heck,
Lionel probably did himself in to get away from Sarah and Louise.  Two
crazy women in one lifetime was enough for any man.  Kathleen didn't
want to die for a man she didn't know or because of a ridiculous
lawsuit, and she didn't want to die before she had a chance to really
live.  There were so many things she hadn't done.

Kathleen wasn't going to have a chance to make a list.  She was knocked
aside, her head hitting the raised, wood garden frame as Michael flew
past her.  He was nothing more than a denim blur, and he hit Sarah
Brooker like a torpedo while Kathleen fought to stay conscious.  Sarah
cried out in surprise.

Michael grunted and the gun went off so close to Kathleen she was
thrown backward again just as she was struggling to sit up.  It was
only the searing pain that screamed through her body that kept her
awake enough to pray.

"Hail Mary ..."

A great calm washed over her.  Either her soul was leaving her body or
her wits were fleeing.

"Full of grace ..."

She felt almost light-headed.

"Kathleen!"

Michael was shouting at her soul, disrupting her prayers.

"Kathleen!  Wake up!"

No, Michael was hollering at her.  She opened her eyes.  She wasn't
dead at all.  She pressed her hands against her head, her chest.  She
was alive!  Sore, but alive.  Ecstatic, she looked at Michael and saw
the blood.

"Oh, Michael," she wailed.  But it was only his hand that was cut; it
wasn't his heart that was blown out.

And Sarah's head.  A bloody bruise was beginning to swell beside her
eye.  Relieved that they were all alive, Kathleen bolted up, only to
collapse again as the world spun.

"Kathleen?"  Michael was breathing hard.  It had taken more effort than
he ever would have imagined to subdue Sarah Brooker.  He had her in a
headlock, but was afraid to move.

She was stronger than she looked and more defiant than he'd first
imagined.  It was a deadly combination."

"Kathleen?  Please?

Can you stand up?"

"Yes.  Yes."

She got to her feet, scraping her knee and forcing herself to focus.
Her legs gave way once, but she recovered nicely while Michael
maneuvered his captive.  He managed to get Sarah's hands behind her,
holding them painfully high and tight against her back.  Sarah,
disoriented, seemed to lean into Michael for support.  One look in her
one good eye, though, convinced Kathleen her submissiveness would last
only as long as her daze.

"The gun, Kathleen.  Please?"

She moved like a child eager to please and picked it up.  It was heavy.
She held it against her chest, hoping to God there weren't any more
bullets in it.  Michael struggled to stand, bringing Sarah with him.
They were a tumble of legs and groans and, finally, they were on their
feet.  He was huge and heroic.

Sarah was small and scary.  He cocked his head.

"We're going in."

Kathleen stepped in front of them.

"No."  He barked and pushed Sarah forward without letting go of her.

"Her first."  His voice softened to a mild command as they passed
Kathleen.

"Just in case."

"In case what?"  Kathleen danced around, catching herself just as she
stepped in front of them again, only to fall back, talking fast from
behind them.

"In case she's not alone," Michael growled.

"Do you think there're more?  Sarah?  Are there any more people who
want to hurt us?"  Kathleen scurried forward.  She hopped and skipped
beside the other woman, dipping her head to look into her eyes.  She
held the shotgun away even though Sarah couldn't have scratched her
nose if she'd wanted.

"Get back," Michael ordered, and Kathleen fell into line, still
talking.

"Sarah.  Sarah, is there anyone in the house?"  No response.  The tiny
woman stumbled.  Kathleen reached for her instinctively, only to pull
back hard.  She was learning the fine art of caution.  Sarah righted
herself with Michael's help and glared silently at Kathleen as she
stumbled on.

"Sarah, what on earth were you thinking?  Why would you want to do
this?  If there's someone in that house, tell us now.  Don't let this
go any further."  Kathleen half hip-hopped alongside as they made their
way to the house.  Sarah was unmoved, so she appealed to Michael as
they went.

"Michael, tell her.  Did you notice no one came?  Did you notice that?
Nobody came to see what the shots were about.  We should call the
police."

They were at the porch now.  Michael helped the taciturn Sarah up.  Her
head moved from side to side.  Michael tightened his hold, knowing
flight was on her mind.  The last place he wanted her was in the woods.
With Kathleen's chatter providing background music, Michael kicked at
the door.  It opened easily and he cleared the threshold, pushing Sarah
ahead of him as far as he dared.  Relieved when nothing happened, he
pulled Sarah Brooker up tight against his chest.  Her head barely
reached his shoulders.  Using his heel he shoved the door shut as soon
as Kathleen was in, putting his lips close to Sarah's ear.  They stood
in the dark, an unlikely, intimate group.

"Is there anyone in here?  Anyone!"  He pulled up tight until he
thought he might break her shoulder.  He heard a sharp intake of
breath, but no cry of pain.  She was a tough cookie.  Sarah shook her
head and closed the eye that wasn't already swollen shut.  Michael gave
her a beat more to change her mind then raised his head.

"Turn on the lights, Kathleen.  Stow the shotgun."

"Okay, Okay.  Lights.  Lights."  Rushing forward, she slammed her shin
into something hard.

"Ouch."  She hopped about, caught sight of Michael's rigid silhouette,
and remembered her charge.

"Forget it.  I'm okay.  Okay.  Lights."  Off she went again.

Using her free hand as a blind woman would, she searched the space in
front of her.  Silence.  Then a triumphant, hysterical giggle came
along with a click.  All three blinked though the bulb-wattage on the
table lamp was low.  Kathleen stood back, beaming at her success.  One
look at Michael and her pride faded.  She wasn't finished.  Hugging the
shotgun, Kathleen cut a wide berth around Michael and Sarah and opened
the first closet she found.  Brooms, brushes, detergent.  Gun.  She put
the gun neatly alongside the dust mop and closed the door.

"Here you go, Mrs.  Brooker."  Michael tossed Sarah onto a small
overstaffed chair that had seen better days.  He pulled up a
straight-backed one for himself, straddled it, shook his head, and
glanced at his bleeding hand before looking at her.

"That was quite a welcome you gave us.  Let's talk, Sarah.

What about it?  You do that to everyone who drives up after five?"

Quietly, Kathleen moved beside him, though she still stood apart.  This
wasn't a movie.  Michael didn't exactly have the time to sweep her into
his arms for comfort, so she wrapped her own around herself and did her
best to help.

"Sarah, we didn't come here to hurt you.  We only wanted to ask you
some questions.  We heard something about Lionel that we'd like to
clarify.  Sarah?"  Kathleen's voice lowered an octave.

"It's not about money, Sarah.  We're not going to take your house. It's
about the kind of man Lionel was.  We know he probably didn't do
drugs."  Kathleen winced as Sarah tried to open both eyes to cast a
look of anger at the mention of her husband's name.  She failed
miserably.  Kathleen moved forward a step.  "A great number of people
admired Lionel, but one of those people said that he'd been upset at
work just before he died.  We want to know what upset him.  That's all.
That's really all we came for."

Sarah Brooker's long hair fell in curtains over her as she lowered her
head.  One angry eye could still be seen burning with hatred and
suspicion.  The blood around the other was drying.  Kathleen reached
out to push Sarah's hair back, but the woman jerked away and nailed
Michael with her Cyclops vision.

"Who is he?"

Kathleen stepped back and put her hand on Michael's shoulder.

"This is Michael Crawford, Sarah.  Lionel's supervisor."

That was it.  Before the last syllable was out of Kathleen's mouth,
Sarah Brooker went nuts.  She bolted, fast as a newt.

She zipped past them, swerving like a quarterback.  Michael was on her
heels.  Her hands were on the closet doorknob where the gun was
stashed, but Michael was taller and stronger.  He reached out above her
head and slammed the door shut before she could get inside.  Thwarted,
Sarah spun away from his grasp.

The front door was her next target.  A standing lamp bit the dust,
thrown behind her in a defensive move.  Michael fell over it.  He
wasn't happy.

"Sarah, wait!"

Kathleen sprinted around the end table after Sarah but not fast enough
to keep the front door closed.  Sarah flung h open, her hair flying as
she looked over her shoulder at her pursuers, but freedom just wasn't
in the cards.  Sarah Brooker was flung back into the room, pushed hard
by someone reacting to the surprise of a body hurtling out the door
just as they were reaching for the bell.

Stunned, everyone stopped.  Sarah lay on the floor, her arms, legs, and
hair splayed out around her; Kathleen froze midstride, and Michael
stopped as he opened his mouth to howl in outrage.

They all stared at the open door as Louise Brooker stepped into the
living room, grinned and gave a Miss America-wave.

Her nails were lapis.  Rod Stewart was the guest rocker.

Sarah Brooker had beautiful china.  It was old and hand painted with
lilacs.  Another time, Kathleen would have asked its history.  Another
time, Kathleen would have actually enjoyed fixing tea and sitting in
this little house in the canyon, surrounded by trees, settled in for a
long chat over a warm cup.

As it was, she was cranky and dirty and not a little unhappy that
Louise was standing in Sarah Brooker's kitchen, too.

"Gerry told me where she lived.  What's the big deal?  My horoscope
said, "Make peace and financial gain will be yours."

It was a sign, Kathleen.  Besides, I thought I could just talk to her a
little, you know, convince her woman-to-woman to tell me anything that
might help this case.  If she had, I was going to drop the whole
nonsense against the estate and then she wouldn't have had to worry
about her future."  Louise scratched her head, nail-tips only.
Kathleen's eyes nan-owed.  The Pinocchio move.

"Whatever future she had, that is ..."  Kathleen huffed.
"I was doing
just fine, thank you.  I was doing what a responsible attorney would
do.  I was methodically gathering information and following up leads."
She yanked open the pine-wood cabinets, found the tea, and put the tin
on the counter before turning to look at Louise.

"You weren't coming to talk to her at all.  You were going to browbeat
her and she could have sued the pants off you, Louise.  Where are your
brains?  Not only that, that woman could have killed you."

"Oh, right," Louise scoffed.  Those nails were now more interesting
than Kathleen.  Louise buffed old Rod for good measure.

"Okay, don't take my word for it.  Grab a flashlight.  Take a look
outside.  Those aren't woodpecker holes out there in that wooden
garden.  Take a look at us!  Take a look in the front closet.  She shot
at us."  Kathleen turned and ripped off the top of the tea tin, wishing
it were Louise's head.

"With a shotgun.

If Michael hadn't been here, I would have been dead."

Kathleen ran the water into the kettle.  Behind her Louise breathed a
sound that seemed like a horrified no, but when Kathleen turned
triumphantly to receive the other woman's apology, Louise had abandoned
her.  She was mincing back to the living room on Lucite wedgies, her
arms held out toward the one-eyed Sarah.
"You didn't.  Did you really
take a gun to these two?"  Louise cooed in a voice one might use to
compliment the hostess's lemon cake.

Louise settled herself beside Sarah, who sat stiff with terror.

A more unlikely pair one could never hope to see.  Sarah swathed in
another gray sweater (this one with a shawl collar), a nondescript
blouse tucked into her jeans; Louise in a gold-lame blouse and black,
skin-tight jeans that sported open latticework.  The peek-a-boo ran
down the outer side of the legs.  The less-than demure cutouts let the
world see that cellulite was not a problem for Louise Brooker.  Louise
crossed her skinny legs and took Sarah's hand.
"You are one gutsy
little broad," she said solemnly.  Louise picked up the ice pack Sarah
held against her head and checked out the bruise.  It was ugly.

"Wow, I didn't realize how bad that was.  How're you feeling?"  Louise
clucked, touching the miserable knot on the side of Sarah's forehead.

"I didn't think you had it in you.  That's really amazing, you standing
your ground like that.  I didn't think the estate meant that much to
you."

"It doesn't," Sarah groused, coming to life as she eyed Louise warily.
Rudely, she pulled the ice pack back.  Louise crossed her arms, taking
no offense.  On she talked, addressing Sarah, the watchful Michael, and
Kathleen, who brought out two cups of tea and put them on the coffee
table before going back for two more.  Louise raised her voice so
Kathleen wouldn't be left out.

"This is something, isn't it?  To find out that Sarah and I have
something in common, after all.  I suppose we had to have had something
in common.  Lionel wasn't a dummy, was he, Sarah?"  Louise batted her
lashes at her new friend.  They were blue-tipped with little balls of
iridescent mascara.

"That's what I loved about him.  He was smart.  His priorities were
just a little screwed.  But the thing that bothered me was, he wasn't
consistent.  First, he marries someone like me."  She actually raised a
hand to her coifed hair as if they needed reminding of exactly who--or
what--she was.

"Then he goes and does the same thing with someone like you."  The look
she gave Sarah was pitying.

"It didn't make sense till now.  But now I get it."

Louise raised her arms as if inviting them to join in a refrain.

"Strong women.  That's what Lionel needed.  Really, really strong
women.  You had me fooled, Sarah.  You really did."

"Excuse me, but can we cut the bull?"  Michael retaped the gauze on his
hand and looked at Louise, nonplussed.

Louise lowered her flashy lashes and her voice as she leaned toward
Michael.

"You're not much of a woman's man, are you?  If you're thinking of
bullying this little lady--" She jerked a thumb toward Sarah.  "--you
just watch it, 'cause I'm here now."

"And so am I."  Kathleen rejoined the group of misfits.

"And I'm not going to let anyone do anything that isn't legal or
appropriate."

"Don't look at me; it's him.  He's the one that wants to be so
heavy-handed, or haven't you taken a look at Sarah's eye?

What's your name again?"  Louise pushed her chest out just a tad more.
Sarah, while now a sister, wasn't half as interesting as a good-looking
man.

"Crawford.  Michael."

"Oh, I love a man who talks like that."  Louise pulled back and turned
a cold shoulder his way to show she wasn't as impressed as she really
was."  And what's your business here?"

"I came with Kathleen," he said evenly.  Any other time, he would have
found Louise Brooker interesting; at present, she was a pain in the
butt.

"I was Lionel's supervisor."

"Oh, God," wailed Sarah, burying her face in her hands.

The ice pack fell to the floor with the muffled thump of half melted
ice against rubber.

"What, honey, what?"  Louise crowded her on the small chair.  Sarah
would have ended up on the floor if Louise hadn't grabbed her around
the shoulders.  She gave Michael a scowl that didn't make a dent in his
peevishness.

"Kill me," Sarah wailed, lowering her hands, raising her face.  Joan of
Arc about to be tied to the stake couldn't have looked more
pathetically heroic.

"This is ridiculous."  Michael stood up.  Sarah tried to.  He turned on
her.  Kathleen didn't bother to move.

"I'll tie you to that chair if you move again.  Now, start talking some
sense.

Kill you!  Ridiculous.  No, you don't."  He whipped a look at Louise,
who was about to leap to Sarah's defense.

"I swear I'll tie you to her and I'll gag you.  Now, both of you listen
up.

I'm an auditing supervisor at Tysco Industries.  That's it.  Nothing
more.  I came here because Kathleen wanted me to drive her to see
Sarah.  All I wanted to do was take her to dinner.

But now, I'm here.  My hand is killing me.  I've been shot at and I've
groveled in the dirt.  I'm a mess and I'm surrounded by crazy women.
Excuse me--" The latter he directed toward Kathleen, who nodded back
curtly, acknowledging herself as the exception.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get what we came for, and what we
came for is information.  That's all.

We don't want to pillage.  We don't want to kill you.  We just want to
know what had Lionel riled before he died!"  Michael did a three-sixty,
his hands in his hair.  He gave a frustrated tug to the hair at the
sides of his head and looked back at Sarah Brooker.  The silence grew
fat and heavy and almost unbearable.

"Are you going to, say anything?"

Another strained moment and Sarah nodded.

"When?"  he asked.

"Now?"

It was going to be a long night.

"He wasn't mad in the way you think.  Lionel never got upset that
way--like with himself.  Did he, Louise?"

Michael and Kathleen leaned forward, straining to hear Sarah's voice.
Louise plucked at her cuff, trying to snag a tiny thread that eluded
her talons.  She shook her head.

"Sarah's right there.  You could walk all over Lionel, and he wouldn't
even get mad at you, would he, Sarah?"

"No, not at all, but I never tried to take advantage," she reminded
Louise shyly, pointing out that there were some differences between
them, after all.

"Lionel really hated unfairness.

That made him crazy.  Cheating, that was another thing that made him
crazy.  Meanness, too.  That's why Lionel never felt badly toward you,
Louise."  Sarah's narrow, pale brow puckered, but it hurt her eye, so
she let her face relax.

"You never tried to cheat him, Louise.  He respected that."

"And I appreciate your telling me.  I want you to know I never hated
Lionel, Sarah.  I just hated the time I wasted with him.  You
understand?"  Louise gave up the thread hunt, her attention riveted
once more on Sarah.

"I do.  I do," Sarah said sincerely.

"Time is so important.

I never realized that until Lionel was gone.  You had too much time
with him, Louise, and I didn't have enough."

Kathleen slid her eyes Michael's way.  Sarah's kind of love for Lionel
was rare indeed, but neither could take too much more of the budding
affection between Louise and Sarah Brooker.

Michael cleared his throat.  Sarah blinked.  She was back from the past
and still wary of the only man about.

"Yes, I'm sorry.  Well, I don't really know much about it, you
understand.  This thing that was bothering him, I mean."

She was back to picking at her sweater.  "Lionel liked working at
Tysco.  Everything was in its place.  He knew what his job was; they
paid well, and the benefits were very good.  It was a perfect
situation.  That job left his mind free to pursue the more spiritual
aspects of life.  You know, to just sort of enjoy all of this."

"You're kiddin ..."  Louise started to laugh.  Kathleen was close
enough to give her ankle a kick.  Louise closed her mouth, and
collectively they contemplated the small, well-kept house, the grounds,
the pretty china.  Kathleen thought there was something to be said for
Lionel's priorities.  Sarah sighed.  She looked pitiful with her
swollen eye and worn sweater.

"One day something came across his desk.  Some bill or some kind of
accounting document that was meant for someone else.  I don't know a
lot about this," she said again, apologetic and distressed by her
ignorance.  Her audience nodded their encouragement.

"Well, okay then."  She took a deep breath.

"Lionel said that, no matter what department they were from, they
didn't look right.  In fact, he was really, really angry.  He said the
system was like an idiot-child that did whatever a smart person told it
to do, even if it were an unscrupulous smart person who was telling it
to do things.  Lionel believed that the actual cash flow in the part of
the company those bills came from, and maybe some others, was being
manipulated."

"That would be pretty tough to do," Michael commented, one hand over
his eyes, a barrier to deflect whatever nonsense was to come.  The
other arm, the injured one, dangled over the side of the chair.

Sarah gazed at him mournfully.

"I don't know anything other than that.  I'm not very good with this
kind of thing.  I work at the potter's down the way.  We don't bill
anybody.

They just buy their pot and leave."

"It's okay," Kathleen assured her, but even she was weary.

This was one of those times when Dorty & Breyer looked like a step
up.

"Just go ahead."
"Well, Lionel said he went to his supervisor with the
problem and was told not to worry about it.  But Lionel couldn't just
ignore the whole thing.  So, he went a few times more, but his
supervisor got angry.  Lionel found out who his supervisor's boss was
and he was going to go to him."  Sarah rubbed her temple gingerly.
Kathleen winced.  Sarah did not.

"He said he'd go to the top if he had to.  When he put on his suit, I
knew that it had probably come to that.  He didn't say it had, but why
else would he put on a suit?  He looked very handsome."  This she
directed to Louise, who was kind enough to simply nod as if she, too,
admired the image of that reed-thin body turned out in his Sunday
best.

"I didn't want him to do anything crazy.  If he lost his job at Tysco,
I didn't know what we'd do."

Kathleen couldn't resist a glance at Michael.  He smiled.  He was
gorgeous, even after their tussle on the ground.  She put her hand to
her hair and pushed back her bangs, then gave up on hoping that she
might make herself look at least presentable.

It would be great to have a brush and her lipstick.  Not that it would
have mattered to Michael; he was getting into his conversation with
Sarah.

"Lionel didn't ever mention a name?  Jules Porter, who was his
supervisor before me.  He didn't say whether or not Jules Porter had
threatened him with a personnel action for pushing the matter?"

"No."  Sarah thought hard.  She only knew what she had been told; there
would be no extrapolation that might enlighten them.

"He just went off.  He kissed me goodbye.  I've always been grateful
for that.  The next thing I knew, Lionel was dead.

I was devastated.  He was my best friend.  I really didn't have anyone
else."

"You do now, kiddo."  Louise lifted the sofa cushion to look
underneath, only to sit down when she didn't find whatever she was
looking for.  Kathleen thought a codicil--whether you like it or
not--should be added to that statement, but she remained silent.

"Anyway, I was home lying down all day after I'd gone to identify his
body.  I couldn't believe he was dead and I never believed that he took
drugs.  Just to be sure, I searched this house top to bottom looking
for something that might prove that he did."

"And you didn't find anything?"  Michael again.

"No drugs, no."  Sarah wound a length of hair around her finger.  She
didn't look at anyone.

"I just fell apart.  I went out to feed the rabbits.  I just sat there
with them, feeling how warm they were.  I cried a lot.  The hutch is
back in the real woodsy area.  I thought they'd like it there.  You can
see it from the house, but just barely.  So, I just sat there, trying
to figure out how drugs had gotten into Lionel.  Then, the day I went
to court, the first day I saw all of you?"  She waited while they
nodded.  "When I came home, I realized someone must have put drugs in
Lionel.  I knew then that someone had killed my husband."

"Sarah," Kathleen breathed.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

"Because someone's trying to kill me, too."  Sarah looked from one to
another.  She wasn't asking for their belief or then- sympathy.  She
was simply stating a fact.  "Whoever they were broke into the house
when I was back with the rabbits the day Lionel died.  They moved
things.  They stayed in my house.  I watched, but it was dark when they
came and I was scared.  I didn't see exactly who it was.  I'd never
been so afraid."

Sarah stood up.  She was still afraid.

"I convinced myself it was a burglary, even though they didn't take
anything.  But they were odd burglars, because they had suits on and
they were very, very big."  Sarah clasped her hands in front of her and
continued with her recital.

"Then, after I went into court and said what I had to say, I was really
upset.  I went to see my rabbits the first thing when I got back here.
This time I knew something really bad was happening because of Lionel.
All my rabbits were dead.  All of those sweet little rabbits with their
necks broken.  I went to get a shovel.

Those men had been inside again.  This time, the house was ransacked.
They would have killed me if I'd been here.  I know it."

Sarah wound her fingers together tightly and held her hands chest high.
There were tears in her good eye.
"I picked everything up; I buried my
rabbits out back.  I got the gun, and I waited.  I almost gave up
because nothing's happened for so long.  Then you came and I shot at
you.  I'm glad I didn't hurt you, but you've got to understand how it's
been around here ever since Lionel died.  I don't know any of you
people.  I don't know if you want to hurt me or help me.

I loved Lionel, but I don't want to die because of him."

That was the end.  She was done talking.  Sarah walked out of their
circle and went to the closet where Kathleen had put the gun.  Michael
tensed and half stood, but Kathleen held him back.  Calmly, Sarah set
up a step stool and pushed open a slot in the closet ceiling and
rummaged about.  When she returned, she was holding a manila envelope,
not the shotgun.

"I'm sure this is what they wanted.  This is what got Lionel killed.  I
found it when I was looking for drugs.  He'd hidden it up there."  She
held it out to Michael.  It lay gingerly on the open palms of her hands
as if she feared spontaneous combustion.

"Then if he were killed--" Kathleen mused with awe.

"--We're talking murder," Michael muttered.

"--We're talking settlement," Louise scoffed.

Chapter Twelve

"Good morning."

Kathleen sat on the edge of the chair nearest the couch.  She'd been
watching Michael for at least ten minutes, a juice glass in her hand,
before she realized what she was doing.  When he opened his eyes and
smiled, she thought she'd die of desire-and embarrassment.

"Good morning," she said, horrified to find herself whispering.

A bedroom voice is what her mother had called it.  Kathleen had been
forbidden to use it in her mother's house.  But this wasn't her
mother's house and this wasn't her bedroom.  How liberating.  She
grinned and held up the small glass as if to prove she had no intention
of seducing him.  "I brought you juice.  I don't drink coffee, but I
could run down to the corner and pick some up if you want."

Michael put his hands by his sides to push himself up.  He didn't get
very far.  Wincing, he examined his bandaged hand.

"It wasn't a dream?"

Kathleen shook her head and tried out a hangdog expression, "

"Fraid not."

He shook out the pain and scooted into position.  The sheet fell away
from his bare chest.  It was a very fine chest, sprinkled with dark,
curling hair shot here and there with silver.  The hours on the boat
kept him more than fit.  The hours under the sun had turned his skin
golden brown.  Kathleen stood up and handed him the glass.  He took it.
She didn't let go.

"You have a very fine couch."  He talked as if he woke there often.

"I hope Sarah slept as well."

Kathleen laughed gently, happy to play the game.  But she knew that he
knew that she was feeling less-than-comfortable.

"Sarah probably isn't sure what hit her.  Can you imagine being carted
away by Louise Brooker?"

"I don't know, those ladies seemed to be well-suited to each other in
an odd sort of way."  Michael wriggled to settle himself.

Kathleen kept talking.

"It was nice that Louise offered Sarah a place to go.  That poor lady
has to be scared out of her wits by all this.  No wonder she wanted
Louise to take everything.  She probably thought Louise had sent some
hit men out to get her."

"I can see why she might have thought that," Michael murmured.

He looked at the juice, then he looked up at her.

"My arm's getting tired."

"Oh."  Kathleen let go of the glass.  He took it, but before Kathleen
could turn away, he caught her hand with his good one.

"No you don't.  Come here."  Gently, he pulled her toward him, tugging
until she figured out that he wanted her to sit.  He wanted her near.
She complied.

Carefully, Michael put the glass on the coffee table and his hands
around her waist.  Then, with the most marvelous subtle moves, he
pulled her down until her hands lay flat against his chest and her lips
touched his lips.  He kissed her lightly once, twice, three times, and
then he wasn't kissing her anymore.

Michael Crawford was looking at her, smiling a smile that would have
banned him from her mother's neighborhood for life.  If only Mom--and
Cherie--could see her now.

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," she answered, not completely in her right mind.

"I mean, how are you?"  He laughed.

"Sore."

"Where?"

"My head."  Kathleen dipped her head and smelled the sleep on him.  He
kissed her head.

"Anywhere else?"

"My shoulder."

Michael touched the neck of her T-shirt and pulled it away to bare her
shoulder.  His lips missed their mark and hit that fabulous spot just
to the side of her neck.
"Other shoulder," Kathleen managed to say, and
he obliged.

"Better?"

"Much."

"Your knee?"  Before she could stop him, he leaned sideways and planted
a kiss on the bandage on her knee and Kathleen felt a stab of painful
pleasure just north of his lips.  It made her think the world had
opened up and was ready to swallow her.  She had the most awful urge to
start praying that it would.

"All right?"  he asked.  All she could do was nod.

"Good."

He sat her halfway up and scooted so that he was nestled back against
the pillows.  His hands held her wrists.

"I like the new you."

She lowered her eyes.  It was the same old Kathleen, the one she worked
so hard to improve, and she couldn't imagine how he could like her this
way.  Her face had always seemed so important to her, her carefully
made-up face.  Magazines told her that no one paid attention to a woman
without it.  Every successful woman on the television and billboards
and the streets of Beverly Hills had it.  Now, Michael Crawford was
telling her he could care less.

"The T-shirt's nice, too."

She turned her head.

"We used to give them out at Dorty & Breyer.  To new clients.  It was
silly.  It was a law office not an ice-cream parlor."

"Why are you so ashamed of it?"  A finger under the chin brought her
back to him.

"I'm not.  I'm not," she insisted and looked at him.  He knew she was
lying.

"Okay, I'm kind of ashamed.  It was an office in a strip mall.  I
handled divorces where there were no assets.

Anybody could have filled out the paperwork.  I used to pretend

I was the receptionist when I answered my phone, then put on my
attorney voice just to make it seem like we were an honest- to-God law
firm with a staff and everything.  I wanted to look like I knew what I
was doing."

"Last night I figured you knew what you were doing."

"No, not like that.  I wanted to feel that I controlled what I was
doing and that what I was doing was important.  I've been living in a
bubble for so many years that I wasn't sure I could make decisions
anymore.  The only thing I did on my own was go to law school when my
father didn't want me to.  After that, I was just kind of pulled back
into doing what everyone else wanted.  My dad died just before I was
going to head out to seek my fortune.  My mother made me feel guilty
for wanting to leave a widow.  Then, when she got sick, I couldn't
leave an invalid.  My friend at Dorty made me feel guilty for wanting
to better myself.  When I finally left, I walked right into Gerry's
life.  I was looking for some high-powered action; instead, I found an
old man with dreams of grandeur and a way of letting me know he doesn't
expect anything except blood."

"You don't call what happened last night action?"  Michael laughed.

"This wasn't exactly what I had in mind.  I don't think most attorneys
in Beverly Hills get shot at while trying to do their job."  Kathleen
stood up, afraid she was going to start saying things she didn't want
to say.  He held onto one hand.  She clucked her tongue.

"I sound ungrateful and whiny.  I don't mean to.  It's just that my
life has been very strange since I've come here."  She laughed and
handed him his juice, extricating herself.

"My life was very strange before I came here, too.  It's not like I had
a purpose, like you.  I had been drifting while I stayed in the same
place.  Then, when I finally made my move, I was disappointed when I
found I couldn't leap right to the top and play with the big boys.
That's selfish and unrealistic, I know.  It's a really childish
attitude.  You might as well know that now before we get any more
involved.  If you want to just kind of bow out now, I'll understand."

Michael sat up straighter, the smile disappearing from his face.

"Thanks.  I'm glad you told me.  That's kind of you.  I

was awake all night wondering how I was going to just get back to my
life and forget all about you."

"Really?"  She sat heavily on the coffee table, her eyes wide with
hurt.

"No."  He laughed.

"For your information, I was exhausted last night.  I couldn't have
stayed awake if you'd walked naked through this room."  His thick
lashes lowered, his eyes lingering on die D and Y in Dorty that were
kept afloat by her fine breasts.  He looked at her knees, bared and
just a bit bony and so damned sexy.  Then, he looked at her.

"Well, I might have been able to stay awake for that, but not much
else.  Besides, I figure if I hang around you, I might just jump-start
my life."

"I wouldn't imagine that would be a problem."

Michael threw off the covers she had put over him the night before, his
killer grin going the same way.  He'd slept in his jeans, but barefoot
and bare-chested he was a sexy package.

"I didn't think it was.  I thought I was actually doing something till
I started hanging around you."  He pulled his jeans up at the waist, a
ploy so that he wouldn't have to look at her while he confessed.

"Jules Porter told me no one knew who I was anymore.  I think he was
right."  He touched her hair then cupped her chin with his hand.

"I think I've been fooling myself, Kathleen.  One moment does not a
lifetime define.

Maybe if I help you unravel the mess around Lionel, I'll have finished
something.  Remember that rut I told you about?  I think it was deeper
than even I knew.  Comfortable, deceptive, and deep."  He took a
breath.  Self-flagellation was tough.  But it was over, he was hardly
bleeding, and Kathleen didn't seem to think less of him.  He smiled.

"Bathroom?"

Mesmerized, she pointed the way.  Her apartment was small.

It wasn't hard to find.  When he came back, she was still where he'd
left her.  He walked right up to her and took her in his arms.  He
kissed her, letting his hand wander down to gently cup her rear.
Kathleen melted as sure as if she'd been ice cream set out in the sun.
Michael had just the opposite reaction.

"Thanks," he said when her head fell back and her eyes didn't open.

"For what?"

"Looking like that," he whispered.

"Bringing the outside in.  I'd kind of forgotten all this good stuff
existed.  I thought I was standing alone in a fight, but I was just
standing alone.

So, thanks."

"Anytime," Kathleen breathed, her eyes still closed, her lips still
ready.  He kissed them again and asked, "Where'd you put that
folder?"

"It's in the bedroom."

"Shall I get it?"  Michael asked.

"Or do you want to get it together?"

Kathleen opened her eyes.  She smiled without teeth, that mischievous
glint back in her eyes.  It was a great offer.  She thought about it a
minute too long.

"I'll get it," she said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah.  But I'll put it back there sometime.  Then we'll see what
happens when we go looking for it together."

"Meanwhile, let's kick some butt.  Whaddaya say?  Think the two of us
from the wrong side of the tracks can tackle whatever it is that did
Lionel in?"

"I haven't got a clue."  She wriggled out of his arms, almost sorry she
hadn't taken him up on his offer.  But when she did, it was going to be
so fine.  Kathleen held onto that thought and got the folder, checked
herself in the mirror, and reached for her red, red lipstick.  Thinking
twice, she chucked it back on the dresser.  He didn't think she looked
so bad without her face.

His shirt was on and tucked in by the time she got back.

She laid the folder on the coffee table and watched Michael slip into
his shoes.  He ran his hands through his hair, picked up the folder,
and started to work.

This was the instant, the moment, the millisecond that marked a turning
point in her life.  Time could be marked like that, and all the other
marked minutes of her life were forgotten.  When Michael looked up at
her, Kathleen listened intently because these first words she heard, in
this new part of her life, would be terribly, terribly important.  She
leaned forward, anxious to drink in every sound, every nuance, every
tone of his voice.

He touched her hand and looked into her eyes.  He asked, "Do you have
Louise's number?"

"Come in, Kathleen."

Gerry waved at her from behind his desk, coming toward her a second
later.  Kathleen stood with the door held against her chest as she
smiled at Carl Walsh and tried to figure a way to duck out.

"No, you're busy.  I'll come back.  I didn't realize you had
appointments today."

Gerry was too quick.  He had the door in his hand and was pulling it
open.

"Nonsense.  Come in here and say hello to Carl.  He's been asking about
you."

Carl Walsh stood up politely and nodded to her.  He had a lovely,
vote-winning smile.  She'd give him her vote if he would just sit down.
She motioned him down; but when he remained standing, Kathleen walked
slowly, and reluctantly, into the room.  She was stiff from her roll in
the dirt and both men took notice, but Carl covered up his surprise
smoothly.

"I was just telling your uncle that I hope you're finding the Los
Angeles area to your liking."  She grinned gamely as she limped in.  He
kept going.

"It's always nice to get a new citizen's point of view."

"I like it very much, thank you," Kathleen said, eager to be done with
the amenities and get on with the business of the day.  Gerry had no
idea what was waiting for him.  She wasn't about to fill him in in
front of Carl Walsh.  She stopped and hoped she wouldn't have to walk
any farther.  Of course, Gerry insisted.

"Kathleen, what on earth has happened to you?"  Taking her by the arm,
he stared at her knee where the huge bandage bulged under her stocking.
Carl Walsh held out a chair.

"Sit down."

"Hope that didn't happen on city property."  Kathleen grimaced.

There was nothing like sincere concern, and Carl Walsh didn't have
it.

"If it did, I'd have to give O'Doul & Associates the case so you'd have
a conflict of interest and couldn't sue us."

"No, it's not really as bad as it looks and it happened on private
property.  It's a long story."

"One I'd like to hear."  Gerry clucked, deftly covering his anger.

"I thought you were off to see Sarah Brooker last night and then to
dinner with Michael.  Neither seems an agenda that would lead you to
bodily injury.  Michael didn't have anything to do with this, did he?
If he did, I'll sue Tysco for all their worth.  Employing a dangerous
man like that."

"Gerry, please."  Kathleen tried to hush him.

"Michael helped me.  I'll tell you about it later.  Mr.  Walsh, I'm
sorry.

Sometimes my uncle forgets that I'm his associate and not his
daughter."  She stood up stiffly and smiled as best she could.

"It was great to see you, but I have some people in my office."

To her uncle and associate, she added, "I'd appreciate it if you'd come
over when you can, Gerry."

Kathleen offered her hand.  Carl Walsh shook it.  Kathleen gritted her
teeth, anticipating that her next move was going to send a shooting
pain up her back.  Funny that she hadn't noticed all that this morning
when Michael was offering kisses to make it better.

"I've really got to be going," Carl said, suddenly anxious to be out of
the office.  Not that she could blame him.  Between her and Gerry, this
place must seem like a nursing home.

"Gerry, you go ahead with Kathleen.  I'll see myself out.  It sounds
like she's got her hands full on some front."  He shook Gerry's hand,
too, holding it longer than was necessary.  Kathleen limped away and
disappeared behind the closed door of her office.  Carl watched until
she was safely away then walked toward the door with the old man.

"Tysco business, Gerry?

Business must be better than I thought."

"Sure, don't I wish that were the case.  Tysco is only a small part of
a problem we're handling for Mrs.  Brooker.  Though even I must admit
it gets more interesting by the moment."

Carl Walsh nodded and the two men parted.  Gerry gave Becky's desk a
knock as he passed and stole a chocolate kiss from the pile in front of
her before opening the door to Kathleen's office.  He stood right there
and cocked his head.

"Well, 'tis a party, I see."  He smiled grimly.  Stone-faced Louise,
Sarah, Michael, and Kathleen looked at him.

"I can't wait to hear what the occasion is."

Carl Walsh hadn't intended to go back downtown.  In fact, he had
intended to pick up a game of racquetball at his gym, sweat a little,
and check out the action.  If there wasn't any, he was going to give
one of the standbys in his little black book a call for dinner.  There
was always a photographer hanging around the gym and a photo of him
looking fit as a fiddle with a lovely woman on his arm wouldn't hurt.
Huey and Dewy, the bodyguards, were off for the day, not that he needed
them when there wasn't a crush around or special business to take care
of.  Now his plans had changed, and the change threw him off the roll
he'd been on.

Instead of enjoying his one afternoon off, away from a planned event,
fund-raiser, or campaign speech, he was driving back toward Shay,
Sylvester & Harrington, chewing on his lip and cursing the
streetlights.  More than once he picked up the mobile phone to make a
call, only to change his mind and put it down again.  Mobile technology
just didn't provide the privacy he was going to need.

Sweating lightly by the time he pulled into the underground garage,
Carl parked in a handicapped space and walked quickly toward the
elevator banks.  He ignored the curious looks of people who thought
they'd seen him someplace before.  The last thing he wanted was to stop
for a little talk with a voter.

He could feel a blue mood coming on fast, but he kept it at bay till
the elevator deposited him at the offices of Shay, Sylvester &
Harrington.

"Richard."

He bypassed the receptionist with one word.  She was on the phone fast
to warn the man in the big corner office.  Richard took the news well.
He was smiling when Carl walked through the door.  Carl was not.  There
would be no small talk.

"I paid a courtesy call on Gerry O'Doul.  He'd been calling my office.
I thought it would get the old man off my back.  Damn.  Damn, I'm glad
I stopped by.  Damn."  Carl was pacing like a caged dog.  He pointed at
Richard with a long finger.

"You won't believe it."

Richard handed him a drink.  Carl grabbed it, but it took him a minute
to notice Richard was standing behind a chair waiting for him to sit.
He shook his head and his free hand.

"Not this time, Richard.  I'm not going to let you calm me down with
one of your talks about your taking care of everything.

You've been taking care of everything, and I will admit you've done a
hell of a job till now; but, Richard, it's going to fall apart.  I'm
not kidding you."

"All right, Carl.  Fine.  Let's talk.  I'll sit.  You walk if it makes
you feel any better."

"That niece of his, she comes in to the office and what does she talk
about?  Some supervisor at Tysco and Brooker.  Sarah Brooker.  I can't
believe it.  I'll never forget that name as long as I live.  That
idiot's wife.  That blonde was talking about the one guy I thought we
didn't have to worry about anymore.

That tall--" Carl spun toward Richard.

"What's her damn name?  Jesus!"

"Kathleen Cotter."  Richard filled in the blank softly.

"Who cares?"  Carl took a swig of his drink.

"I swear, I can't believe it.  This isn't good, Richard.  This isn't
good at all.  What in the hell do you think they're doing?  Christ.
This is incredible.  First, the boys can't find the billing, and now,
this.  Thank God I went over there."  He stopped.  He drained his
glass.  His hands were shaking.

"What in the heck do you think they're up to?  That damn old man.  I
should have known something was up.  Bumping into me that way.  Calling
the office.  Damn old man's trying to make a name for himself on my
back."

"He's not up to anything, Carl.  I suggest you relax."  Richard soothed
him patiently.  His cool expression infuriated Carl almost as much as
his condescending words.

"Right.  That's what you told me when we found out Brooker was asking
questions."

"And everything was fine, wasn't it?"

"If you call suicide a solution."  Carl snorted.

"We were lucky.  The man was unbalanced," Richard answered evenly.  He
picked up a brass cube from his desk ... an award, but he didn't
remember where he'd gotten it or from whom, but still, it felt good and
heavy in his hand.  He would have liked to have used it to knock some
sense into Carl Walsh.

"Well, I don't think we can count on Gerry O'Doul doing the same thing.
The guy is relentless.  He'll have his niece on our tail until they
find out everything.  Would you figure that someone who looked like her
would even have the brains to ask the right questions?"

"As a matter of fact, Ms.  Cotter is quite competent.  As to Gerry, let
him be."  Richard put the brass cube down.  If he hadn't he might have
been tempted to throw it at Carl.  If he killed him, they'd only have
to find another candidate."

"There's nothing to worry about.  This is a small problem.  Kathleen
Cotter is representing Brooker's ex-wife against the estate and the
insurance company.  It's no more sinister than that.  It's a civil
matter.  It will run its course."

Carl stopped cold and stared indignantly at Richard Jacobsen.

"You know about this?  You know that those two fools have been sniffing
around Tysco?  You invited them to the party knowing that?"
"It's wise
to keep your enemies close, Carl.  These two barely qualify, but ..."
He raised his hands as if to ask what could they do.

"Then I must be a hell of a smart guy, Richard, because I practically
live with you."  Carl started pacing again.

"Thank goodness you don't," Richard drawled.

"I prefer my world to be a little more ordered than yours."

"Come on, come on cut the crap.  This is not the end of the world. It's
an annoyance.  That's what you're telling me?"  Carl put his glass on
the desk.  It hit too hard and Richard gave him a look.  It was enough.
 Carl crumpled into a chair.

Richard leaned forward.  Carl had never seen Richard nervous.

He was like a human calendar, ticking off projects, adding new ones to
replace those he'd successfully completed.  The indirect lighting
caught his glasses and reflected the light so that it appeared there
were no eyes behind the lenses.

"Carl," Richard said patiently, "the business arrangements you and I
have with one another and the arrangements we both have with Tysco
among others are simply that--business arrangements.  I want you to
remember that.  Because if you don't remember that now, you will have a
difficult time dealing with the future.  I can't imagine these
histrionics when we must accomplish as much in Washington."  Richard
moved less than an inch, but Carl could now see one myopic eye watching
him.

Carl shifted, too, trying to find the spot where Richard's eyes were
hidden behind the reflection.  He was unsuccessful, and Richard went
on, unaware that he was giving Carl the heebiejeebies.

"What is happening here is just a dry run.  There is nothing to worry
about.  I have covered all our bases.  Worst-case scenario, we end up
in court.  If we do, a defense is at the ready.

Our arrangement is nothing that hasn't been done before.  The only
thing that sets us apart is the scope of our project.  Remember that.
We have almost four years invested in this.  Now, pull yourself
together.  Let me monitor the situation with Gerry O'Doul and his
lovely niece.  You make the speeches.  I'll manage the rest.  If it
makes you feel any better, I know a simple way to diffuse the whole
thing."

"You'd better, Richard, or I'm out of here."  Carl shot up.

"I mean it.  I'll just go it on my own--win or lose.  If I hear one
more word from Gerry O'Doul, if that niece of his shows up on my
doorstep asking questions, if whoever they're dealing with at Tysco
starts sending me memos, then I'm cutting myself out of this
picture."

"I wouldn't advise that, Carl.  I have a great deal invested.

We all do," Richard reminded him quietly.

"Yeah, well, I've got a whole life wrapped up in this--a reputation,
not just money.  Money means nothing."

"Oh, yes, money means something," Richard said, but he was talking to
the mayor's back.  That in itself was surprising.

Carl Walsh had never turned his back on Richard before.  If Richard had
his way, he never would again.

Alone, he sat back and thought.  He thought about the person in his
life to whom money meant everything and the woman in his life to whom
appearances were everything.  He thought about himself and what meant
everything to him.  Few people would guess it, but love and acceptance
meant everything to Richard Jacobsen.  Only one person really knew
that.  Pity it wasn't the right one.

An hour later, he put a simple plan into action.  While he waited for
his call to be put through, Richard thought about the world and knew
that he understood it far better than Carl Walsh or Kathleen Cotter or
even Gerry O'Doul.

"Did you have that looked at, Sarah?"

Gerry touched her hair, careful not to rub against the ugly bruise
beneath it.  She shook her head.  Kathleen's leg was propped up on an
open drawer.  She had stopped tapping her pen and was waiting for an
answer.
"No, Louise took care of it last night.  It's much better,
thank you.  I can open my eye now."  She tried, and the effect was
horribly unattractive.  Gerry patted her shoulder.
"I still think you
should have had a doctor look at it.  I think all of you should have
had a doctor take a look at you."

He tsked at them all and their antics while he let his gaze roam around
the room.  They had moved to his office to be more comfortable.  The
place looked like a triage ward-Michael with his hand bandaged;
Kathleen with her scraped knee, sore muscles, and bruised head; Sarah
with her terrible knot.  Only Louise had emerged without a scratch.
That didn't surprise him.

"Gerry, we're fine.  We're more concerned with the matter at hand. What
do you think?"

"I don't think you have a leg to stand on," Gerry said, stifling a
laugh, "if you'll forgive the pun."

"I don't know how you can say that," Kathleen huffed.

"We've got overwhelming evidence that Lionel was on to something
not-quite-kosher at Tysco.  Someone didn't want him to know about
whatever it was.  Why else were those two men snooping around Sarah's
house?  I don't know many burglars who go to work in suits.  Her
rabbits are dead.  Lionel felt strongly enough about what he had found
at Tysco to bring home paperwork and hide it.  He was going over his
supervisor's head to try and get some satisfaction, and he didn't do
drugs."

Kathleen looked to her cohorts for help, knowing she'd missed
something.

"And the police report," Michael reminded her.
"Yeah, what about that?
And the coroner's pictures."  Louise snapped her fingers
triumphantly.

"Yes.  Look, Gerry."  Kathleen shuffled through her own papers and held
one out to him.

"See, here?  The police report says that there was blood on the collar
of the deceased's shirt.

On the collar!"  Gerry raised a brow, unmoved.

"Gerry!

Remember the coroner's photo?  There were no track marks, which meant
Lionel wasn't an addict; but there was that jagged mark at his neck. He
was injected in the neck.  Sarah checked the clothes that he wore.
There was a smudge of blood on the collar right where the neck wound
was."
"Ah, yes, that reminds me.  Marlene sent me a copy of the
coroner's report on Lionel with a note.  Kind of her.  She spoke to our
good friend Dr.  Greischmidt.  Unfortunately, he can't remember where
the lethal injection was introduced.  This doesn't surprise me.  The
man can't remember what he did with an entire stomach, why should a
syringe prick be any different?"  Gerry said.

"See, that must be the injection point.  I checked with the free clinic
over on Pico.  Heroin injected there is for seasoned junkies looking
for a final high.  For someone who's clean, it's certain death,"
Kathleen crowed.

"The only thing I will grant you is that it seems Mr.

Brooker--" He nodded to Sarah in deference to his memory.

"--was not an experienced drug-user.  I would even grant you that he
never, ever used drugs before that fateful day.  Sarah, did Lionel ever
mention that he had an enlarged heart?"  Again she shook her head.

"There, that is no help.  If he were aware of a medical problem, then
he probably wouldn't have attempted to inject himself with heroin, a
drug that immediately affects the heart.  But more interesting still,
there is no damage to the veins in Lionel's arms.  There wasn't one
collapsed from overuse, no tracks, nothing to indicate that this man
had ever injected heroin before that day.  His nasal passages were
clear.  There was no breakdown in tissue to indicate he was snorting.
His lungs were clear.  In short, Lionel seemed to be what everyone
you've spoken to say he was--a man who believed his body was, indeed, a
temple."

"There, see?"  Kathleen was delighted he saw it their way.
"I knew he'd
understand."  Louise put her arm around Sarah, who still looked
bewildered by her attention.

Only Michael was quiet.  He watched the old man, who watched him right
back.

"The problem is, it's not enough, is it?"  he asked Gerry.

"No, Michael, it's nothing.  There's nothing you've told me that would
convince me to go to the authorities.  They would laugh in our face if
we asked them to reopen the case on Lionel.

No threats of violence against him.  No enemies.  You don't even have a
handle on the work difficulty.  I'm afraid you all have been
overwhelmed by what happened last night."

"There is something wrong, Gerry," Michael reminded him.

"I haven't had a chance to go over those invoices, but I can see why
Lionel didn't like the looks of at least two of them.

They seemed inflated in certain areas.  It will take awhile for me to
give you something definitive, though."

"Michael, it won't matter, even if you do.  What can you really tell
the police?  Can Sarah identify the men who were in her home?"  Gerry
pinned her with his gaze.  She hung her head.

"No, I thought not.  Can either of the Mrs.  Brookers provide us any
insight into Lionel's dealings at Tysco?"  Louise checked out her
nails.

"No.  He didn't confide in them.  He kept his professional and private
lives separate.  And, Michael?  You haven't any evidence to bring to
the table.  No threatening notes, no people popping in unexpectedly to
whisper in Lionel's ear while he worked.  You told Kathleen that Lionel
was a good worker, steady, and hardly eccentric.  The only person who
thought something was bothering Lionel was his friend Harold.

You checked that out and Mr.... Mr...."  Gerry snapped his fingers.

"Forgive me, I've forgotten his name."

At that moment the door opened and Becky motioned to Kathleen,
whispering telephone.  Kathleen slipped out to take the call in Gerry's
office.  The last thing she wanted to do was interrupt the proceedings.
Going behind Michael, unable to resist, she let her fingers trail
across his shoulders just as he answered Gerry.

"Jules Porter?"

"Yes, Mr.  Porter, Lionel's former supervisor.  They'd had many years
together and, while he may not have been polite, the man answered your
questions, did he not, Michael?  Did he appear to be stunned or nervous
about your questions?  Did he attempt to hide anything?  Have you
thrown out of his office?"

"No, he didn't."

Michael turned his head away, bringing his fist to his chin.

They sat in silence, the two men and two women.  Emotions toured the
room, lighting on all their heads more than once.

Frustration, the feeling that the answers were just around the corner ,
sadness, anxiety, the need for a challenge, the desire to know the
truth about Lionel were all borne in thoughtful silence.

"We can settle this entire matter quickly in two ways," Gerry said
finally.

They all looked at him as Kathleen slipped quietly back into the room,
her phone call completed.  She stood apart, lingering by the door, her
hand on the knob as if she were anxious to be off somewhere else
instead of in this room with the people who had come to mean so many
things to her.  Her eyes remained fixed on Gerry, her expression was
one of profound sadness and even more intense determination.  No one
noticed.  Their attention was on the old man.

"If Lionel was murdered, then he was murdered.  We will keep that
belief to ourselves, and we will take what we know about his state of
mind and physical condition to the court.

Kathleen will lay it at Judge Kelley's feet.  I believe that we will
prevail and Louise will be granted her benefits by All Life.

Of course, I would also suggest that we withdraw our suit against the
estate."

Louise nodded.

"That's okay with me."  Her whiter-than white nails with Michael
Jackson painted on them never once headed for her hair.  Sarah smiled
at her sweetly.

"We can also call Bob Morton and suggest that we meet and attempt to
settle this matter with All Life before we get to court.  Since he can
expect full disclosure anyway, we might as well do it sooner than
later, wrap this up, and get on with other business."

"Then there's the second long and arduous road that will, more than
likely, lead nowhere."  Gerry paused.  He looked at them each in
turn.

"We can continue with what we're doing."  Michael picked up the ball.

"Perhaps someone owes it to Lionel to find out the truth about his
death."

"And who will take on that job, Michael?"  Gerry became devil's
advocate.

"The police won't want anything to do with this.  This is Los Angeles.
The authorities are so overwhelmed they often can't pursue
investigations on those who are gunned down in cold blood on our
streets with twenty eyewitnesses.

They aren't waiting for a mysterious challenge.  And who will take it
upon themselves to exhume Lionel's body, assign and pay investigators,
criminalist, and goodness-knows-who-else?

You?  Do you intend to quit your job for Lionel?  Kathleen?

Me?  Is that what the practice of law is about or would we be
overstepping our bounds?  Sarah?  Dear Sarah, who wants to tend her
garden?  Louise?  Would you like the job?  Would you like for us to
secure your insurance settlement only to see it frittered away on an
investigation that may not have a conclusion?

Which of us will do that?  Which of us will take on Lionel's cause if,
indeed, there ever was foul play?"

Sarah lifted her head and pushed her hair out of her face.

Dressed in purple and white, she looked like an odd Harlequin.

But no one was laughing.  They couldn't meet her eyes, for each of them
knew their answer was no, they would not take on such a
responsibility.

"How about all of us?"  Sarah asked, her voice small, her question
profound.

She looked about, and there was no expectation in her expression.

She and Lionel had lived a reclusive life; there had been no need for
anyone to share it when it was good and she didn't really figure anyone
would want to share her sorrow or her fear.  But she asked the question
anyway.

"I'd go for that."  Louise's voice.

"I'd figure out the Tysco stuff," Michael added.
"I could help with the
legal work needed for the exhumation and investigators," Gerry said.

"Kathleen will speak with All Life.  We'll try to wrap that up as soon
as possible.  After that, we'll look into the matter of the strange
death of Lionel Brooker.

Is that it, then?"

Yes, they all agreed, and then Gerry O'Doul smiled at his niece,
waiting for her sweet voice to be added to the chorus.

"No," she said solemnly.

"That isn't it."

Chapter Thirteen

They sat facing each other, neither moving though there didn't seem
that much more that could be said between them.

Still, Gerry wasn't ready to let go.  He wasn't ready to end the
afternoon, at least not on this note.

"Sure, Kathleen, aren't I excited to death for you?  Really.

Richard Jacobsen is quite the man.  To be offered a position at Shay,
Sylvester & Harrington is nattering indeed, considering he has only run
into you once or twice."

"Three times.  I've seen him three times."

"Ah, yes, once he came to watch you in court.  When you were arguing
for Henrietta, I believe."  Kathleen nodded.

"Then 'tis really something that he offered you a position.  On an
environmental case, no less.  One that's even made the news as I
recall."

Kathleen made some noises of agreement.  She crossed her legs, focusing
on a scuff mark on the side of her beige sling backs  She hated scuff
marks.  She hated doing this to Gerry O'Doul.  Didn't she?

"It should be very exciting for you.  Yes, yes, indeed," he mused.  *
"After only three meetings.  And not a formal interview between you.
Fancy that."

"Uncle Gerry, I know this can't make you happy."  Kathleen squirmed.
Her guilt and his graciousness were making her angry.

"But of course it makes me happy.  Sure, I couldn't possibly offer you
the career advantages you'll have with Richard.  It's only that I want
you to be very sure, very careful of the decision you're making."

Kathleen unclasped her hands where they lay in her lap and put them on
the arms of her chair.  It had been too much to hope that this could be
taken care of with a simple look of surprise, a hug of encouragement,
and a send-off with a smile.

"I can't explain this, Gerry.  I realize it's unusual.  It's as unusual
as your letter asking me to come work with you.  Maybe my stars are in
the right place or the moon is full or I was meant to be working for
you so that I could meet Mr.  Jacobsen.

Whichever it is, I appreciate the opportunity you've given me, but I
can't turn my back on the one he's offering me.  I can't.

It's the dream of every lawyer to work for a firm like Shay, Sylvester
& Hamngton.  For someone like me, it's closer to a miracle."

Gerry let his hand waggle.

"Now, now, don't sell yourself short."

Why not.  she wanted to ask, everyone else in her life had.

Even he had, for a while.

"I won't," she said quietly.  Her fingers went to her silvery bangs.

"But I've got to see if I can do this."

"Oh, Kathleen, I don't think there's any doubt that you can.

None at all."  Gerry's faded, blue eyes didn't twinkle anymore.

He was serious.  Relieved, Kathleen allowed herself a smile.

"Thank you.  I appreciate the blessing.  I really do.  And we'll see
each other often.  I'll need your advice, I'm sure."

She was out of the chair, her fingertips still in contact with nubby
brown upholstery, when Gerry revved his engines and came at her
full-force.

"Of course, I'll be here when you need me, and naturally I wouldn't
want anything to keep you from what you need to do; but, Kathleen--" He
held up a finger.  She knew that tone of voice.  It was too kind, too
selfless.  She stiffened.

"Do you think you might possibly ask Richard to postpone your
employment just a wee bit?  Given what you've been through with Louise,
given Sarah's precarious position and Michael-of course, Michael--you
might want to stay with us a little longer.  You know, with your
friends.  For Lionel.  Not that I'm asking for myself, you understand
..."

At that, Kathleen began to shake.  It was just a little shivering
inside, a small twitch in her hands.  She clamped her lips shut and
looked to the left of Gerry and then took an interest in the door.  She
wished she had a magazine to flip open, an article to read on anger or
making your eyes look bigger with the right shadow.  She wished she had
a place to hide where she could nod and agree and make life smooth. But
there was no magazine and this was not her mother.  She had to hold
that thought.  If she didn't, she would continue to paint on a face
instead of turn a real one to the world.

"It is for you.  Uncle Gerry," she said quietly, and he responded with
his own dead silence."

"It's for you, not Michael or anyone else.  You want me here because
you're lonely.  But I've been there, done that.  My mother wasn't
really sick for years.  She was lonely and she was scared.  I knew that
somewhere inside me, but I stayed anyway because I was lonely and
scared, too.  We were each other's excuse.  I did it because I figured
I wasn't worth much to anyone except her, and it was you who made me
feel that way.  When you left, you took all the hope and stardust with
you.  Mom and Dad never talked about you after that.  You didn't call.
There was just this big, awful silence like it was my fault you were
gone.  So I made up for it by staying.  But I'm not going to stay
behind again.

Mr.  Jacobsen says he needs me immediately.  It's a big case and
they've lost a key player.  I'm not going to stay because someone asks.
Not again."

Kathleen stuck her hands into her pockets.  She'd said too much, but
she couldn't stop the rest that was coming.  She didn't look at Gerry
for fear the hurt on his face would weaken her resolve.  At the very
least, it would make her shut up, and she didn't want to do that ever
again in her whole life.

"You wouldn't stay even for me and I thought--" Her voice shook.  "--I
thought you cared."  There was a rent in time where everything stood
still.  All clocks, all motion, as if the world were waiting for the
truth.

"I thought you loved me.

You didn't care enough to stay in my life, so why should I stay for
you?"

"Kathleen, I did love you.  More than you'll ever know."

"So much that you walked out?"  She tilted her head to let the tears
trickle back the way they came.

"At least I'm giving you the courtesy of a little notice.  I'm giving
you a reason.

You didn't give me either."

"Then, sure, Kathleen, I'll give them to you now."

Gerry came toward her.  She moved away.  If she'd been smart, she would
have run.  But she wasn't that smart.

"I had no wife, no children, and you were the apple of my eye.  I
wanted you to have everything.  Not so much you'd forget how to work,
but enough to make the road easier."

"Oh, I never forgot how to work," Kathleen said.

"I had to work for every little thing I had.  My father thought
education would be wasted on me; my mother thought clothes and makeup
were a waste on someone so tall and big and ugly.  What was it you
wasted on me, Gerry?  Your time?"

Gerry hung his head; the top of it was smooth and reflective.

The little bits of hair that were combed across it looked pitiful.

He raised his head to speak to her.

"Time, Kathleen.  Time is what I wasted.  But I only wasted the time I
spent away from you.  And it was only because of the money."

"There never was any money," she shot back.

"Yes, there was," he said quietly.

"There was quite a bit."

Kathleen sat down, unable now to take her eyes off him."

"There was a trust fund for you, Kathleen.  Your mother and I arranged
it with the provision that your father would never know.  Your mother
was the trustee."

Gerry walked past her, lost in his memories, choosing the proper words
for his story, seeing her, she was sure, still as a young girl eager
for the stories of his glamorous life.

"Your father chased every scheme that came his way.  And every one he
pinned his hopes on failed him.  That's why I  r didn't want him to
know about the money.  In those years I represented some pretty shady
characters.  I worried I might not always be around to take care of
you.  That's why I made your mother the trustee."

Gerry landed by the window and looked out.  She knew what he saw.  An
alley.  Nothing more or less.  There was no glamor there, but he seemed
to draw inspiration from it.

"Your mother managed the fund for many years.  She sent me the
statements that were sent to her.  You should have had enough not only
for school but to set yourself up in a tidy practice if you liked.
Unfortunately, your mother was a weak woman.  She told your father
about the trust fund.  When he asked her to withdraw the money, she
did."

He looked over his shoulder at her.  The collar of his shirt still
bobbed about his thin neck; the years wore on him.  She saw hurt and
regret on his face.  Mostly regret.

"I could have forgiven her that, Kathleen.  What I couldn't forgive was
her righteousness.  When I confronted the two of them, she sided with
your father.  She said it was their right.

She looked me in the eye and told me that the money I'd worked hard for
was, by rights, theirs because they had so little.

It was about them.  Not you or me, but them.  I imagine your mother
knew in her heart she was wrong, but her pride kept her from
apologizing.  I was so hurt I cut myself off from my sister and her
husband.  In the process, I lost you, too.

"And it went on that way until there were years between us."  Gerry
found his chair again.  He seemed tired.

"Everyone was at fault except you, and you suffered the most.

"Twasn't what I wanted at all."  Gerry cradled his cheek in his palm.

"Sure, didn't I think your mother had told you the sorry tale,
Kathleen?  I thought that's why you came.  Now that you know, it will
be why you leave."

Numb, Kathleen stood up.  She slipped on her high heels, then righted
herself.  For the first time in her life, Kathleen spoke the
honest-to-God truth, out loud, without qualification or concern for
anyone's feelings but her own.

"That's not why I'm leaving.  I'm leaving for myself.  Uncle

Gerry.  I want what Richard Jacobsen has to offer, and Richard Jacobsen
wants me."

"I need you."

"It isn't enough now.  I don't want to be needed anymore.

Not in that way.  I'll take care of All Life.  I'll call Bob Morton in
the morning."

"You'll be leaving Sarah just when she needs you the most."

"Gerry, she's not my friend.  We all aren't bound to each other.  You
treat Louise like she's your daughter.  You've taken Sarah under your
wing.  You've seen Michael twice, and you're ready to have him up for
cards."

"And you, Kathleen, how have I treated you?"

"Like my mother did," Kathleen said and regretted it the moment the
words were out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, then.  I can only wish you well."  Gerry stood and gave her
a formal bow, stopping her as she reached for the doorknob.

"I'm sure Richard will want you to start as soon as possible.  I'll
take care of Louise."

Kathleen hesitated.

That hurt.

As she left for the day, the sun was setting.

Her heart was, too.

"I thought you'd still be here."

Michael stood in the doorway of Gerry O'Doul's office.  The front door
was open; Becky was long gone, so he had walked right in.  His long
legs were parted, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.  He
was a shadow-man because Gerry hadn't moved from this chair since
Kathleen had left, not even to turn on the lights.  Gallant as always,
he did so now, though it was obviously a great effort to pull the
little gold chain on the banker's lamp he'd had since he'd passed the
bar.  That grand occasion seemed a hundred years ago.  The lamp still
worked; Gerry was beginning to wonder if he still did.  He blinked and
held his glass up toward his guest.
"Come and raise one with me,
Michael.  We've been deserted by the woman we love and there's nothing
left but the bottle."

Gerry's sad chuckles were like wilting rose petals strewn in Michael's
path as he sauntered in.  He smiled at the old man who had shed his
jacket and turned up his cuffs.  The watch on his wrist was silver with
an elasticized band, the substantial timepiece of a substantial man.
Gerry poured two fingers and put it in front of Michael.

"You do love my Kathleen, don't you?"  he asked as he sat back in his
chair.
"I don't know, Gerry."  Michael took the glass and sat
down.
"How about I just confess to liking her a heck of a lot so
far?"

"That's fine for the time being, Michael.  But don't wait too long to
decide on the other.  Kathleen is moving, Michael, moving so fast.
She'll leave us all behind if we're not careful, and she may not be
happy when she does.  When she wants to come back, we may not be here
to welcome her home."

"Is that what she's doing?  Leaving us behind?  I thought she was just
taking advantage of an opportunity."

"No, no, my boy."  Gerry poured himself another drink and toasted
Michael.  He sipped and put his head back on his chair.

"Ah, I say, getting older has its good points.  I don't even feel this
brew as it goes down."  Gerry licked his lips and let his eyes roam
over the ceiling.

"She's run away is what she's done, poor thing.  The problem is she's
run the wrong way, into the jaws of the wily beast."

"Jacobsen?"

"No other."  Gerry slid his head along the back of his chair and his
eyes came to rest on Michael.

"You're a good man, Michael.  I could tell that the moment I met you.
I'm proud to know you.  But Richard Jacobsen is a man I've never
trusted.

He worked with me, don't you know, so I'm not talking through my hat.
He was a brilliant young man, but there's something odd that drives
him.  Something dark, it is, and I've never quite cared for it.  I
can't condemn him.  We've all played the game, each of us just has a
different way of staying on the board.  I used Richard when I could. He
used me.  How could I, in good conscience, tell Kathleen anything other
than good luck?  She's on the board now, Michael.  If I were still one
of the big boys, she'd be safe here with me instead of going to him."

"You think she's in some kind of danger?"

Gerry shook his head, "Not in the way you mean.  It's just that I don't
want her to be disappointed, Michael.  I don't think she has the cold
heart she'll need for a place like Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.  I
think this was a bad decision, truly I do."

"And you didn't tell her?"

"After confessing to her that all the adults in her life had done her
wrong?  Me the worst offender?"  Gerry snorted.

"Sure aren't you the optimist?  I'm assuming she told you when you
drove her home."

"She did."  Michael still held his drink.  This wasn't the social hour,
just some time he could give an old man he admired.

He wished he could do more.

"And you think she would have trusted my advice?"

"I don't."  He reached for the bottle and checked it out.  Fine scotch.
When he put it back on the desk, he finally had a taste.

It went down smooth.

"She's got her pride."

"Don't we all?"  Gerry laughed.  It was good to sit with a man, talking
like a man.  No flowers, no hearts, no worry about who would be hurt.
Gerry confided in his new friend.

"My pride kept me from changing with the times.  In my colossal
arrogance, I assumed quality would win out, and the one thing I always
had to offer was quality.  People got what they paid for."  Gerry
chuckled at his own nonsense.

"But fashions changed.  No one wanted ethics and reason;

so few people wanted the truth.  And there was the press.  I always
spoke so truthfully to the press, but the time came when they turned
the words around so blatantly I sounded like a fool.

People forgot Gerry O'Doul and the way he understood the law.  I didn't
see that people wanted to be entertained and shocked.  They wanted
gossip, not thoughtfulness.  No one cared about the truth or the
deftness of a battle waged by the spirit and letter of the law.  My
pride kept me from running with the pack, so I was left behind.  I was
not the darling any longer.  People like Richard Jacobsen were.  Money
talked.  Designer name law firms got the business.  Those who could
sell rather than argue their case were the champions."

The two men considered, Gerry's opportunity lost.  There were pros and
cons to standing still.  They had both done it.

There was something to be said for compromise, too, but they wouldn't
argue the fine points now.

"And you, Michael, how has pride changed your life?"

"Pride fooled me.  Pride lulled me into thinking I had accomplished
something when in fact I'd simply been hollering into a vacuum while
the bad guys kept doing what they wanted to do."

"Very bad guys?"  Gerry asked.

"Semi-bad.  Immoral, unethical.  That kind of bad."  Michael
shrugged.

"Then we'll toast the bad guys, for sure their time is just about up,
don't you think?"

"I guess that depends on you.  You've got an unusual group here who
aren't quite sure what in the heck they want to do.

We'd fall apart without someone to lead us through the Lionel thing.
Are you still in, even without Kathleen?"

Gerry opened the top drawer of his desk and took out two cigars.  He
handed one to Michael.  They snipped the tips and lit them.  The office
filled with the aroma of a fine tobacco.

They sat comfortably together.

"I'll make some inquiries, Michael, but I think I'll reserve committing
myself just about now, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind.  It will take me awhile to figure out the paperwork.
We'll just sort of agree to look into things."

"I think that's wise."  Gerry puffed again and watched the cloud above
his head take shape.  At first he thought it looked like a woman in the
gray smoke, then he realized the apparition looked like Richard
Jacobsen.  A little misshapen, so difficult to define, impossible to
pin down.

"Yes, I think I'll be keeping my eye peeled.  I'd appreciate it if
you'd do the same.  Keep your eye on everything, Michael.  Especially
my Kathleen."

Chapter Fourteen

"So, Bob Morton's thinking it over?"

Kathleen stabbed at her Chinese Chicken Salad and came up with
everything but chicken, so she started all over again.

Her appetite wasn't what it should have been, so she let her fork rest
and looked at her companions.  Sarah, in a floral dress, looked pretty
now that her bruise had faded and her eye was back to normal, Louise in
lace and leather with Marilyn Monroe on her chartreuse nails was true
to form.  Gerry was spruced up in a new suit of beige linen.  Only
Michael was missing.

Somebody had to work, she supposed.  She sure as heck wasn't working.
At least not the kind of work she'd thought she'd be doing.

"Well, he doesn't have much time to make up his mind, does he?"  She
put on a brave smile, hoping they wouldn't see how much she wanted to
know everything that they were doing.

"We're supposed to ... I mean, you're supposed to be back in court next
week, right?"

"Hardly seems possible."  Gerry was jovial.  His good humor did nothing
to relieve the pall that had settled over their luncheon table and his
own private are.  They had come with such good intentions to celebrate
her new job and show there were no hard feelings.  Instead, they had
found Kathleen, beautiful as always, looking forlorn and trying to hide
her frustration.

He kept smiling and trying.

"So, then, that means that you've been gone from us for almost three
weeks.  How are you finding life at Shay, Sylvester & Hamngton?  Is
Richard treating you well?"

"Yes.  Definitely.  Yes, he stops in to see me every so often.

In fact, he even had a painting I admired transferred into my office
from his personal conference room."  Kathleen smiled, too.  She looked
sick.

"You'll have to come up and see it.  It's really beautiful.  Really."

Kathleen's enthusiasm was less than convincing, but all the heads
around the table nodded politely, Louise most heartily since she was
the one who understood about keeping up appearances.

"So, then, what are you doing in this new office of yours?

Bet it's nothing as exciting as us, huh, Sarah?"  Louise gave her new
friend a wink only to be rewarded with a true, but shy, smile. Kathleen
thought she would cry except for the fact that Louise was looking at
her expectantly.

"I'm working on an environmental case.  It's very important.

If we successfully defend our client, there might actually be sweeping
legislation that will change the water pollution laws across the
country.  It's very, very exciting."

"Wow," Sarah breathed.

"Are you going to go to Washington when you win and make the laws?"

"Well, no.  I don't think they'd have me."

"Are we going to see you on TV?  I watch that court TV show all the
time," Louise chimed in.

"That would be great to see you on TV, but you've got to wear something
more colorful.  I swear, you've got dowdier since you flew the coop."

"Well,, no, I' mnot actually going to be doing the trial work."

Kathleen colored and picked up her napkin.  She couldn't look at Gerry.
She didn't really want to look at any of them.

"It's kind of dry, actually.  We're all specializing, you know."

Feeling Gerry's eyes on her, she chanced a glance at her uncle.  She
didn't hold his gaze long.  He knew.  She knew he knew.  She was
nothing at Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.  Fourth seat is what she was
on a huge, convoluted case that might never see the inside of a
courtroom.  She spent most of her time pouring over emissions records.
The thought of years of this made Kathleen more than miserable.  Gerry
knew, all right, that she was nothing on this case.  Worse than that,
he pitied her when he should have been proud of her.  She changed the
subject.  She'd get through this lunch if it were the last thing she
did.

"So, what are you all up to besides getting ready to get Louise her
money from All Life?"

"Michael hasn't told you?"

Kathleen shook her head.

"It's been hard to see him.  I have to bill so many hours a week, I
hardly have time to breathe.

He's been busy, too, I hear."

"He's narrowed down those billing records.  Gerry's been making phone
calls all over the place."  Louise leaned over, her substantial
cleavage on the table like a forbidden desert.

In his younger days Gerry might have enjoyed such an eyeful.

Now he just wanted to watch Kathleen and make sure the misery he saw on
her face wasn't a trick of the light.  He would never rejoice in her
suffering, for certainly that's what it was, but he was curious about
it and took exception to it and blamed Richard Jacobsen for it.

"Louise, we shouldn't be talking about our investigation," Gerry warned
her.

"Gerry," Sarah breathed, "it's only Kathleen.  She wouldn't tell
anyone."

"Dam right she wouldn't," Louise intoned.

"I don't have anyone to tell anyway.  Besides, no one would believe
what you guys are doing.  So tell me something exciting."

Kathleen regrouped like a girl at a slumber party.

"I

want every detail."

"There isn't much, Kathleen," Gerry interrupted.

"I've managed to find out a few interesting details about the coroner,
that's all.  Minor things that aren't worth talking about."

The one that was most interesting he would never share with her: An
attorney had requested the coroner himself be dispatched to autopsy
Lionel Brooker.  It had been a lovely  r piece of work, Marlene
talking with a friend who talked with a friend who tracked down someone
else who remembered an offhanded comment made by the big man himself
when he arrived for the dirty work.  Lovely piece of work, indeed.
Kathleen would have enjoyed it.  Thankfully, she didn't press for
information he wasn't ready to share.  Louise had her ear and was
directing Kathleen to look under the table.  Their heads were together
like two inept spies.

"Look, we got this great camera.  Sarah and I are going to go out to
Tysco and snap some photos.  We're going to see who comes and goes and
then try to see if Sarah can figure out if any of them kind of look
like the guys who went out to her house."

"Louise, there are thousands of people who work out there.

That's ridiculous."  Louise lowered the tablecloth and stashed her bag.
Kathleen sat back.  Sarah hung her head, fidgeting with her napkin.

"Well, we don't have much choice.  It's not like we've got a whole lot
of help," she sniffed.

"Not like the backup you've probably got.  Computers and things.
Besides, we're not going to take pictures of the women, so that cuts it
down by half.

And we're not going to bother with the people coming out of the
manufacturing facilities."

"The men who came to my house wore suits, I know that," Sarah
offered.

"Yeah, so that means we've gotta concentrate on the suits.

And we know they're big guys," Louise offered.

"And we're especially going to watch out for Jules Porter.

If Lionel was giving him a bad time, then we should find out if he's
doing anything weird outside the office that might have affected what
was going on inside."  That was Sarah talking, and they all had to lean
close to listen.

"And does Michael know what you're doing?"  Kathleen missed all this.
She laughed, grateful that they hadn't forgotten her.  At O'Doul &
Associates, there were people to talk to and problems to solve,
listening to these two made Kathleen wish for the good old days.  At
Shay, Sylvester & Harrington, there were emissions reports to sift
through.  Forms to fill out.  Associates so concerned with their own
status on the partnership track they were afraid to talk to Kathleen,
much less befriend her.

"Not to worry, Kathleen.  If these ladies get in trouble, I'll defend
them with my last breath."  Gerry grinned at all of them with a smile
that didn't reach his eyes.  Kathleen saw it and answered his sympathy
with a simulated smile of her own, "But I'm afraid we all have things
we must do.  Kathleen, we wouldn't want to keep you from your work.  So
important, those billing hours.  I'm glad I'm old and infirm," he said
with a commiserating wink.

"Sure, I couldn't keep track of such mathematics anymore.  Shall we,
ladies?"

Chairs went back, napkins were put on tables, skirts were smoothed, and
little things said all around as they trooped out of Maple Drive, onto
the street, and across it to Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.  Louise and
Sarah left them in the lobby of the building.

"We're going to take off, Gerry."  Louise leaned into him for a kiss on
her cheek.  He kissed the air instead and patted her shoulder--if,
indeed there were a shoulder under the incredible pads in her jacket.
She looked a bit like a packing box.  Satisfied, she did the same to
Kathleen.

"We want to get down to Tysco and stake out before the four o'clock
shift leaves.  We'll pop in and see Michael, too.  Anybody have a
message for him?"

Sarah and Louise looked at Kathleen.  Gerry answered.

"Ask him if he'd mind postponing dinner this evening.  Tell him I'll
call him tomorrow."

"Okay, Mr.  O'Doul."  Sarah stuck out her hand.  He shook it gently,
bowing slightly.

"You were going to have dinner with Michael?"  Kathleen asked, trying
to sound casual as they headed to her office.

"He says he asked you, but you pleaded work.  I was second choice,
don't you know?"

The elevator called for them.  Kathleen went in.  It was late.

She'd have to make up the extra hour that evening.  She was all alone.
Then Gerry joined her.

"You don't have to come up.  Uncle Gerry."

"Nonsense.  I've been so patient waiting for an invitation to see your
new place of business, but I've not had one.  So now

I'm taking matters into my own hands.  I'll just pop in and say hello
to Richard while I'm here."

Kathleen punched the number sixteen.  The elevator shot up.

Her stomach fell to the floor.

"He's awfully busy, Gerry.  I don't know that you should just walk in
on him.  There's a definite protocol in this place."

"Yes, yes, I know."  Gerry patted her arm.  It was a touch filled with
a lifetime of experience that told her there weren't many places you
couldn't go if you acted like you belonged there.

"But it's really not as daunting as it seems, Kathleen.  I promise you
it isn't."  Gerry O'Doul stopped the elevator.  He pressed a button
that had a warning to press only in the case of emergency.  Kathleen's
mouth dropped.  He had pushed it as if he were ringing a doorbell. This
wasn't a three-story building on South Beverly.  This was a towering
high-rise in the heart of Beverly Hills.  This wasn't the place for a
heart-to-heart, but Gerry didn't seem to think the rules applied to
him.  She supposed he never did.
"Kathleen, these are just people. 
They are a little scared like you, a little daunted by the fact they
are working on problems that affect the country, not just a widow who
lives in a canyon with her rabbits.  It's all right to be nervous as
long as you're doing your best.  But, Kathleen, if you're unhappy here,
that's another matter.  Don't be afraid to stay and work like the
dickens, but don't be afraid to leave either.  It wouldn't be a
failure; it would be a choice.  Choose the kind of life you want; and
if it's not the kind Richard leads, then my door is open or I will help
you find the right door."

Kathleen met his gaze head on and was proud of that.  She was touched
by what he said; but more than that she was embarrassed by her own
idiocy, and that she would never admit.

Besides, he didn't need her.  Nor did Louise or Sarah.  They had
everything under control.

"Thank you, Gerry, but I think it's all going to work out fine here.
I've just got to remember things take longer in a place like this.  Mr.
Jacobsen wouldn't have offered me the job if he didn't think I have
what it takes."

"No," Gerry answered.

"No, he wouldn't."

He pushed the button and they were off again.  A moment later, they
were walking through the lobby where they had partied not so long ago.
They went down the long halls, past secretaries and paralegals and big
offices with windows that didn't open for a breath of fresh air.  They
passed an enormous library, a production office where reams of paper
were printed and copied and stapled for court appearances, internal
distribution, and storage.  They passed the offices of junior partners
and, finally, they came to Kathleen's where Gerry made noises of
appreciation over her Mathis oil and tried to ignore the closet like
dimensions of the place she called her own.  Stacks of reports waited
for her attention and a grid pulsated on her computer screen.  When
Gerry was finished with his admiring sounds, he kissed her cheek.

"I'll leave you to your work, Kathleen.  Why don't you and Michael come
for a drink Saturday?"

"I'll think about it.  We're supposed to go to a movie; but the way I
feel now, all I want to do is sleep."

"Life in the fast lane."  Gerry chuckled.

"But I'm afraid that's no excuse to leave an old man on his own all
weekend."

Gerry stepped back, the smiling fading.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to pressure you.  I'm sorry, Kathleen."

"No offense taken," she said.

"I'd love to come.  I'll try.  I promise.  I'll tell Michael to kidnap
me if he has to."

Kathleen waved him out the door and sat back at her desk, forgetting
lunch, Michael, Sarah, and Louise as she opened the first of many tomes
on environmental testing.  Only Gerry O'Doul stayed on her mind.  It
was nice to know her uncle's door was still open.  Not that she'd ever
do anything about it, but it was nice to know.

Gerry was almost buried by the cushions of the low, deep chair in which
he sat.  He was so small that he seemed almost inconsequential.  If
Richard Jacobsen had his way, he would have been inconsequential.
Instead, Gerry O'Doul was making himself all-too-important.

"Richard, I don't want to create a problem for Kathleen.  I  r know
you won't hold it against her because her old uncle has come to check
up.  But there are things that just seem a bit unusual here and I
thought, being her only living relative, that it is my responsibility
to keep an eye on her."

"Of course, I completely understand your concern for your niece; what I
don't understand is why her employment here would be the cause of that
concern."

Richard bounced ever so slightly in his perfectly proportioned chair
while his eyes remained fixed on the old man.  Beneath the desk, out of
Gerry's sight, he played with a pen.  He wanted Gerry O'Doul gone.
Shay, Sylvester & Hamngton did not function as O'Doul & Associates did.
A slap on the back, a handshake.  Absurdities in an era when business
was the law and the law was business.

Gerry leaned forward, escaping the suction of the overstuffed cushion
with a great effort.  He straightened his tie when he was finally in a
position that allowed him to speak to Richard man to man.

"We'll be blunt, Richard.  Kathleen is a smart girl.  In the right
circumstances, she could even be brilliant.  The jury returned more
than the asking when she handled Mrs.  Poole, and look at what she did
for my client in the Brooker case.  I believe All Life is going to
settle with us because other innovative arguments.  In fact, we're
going to be doing more than that.

Sure she even managed to put us on the track to prove that there had
been some sort of foul play.  Unfortunately, you took her away before
we could have the benefit of her thinking."

Richard's lips tipped up.  Had Gerry been looking closely, he would
have seen a glimmer of joy.
"Obviously, I chose well.  Shay, Sylvester
& Hamngton likes their associates to be innovative.  Perhaps I
overstepped the bounds of propriety by not asking for her professional
hand first and that's what makes you uneasy."  The sarcasm was evident.
Gerry ignored it.

"No, Richard.  It's not about the way you did this.  It's about why."
He dug in his heels, not about to leave, and that didn't make Richard
happy.  He glanced toward the door, then back at his guest.

"I have a full calendar today, Gerry.  Perhaps we could get to the
point."

"I've known you many years, and never have I known you to do anything
that was not calculated for a return on your investment.  I never
believed those rumors about the incident in Mexico.  Scandals of a
sexual nature were never what I would have expected from you.  That is
why I don't imagine your interest in my niece is personal.  But I must
ask the question anyway, Richard.  Did you hire her because you fancy
Kathleen?"

Gerry had never heard Richard Jacobsen laugh before.  He imagined,
given the volume and intensity of Richard's amusement, that there were
quite a few people in the halls listening to the odd sound coming from
this usually silent office.

"Oh my.  Oh my, my, my."

Richard reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his
eyes.  In a twinkle, Richard Jacobsen was back to his old, smooth self,
his tiny hands clasped together, pink and soft-looking.  He held them
out to Gerry as if to show he wasn't hiding a thing.  Gerry couldn't
look at them and think Kathleen's name at the same time.  He found
nothing amusing about any of this.  The more Richard danced around his
questions, the more uneasy Gerry O'Doul became.

"Your niece is a very attractive young woman, but believe me, that's
not what I found so intriguing about her, Gerry.

Quite simply, we needed a bright, quick-thinking associate and we
needed her quickly."
"Analyzing mathematical data truly takes a bright
mind.  A lesser one would be put to sleep," Gerry snapped.

"Although, in my day, any paralegal could have created the charts
Kathleen is toiling so diligently to complete."

Richard ignored him.

"She is a hard worker and a quick study.  We didn't want a paralegal.
We wanted an attorney who might offer insight into courtroom arguments
after the data has been analyzed.  Money isn't your niece's motivation,
thank goodness.  Even you must see how unusual and desirable that is in
a young attorney.  We are top-heavy with fiscally driven young people
and a volatile team of egotists on the case to which she was assigned.
I'm counting on her for many things, not the least of which is her
attitude."

"But why the urgency, Richard?"  Gerry pressed, wanting to lift his
feet to allow for the flow of bull.

"We had an opening.  Those don't happen too often," Richard answered
narrowly.

"She's working on a minute portion of a case that will never see the
inside of a courtroom."  Gerry sat comfortably in the big chair, his
fingers tented and his eyes just as bright as always.

He forced himself to mildness but didn't fool Richard at all.

"I smell a rat, Richard, one I think I should ferret out."

"It would be a waste of your time," Richard answered with equal
discretion.

"I admire you greatly, Gerry, and I would hate to see you waste
precious time on something that is no mystery."

"I've already wasted time where Kathleen was concerned.

What little I have left, I want to devote to making sure she is happy
and content."

"She's a woman who has made a career-decision, and I would suggest you
respect that.  If you don't, you might find yourself lonelier than you
are now and Kathleen might find herself on the street.  I can't imagine
she would look kindly on your meddling if it caused this firm to think
twice about her employment."

They both thought about that great, big horrible possibility.

It was a bald-faced threat, but before he had time to explore all the
angles to see what was hidden behind them, the phone rang.  Richard
answered it, rudely dismissing Gerry with that gesture.

With dignity, Gerry nodded to Richard Jacobsen, a man of dubious
integrity whose back was now turned to him.  Standing tall, Gerry
turned on his heel and walked, shoulders back, to the vestibule just
outside Richard's office.

When he cleared the door, he stepped aside and leaned against the wall,
knowing he couldn't face even a secretary until he'd composed himself.
His heart hurt.  He had failed Kathleen, and this was her reward.  This
ridiculous situation where she would be used for God-knew-what-reason,
only to realize it too late.

Five years from now when there was no partnership offering, when her
resume read Shay, Sylvester & Harrington, Associate, Kathleen would be
turned loose only fit to work for another Dorty & Breyer.  It was his
fault.  Richard was paying him back for something, and he was using
Kathleen to do it.  But what had been so awful in their history that
Richard would ruin a young woman's career to prove the point?

Richard's voice droned on behind him, clear and sure as always, as
Gerry's thoughts swung back and forth like a pendulum that had sliced
his good intentions in half.  In this state, he planned a strategy.  He
was weakened by this encounter but certainly not down for the count. It
was through these thoughts that Richard's conversation floated, and
suddenly Gerry knew what he had to do and where he would find the
answers.

"You heard?"

Richard replaced the receiver and looked at the man who had come from
his private bathroom and still held a towel in his hands.

"Every word."  He pulled the towel through his hands and made it
taut.

"I can't believe it.  Richard, this is getting ridiculous.

I don't know how you can sit there like it's nothing.  I don't think
he's going to give up.  We've got to do something.

These stopgaps aren't working.  These people are nuts."

"I'll get on the phone to Bob Morton and talk to him about settling. He
owes me a favor.  It will be over once that Brooker woman has her
money.  When that happens, the others will lose interest."

"That's what you said when you brought Cotter over here."

Richard stood up.  He felt antsy.  It was a feeling he seldom had, and
it never occurred because of nerves.  There were other, more personal,
situations that caused Richard Jacobsen to feel as if he might jump out
of his skin.  When one got older, that's how things were.  Business
could always be taken care of.  Yet, standing here, now, he felt that
tingling in his groin, that sense that he better put a lid on the jar
before all the fireflies were gone.  Intellectually, he knew this was
ridiculous.  These were  r truly minor matters played out by bit
players.  All he had to do was tweak the script.  He turned back to his
companion and smiled.

"You do whatever you can on your end; I'll take care of it over here.
We'll stop this nonsense once and for all.  Together, the way we did
before."

"It's not nonsense, Richard, and it sure as hell isn't your butt if
this comes down.  It's mine."  The man tossed the soiled towel on the
couch.  That made Richard wince.  He didn't feel antsy any longer.

"I've got to get back to work."

Richard watched him walk across the plush carpet.

"Will I see you later?"  The man stopped, his back still turned to
Richard, who was more specific, just in case he hadn't been heard.

"This evening, perhaps?"

The man waited a beat, then left without answering.  They were all
guessing.  Richard was no different.  It was time he sweated, too.

"Gerry!  What are you doing?"

Carl Walsh was halfway across the room, wondering what was happening in
his outer office, when Gerry O'Doul flew in.  Carol's secretary was hot
on his heels.

"I can do what I damn well please because I pay my taxes, Carl Walsh.
You're the mayor and I want answers.  You're up to something, and I
want to know what it has to do with my niece."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Carl scooted back a few steps.  Gerry could read his face like a jury.
Carl Walsh did know.  If he didn't, why would he turn away?  Why would
he wave off his secretary?  Why would he color with surprise and
discomfort?  Gerry pressed his advantage.

Small and wiry, it was hard to believe he could move so quickly at his
age.  But move he did, right around the tall man so that Carl had no
choice but to run, and that would certainly have proved Gerry's point.
Carl seemed to know that, too.  He stayed where he was.

"Sure, don't you know, Carl?  You know what game Richard is playing. I
heard him on the phone to you.

"Twas a mistake I heard since I didn't eavesdrop.  I have more pride
than that.

I'm more of a man than both of you because I went directly to him and
asked right out about Kathleen to his face.  He wouldn't give me an
answer and I was tired.  I'd only lingered for a moment outside his
office, but I heard him tell you every thing was all right.  That
Kathleen was settled in, that he would be talking to Bob Morton.  He
said you weren't to worry.  He said you wouldn't have to worry about
Gerry or any of them anymore."

"It wasn't me he was talking to."  Carl turned left.

"An interoffice call."  He danced right and made it around his desk.

"It didn't sound that way to me.  Though I certainly could ask to see
the employee records and find out how many Carls are employed at that
esteemed firm.  I want to know what you're up to.  Who are the folks
you needn't worry about, Carl?  What is it that Kathleen ..."

"You're demented.  I can't believe you'd do that.  What a nut case."
Carl cut him off.  His face was blazing red, but Gerry was certain it
wasn't with anger.  It was shame and embarrassment and guilt that
caused him to boil.  But the man was good in front of a hostile crowd.
He stared Gerry down and tried to turn the tables.

"Let me be straight with you, Gerry.  You've been acting like a nut
since that niece of yours came to town.  You think you can use her to
revive what little is left of your career, but you can't.  A pretty
face and a passable talent just won't do it.  You can't flaunt her and
expect all of us to be so impressed mat we'll send business your
way."

"So that's why Richard hired her?  Because she is a passable talent?"
Gerry would have spit if he weren't such a gentleman.

"I don't think so.  Nor do I think he hired her because he has lust in
his heart.  Not our Richard.  You make no sense, Carl.

You and he are thick as thieves on something.  I don't really care what
it is, but I don't want Kathleen involved in it."

"And what gives you the right to make any decisions about anyone?  Your
niece is way past the age of consent if you haven't noticed.  You are
not involved in city business, my business, or Richard's.  You have a
few piddling lawsuits and a fantasy that you still can figure out
what's what.  We've all tried to be kind to you, Gerry, for old time's
sake, but we've had it.  You're a crazy, useless, old man; and if you
don't get out of my office right now, I'm going to have you thrown
out.

I don't care what you were to my father.  All you are now is a pain in
the ass with dreams of grandeur for that mediocre niece of yours."

"I repeat, if she's so mediocre, then why does Richard want her?" Gerry
pleaded.  Carl had worked himself into a fit and lost his guilt along
the way."

"Just tell me, why would Richard be discussing her with you?  Carl, for
the love of Mike, something is afoot.  I'm worried ..."

They weren't alone.  The big men that Gerry had seen at the hotel all
those weeks ago were now here, protecting hiz honor from the likes of
Gerry O'Doul, but Gerry didn't know it until one of them spoke.

"Mr.  O'Doul, the mayor is busy now."  The taller one's voice was so
low he seemed to pull it up from his toes.  Gerry didn't move, nor did
he acknowledge the beasts behind him.

"Carl, I'm sorry."  Gerry composed himself and put up his hands in a
sign of peace.  He lowered his voice.  He'd not intended to raise it in
the first place, but everywhere he turned now there were questions.
Kathleen's name was whispered and spoken and her attention taken by men
who shouldn't have given her the time of day.  He'd known something
wasn't right from the first and tried to bury his concerns, but he
couldn't ignore them any longer.

"I've no desire to disrupt your working day.  I would like to have a
talk with you.  I'm sure there is a plausible explanation for this
interest in Kathleen; I'd simply like to put my mind at rest.  Please,
Carl.  I would like ten minutes of your time."

Carl Walsh was backed up against the window.  He glanced over his
shoulder as if to make sure his city was still there, behind him.  He
nodded to the large men who converged on Gerry.

"Please, Carl," Gerry begged.  He sounded old.  Even he heard it in his
voice.  The men each put one hand on his shoulder.

Their fingers felt like weights.  Gerry's resolve was quashed beneath
those hands.

"Whatever the game, Kathleen will do you no good.  She's not meant for
the back rooms and the wheeling and dealing.  Carl, you are Richard's
good and dear friend.  Tell him that for me.  Just tell him that she
won't live up to whatever expectations he has for her."

A hand tightened on his shoulder, and this time Gerry didn't fight it.
How could he?  This was City Hall.

Chapter Fifteen

Kathleen swerved, but the front tire of her car popped over the curb
anyway.  At an angle, she sat with one hand tight on the wheel; the
other pressed the phone tight against the side of her head.  She
counted to ten.

"Are you there?  Michael?  I'm sorry."  Now she held the car phone to
her ear with her shoulder, threw the car into reverse, almost lost the
phone when the car clunked back onto the street.

Finally she pulled parallel to the curb and turned the damn thing
off.

"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I can't get used to talking on this thing and
this car is so much bigger than my old one.  I don't even know why they
gave it to me.  A company car!

Where am I going to go?  And a phone?  Who's going to call me?  What
clients am I going to take to lunch?"

She lay her head back on the seat, feeling completely ridiculous with
all the trappings of Shay, Sylvester & Harrington's best and brightest
and none of the responsibility.  She listened as Michael made pitying
noises.  She didn't miss the underlying chuckle.  He'd been there, done
that, but at least he'd actually been the top dog.  She sighed.

"Yeah.  Yes.  I think I'll hang up.  I'll call you after I talk to
Gerry.  I hope he hasn't gone to bed.  I'm so late."

She listened.  Michael absolved her from any social obligation to him
with a few sweet words.  Take care of Gerry.  Spend some time with
him.

Understand what you 'we given up.

She hung up, trying to ignore his subliminal and kindly finger-wag.  It
was hard though.  She'd been wagging that same finger at herself.  The
job wasn't what she'd imagined.  There.

She'd admitted it.  Fourth seat on an environmental case.  Fourth!

She was the homemaker of the team, putting everything in order so that
the big guns could eventually get up and argue the case.  She'd been an
idiot.  She would have admitted that to Michael if he hadn't already
hung up.  She was just tired enough, just disheartened enough to admit
it to Gerry, too, if she had the chance.

Sighing, she got out of the car and pushed the nifty new key chain that
beeped before locking down the incredible hunk of gray metal.  Two good
men in her life and she'd disappointed both.  Two good men who never
said a word against her-either in disappointment or anger--and Richard
Jacobsen was on the other side of the scale.  The man never said much
to her anymore.  Although he was pleasant when she did see him, there
weren't any more chats about Tom Mathis and his fine paintings, no more
philosophical discussions in Jacobsen's private conference room about
the challenge of law versus the bottom line.  Wouldn't Cherie be
laughing up her sleeve now?

Hoping Gerry wouldn't laugh at her, too, Kathleen started up the
flagstone path only to stop and look over her shoulder when she heard a
bleep that sounded quite like the one her car made when the locks were
being opened.  Her car was dark, safe and sound.  She looked up the
street.  A young, dark-haired, be suited man looked back at her briefly
before ducking into his green sedan.  She was glad she couldn't see him
clearly.

She felt a wreck.  He drove away moments later.  Gerry's street was as
silent as a tomb once again, so she headed up the path.

The sooner she talked to Gerry, who had been surprisingly insistent
that he see her that night, the sooner she would be in bed with the
covers pulled up over her head.

She took the three low-rise steps to the oval porch, rang the bell, and
admired the house Gerry had lived in for over fifty years.  Modest by
comparison to its neighbors, it was worth a fortune.  On the right side
of Sunset, Gerry had bought the place for what most people now spent on
a car.

Lost in her thoughts, Kathleen didn't know how long it had been since
she'd rung the bell, so she tried it again.  This time she added a
knock for punctuation.  She peeked through the long, leaded windows
that ran floor to ceiling on each side of the wide front door.

She could see a snippet of the living room on the left and the dining
room on the right.  Both were straightened and clean.

The foyer was empty; the flowers on the side table were fresh.

She scanned the street.  Nothing.  Not even a sound.  No dog barking in
the distance, no maid carting out the trash.  Lights burned behind
elegant windows on homes set back from the street.  Some were ringed by
wrought-iron fences, others set apart by meticulously cut hedges.

Kathleen's eyes flicked left to the trees and bushes surrounding that
side of Gerry's house.  Her eyes darted right to the driveway.  She
went that way.  Stepping off the porch, she walked across the manicured
lawn, leaving her self-pity on the porch, replacing it with curiosity
and just a dash of concern.

Lifting the latch on the gate, she slipped through and headed for the
back.  It was a warm evening and Gerry had a soft spot for the
night-blooming jasmine.  He could often be found in his garden, alone
with his thoughts, surrounded by the jasmine's heavy perfume.

"Uncle Gerry?"  she called, walking more slowly.

Knowing how easily her heels would sink into the sponge of the grass,
she picked her way across the stepping stones that led to the patio.
Deflecting the unease, she took note of all the normal things around
her: the neat coil of hose, the garage door that was latched on the
outside, the patio furniture that Gerry washed down every Saturday
whether it needed cleaning or not and, yes, the night-blooming jasmine,
whose heady summer perfume lay heavy on her senses.  She hesitated on
the fifth paver and looked about, breathing deeply.  Closing her eyes,
Kathleen found she was smiling.  Though children had never played here,
though she had never set foot on this ground until she moved to Beverly
Hills, Kathleen knew a truth beyond reproach.  She was home.  Nothing
that had been done couldn't be reversed.  No decision that had been
made couldn't be rethought.  She'd share that with her uncle.  He'd
been waiting to hear that for a long time.

"Gerry!  Uncle Gerry!"

She hurried up the back steps.  His shoes were by the back door, the
polish sitting out.  She knocked on the back door and her heart
stopped.  Instead of hearing the hollow sound of a fist on the door,
she heard the door swish as it opened onto a meticulously kept kitchen.
Dread skittered out like a cat shut in too long.

Kathleen made excuses.  The door was open because he'd rushed back in,
in search of a rag to polish those wing-tips or new laces to replace
the ones that were frayed.  She would help him.  They'd talk.  It would
all be okay between them.  Or maybe the phone had rung.  He'd gone back
in and hadn't closed the door all the way.  She'd wait, curled up in a
chair in his office while he finished his call--unless it were
personal.  If that were the case, she'd make herself some tea and wait
under the jasmine tree.

"Uncle Gerry?"  There were a million reasons why the door wasn't closed
and locked, not the least of which was Gerry O'Doul's belief that in
his home he was safe.  Kathleen stepped into the kitchen.  A coffee cup
and plate had been placed neatly in the drainer.  There were no cooking
smells but Kathleen expected that.  Gerry preferred to eat out or
microwave soup.

At his age, he was fond of saying, he didn't need much to fill him
up.

Kathleen poked her head into the TV room.  An old picture of her and
her mother sat framed atop the television.  A book was open on the
table by the recliner.  She caught the name of the author, Donald
Tivens, and the visage of Uncle Sam in mourning on the cover.  It felt
like an omen.  The television was off.  She left the lights on.

A short hall connected a guest room and the master bedroom.

Kathleen could see the edge of the guest bed, made up and waiting for
friends who never came.  Gerry was the last of his breed.  She turned
the opposite way, opened her mouth to give him a heads-up and then
remembered the shotgun a surprised Sarah Brooker had greeted her with
in the mountains.  Not that this was the same situation.  Still, once
burned, twice remembered.  She walked cautiously down the hall,
glancing into a small room Gerry used as an office.  Memorabilia, a
desk, a chair, nothing more.

"Uncle Gerry?"  she whispered, and the words sounded like a child's
quiet cry in the night.  She hadn't meant to say anything until she
knocked on the door but there it was, done now.  No voice came back to
greet her, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was there
in his room.  Only him.  No one else.  Heart sinking, Kathleen
quickened her step, checked out the clothes laid on the bed, heard the
sound of the shower, and for one minute allowed herself to be relieved.
But when she walked to the door of the bathroom, her knees shook. When
she raised her hand to knock her arm felt too heavy.  She forced
herself to rap on the door.

"Gerry?"

His name came out in three syllables.  She knocked three times and laid
her cheek against the door, straining to hear his answer.  She called
again.  Louder now.  Then once more.  That's when it sounded as if she
were going to cry.

"I'm coming in, Gerry."  Kathleen sniffled.

"You'd better be decent.  I'm telling you, I'm not used to being in a
man's bathroom."  She tried to laugh, but her breath caught and she put
her hand to her mouth to keep the sob inside.

Swallowing hard, Kathleen lay her left hand on the hard, solid wood of
the door; her right she used to turn the knob and push open the
bathroom door.  She knew there was no need to call anymore and no need
to hurry.

Kathleen Cotter stood her ground and felt her shoulders slump.  While
she surveyed the scene, she reminded herself to be attentive.  There
would be questions.  After that, there would be tears and
self-recrimination and sadness.  But now, she needed to pay
attention.

Gerry O'Doul's hand was slung over the side of the bathtub,

white and lifeless.  A fine spray of water shot through the partially
open shower curtain, making the tile slick where the rug didn't quite
cover it.  A white, fluffy robe was laid neatly over the toilet, a
towel on top of that.  A glass had left a ring on the sink top, but now
it was shattered on the floor near the tub.

It took three steps to reach the tub and one quick movement to pull the
shower curtain back then close it again.  It took a second or two to do
that, yet it seemed like an eternity.  Kathleen concentrated on his
face in those few seconds, looking for any sign of life.  She had
reached through the curtain and put her fingers to his neck, praying
for a pulse and knowing her prayers wouldn't be answered.  At the other
end of the tub, she reached for the faucet and held back.  The police
might want to see everything as it was.  She backed off, turned, and
crunched glass underfoot.  Scotch.  He'd been drinking Scotch, but he'd
hardly had a sip.  The smell was slight and the entire contents of the
glass seemed to be on the floor.

Perhaps he had felt it coming--the fall, the heart attack, the
slip--whatever had caused him to hit his head and die.  Perhaps he had
reached for the side of the sink to right himself and that's when the
glass had fallen.  It was the only thing in his whole, lovely home that
was disturbed.  Even Gerry didn't look disturbed.  Only perplexed and
that, she supposed, wasn't a bad way to go.  Better than her father,
dying with a scowl on his face.  Her mother had turned her face to the
wall, refusing to look at Kathleen, much less the world around her.
Yes, perplexed was probably okay, Kathleen thought, as she stepped over
the glass, walked to the bedside table, picked up the receiver, and
dialed 9-1-1 and asked for help.

Then Kathleen Cotter crumpled to the floor and tried very, very hard to
breathe so that when she cried she would do it very, very well.

"He just lost his footing and hit his head.  It happens all the time
with the old folks.  Their equilibrium isn't what it used to be.  There
isn't a thing you could have done about it."
"I could have been here
sooner.  He was expecting me sooner.

I don't know.  I could have ..."  Kathleen sniffled and tried to
swallow, but the lump in her throat was huge and wouldn't go down
easily.  The officer didn't have time to wait.

"Yes ma'am," he mumbled and jotted her name and contact information in
his little notebook alongside Gerry's name and vital information.
Kathleen was prepared to tell him everything she knew about Gerry, that
he was kind and considerate and she hadn't given him his due.  Instead,
the policeman walked away.  She didn't believe him when he said she
couldn't have done anything for her uncle even if she'd arrived a
week-ago- Thursday and waited for the accident to happen.

Kathleen pushed herself away from the doorjamb where she'd been looking
at the kitchen.  It was so clean except for the dust around the back
door where they had taken fingerprints.

Only a precaution, she'd been assured.  The door had been open after
all; there was no sign of force.  He had either left it open or
forgotten to close it after a neighbor stopped by, but it seemed
evident he had opened it himself.

Kathleen turned to the living room and wandered through it looking for
the last bit of Gerry left behind.  She sat on the sofa, in each chair,
but couldn't find his spirit anywhere.  She glanced out the window. The
coroner's van was there.  She was sorry she had not asked them to send
Marlene Wong.  She had only thought to call Michael, but she hadn't
been able to reach him.  The answering machine was on at the boat.

Trying to drown out the noise of police business-as-usual, she took
refuge in Gerry's office, the smallest room in the house, the most like
him.  Kathleen sat in his chair.  She laid her arm over his desk and
her head on her arm then closed her eyes and tried not to feel so
responsible.  She wanted to wail that it was all her fault.  She hadn't
felt this way when her mother died.  Then she had felt freed.  Now she
felt loss.

When she opened her eyes, it was just in time to see the gurney with
Gerry's body being wheeled past the hallway door.

Kathleen bolted upright, gasping for air.  She would have turned away;
but they were gone before she could move, and Gerry was gone with
them.

Picking up a pen, she stabbed at a piece of paper, threw it away, then
began to rearrange his desk.  She would clean it up.  For whom?  Put it
in order.  For what?  Because he might be looking down from heaven and
see what she was doing.  Niceties that she should have done while he
lived.  This would be the only nice thing that she had done for him
that was without a tinge of bitterness and disappointment.  Grief was
all she'd given him.  He never let on that she'd disappointed him.  Her
tears started again but not before she'd noticed that the piece of
paper she was holding was very interesting indeed.

Wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve since the Kleenex in her hand
was in shreds, Kathleen took the paper and nestled herself in the
cracked leather chair that had been Gerry's favorite.

When she woke, she saw Michael.

"Are they all gone?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"I got here just in time.  They were going to wake you."

"They should have," Kathleen murmured.  She was stiff and her head felt
like it was stuffed with cotton.  She touched her cheek.  It was cold
and that reminded her of Gerry and that made her feel like crying
again.

"I'm so sorry, Kathleen.  I am so very sorry."

Michael was at Gerry's desk, but by the time he'd finished with those
few words, he had moved and gathered her up in his arms.  She sat in
his lap, cradled like a child.  For the life of her, she couldn't
remember when she had ever been cared for in this way.  They sat like
that, her head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped loosely around her,
for a very long time.  He smelled so nice.  Like Michael.  Like a
friend.  His fingers combed through her hair now and again and when she
sighed, he sighed with her.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?  I'll stay with you," he offered.

"I don't know."  She shook her head against his chest.

She couldn't find the strength to make a decision.  She clutched her
hands tighter, realizing that she was still holding the paper she'd
found on Gerry's desk.  She opened her fist.

Michael took it.

"What's this?"

"A list.  I found it on his desk.  It's got everyone's name on it."

Michael looked.

"Tysco.  Lionel.  Richard.  Carl.  Money.

Money.  Money."  Michael chuckled.

"Gerry had a one-track mind."  He crumpled the paper and held her
tighter.  She reached halfheartedly for it.

"If s nothing tonight.  Now come with me."

He kissed her forehead.  She shook her head.

"Yes.  Come with me."

"I don't want to leave him."

"He isn't here anymore, Kathleen."

"Yes, he is," she whispered.  Tears streamed down her face, falling
onto the hands that were once again balled and fisted against Michael's
chest.  Michael dropped the paper to the floor and set her beside it.
She didn't move while he closed the windows and locked the doors.  When
he came back he had her purse and that same purposeful look he'd had
when she'd first encountered him at Tysco.  Kathleen didn't think that
odd, nor was she upset that there were no tears and no wailing.  It was
Michael's way, and she knew that his heart had broken in just as many
pieces as hers.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he walked her out of the study
where Gerry had planned Louise's lawsuit and worried about Kathleen. It
didn't escape her notice that Michael had closed the door to Gerry's
bedroom.  She nuzzled into him, all the thanks she was capable of
giving at the moment.

Looking up as he led her to the front door, Kathleen realized he was
right.  Gerry was gone.  He handed her out the door and turned to lock
it behind them.  That was when he allowed himself a private moment.
That was when his eyes filled with tears.  In his heart he raised a
glass to his friend Gerry O'Doul, then took Kathleen Cotter to his boat
where he let her know that she was as precious to him as she had ever
been to Gerry O'Doul.

* * *

Richard Jacobsen sat in a carved chair that he had rescued from the
vestibule of a soon-to-be-demolished church in Wales.

It was old, made when men were not so large.  It suited him well.  He
sat in the dark, his hands folded in his lap like a bishop.  He
considered the new twist to the story that had gone from a footnote in
the script of life to an intriguing drama in its own right.  He tried
to pinpoint the moment when people had stopped doing his bidding and
acted independently with such disastrous results.  It wasn't hard to
figure it out.  What he couldn't understand was why he'd been unable to
stop the snowball once it had started to roll.  That had never happened
to him before.  But then, love had never blinded him before.

He often looked at that picture in his private dressing room at the
office and thought of the ways he would tell her how love had blinded
him, what love meant to him.  It meant so little to her, and so much to
him.  But he kept those thoughts to himself.

Sighing, he stood up and looked across the bedroom, letting his gaze
linger on his sleeping, exhausted companion.  It had been a long road,
an unusual experience, and rather exciting.

But now it was over.  The fires had been put out--not the way he would
have done it--but put out, nonetheless.  There were, of course, loose
ends to tie up.  He wished there were someone else to do it.  Since
there wasn't, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

In the hall, the early-mo ming light was pouring through the huge,
round window above the grand staircase.  He barely noticed the shadow
patterns he usually found so artistically pleasing.  Downstairs, the
housekeeper was beginning his breakfast.

He wasn't very hungry, but he was a creature of habit.

She was the one who'd taught him the value of that.  At the end of the
hall he settled himself in his library--a huge, exquisitely decorated
room--and dialed a number from memory.

"Carl," he said, "I have some news.  Gerry O'Doul died last night."

The conversation was exactly as he'd expected.  Carl didn't seem the
least bit surprised.  He, at least, had been surprised.

When their talk was done, Richard Jacobsen looked up the next number.
He dialed it.  The phone rang.  No one answered.  A machine clicked
on.

"Kathleen, this is Richard Jacobsen.  I just wanted you to know that we
will expect you to take some time off given what happened last night. I
want you to know how sorry--" Richard's voice cracked.  That amazed
him.  He put two fingers to his eyes and finished up.  "--how sorry I
am to hear about the passing of Gerry O'Doul."

His lips on her lips woke her.  His body, naked, against her body
brought her to consciousness.  Long, luxurious minutes ticked slowly
by.  With each languid trail of his lips, each hungry nip of his teeth,
there was an explosion of sensation that ran the length of her body and
embedded its memory so deep in her mind that Kathleen knew it could
never be discarded.  It filled up her head so there was no space for
the sadness and pain she had felt the night before.  He made
remembering impossible--for a moment.

Kathleen reached for Michael and held him.  They rolled together across
the small bed and back again, instinctively knowing when the only place
left to go was the floor.  Floating was out of the question, they were
both heavy with desire.  The ocean rocked them, and the curve of the
small cabin kept the sounds of their lovemaking private, as private as
the conversation that followed when they lay in one another's arms.

In the end, Kathleen's head was cradled on Michael's arm, his free hand
was cupped around her bare shoulder.  She wished they could stay that
way forever, forgetting everything--everything--else in the world.  She
would not put a name to that everything and she wouldn't let him
either.  Thankfully, he said, "You slept well."

"That happens when you're worn out."  Kathleen kissed his chest.  He
smelled like sex.  Better yet, he smelled like love.

"I

guess you're a morning and night guy."

"Kathleen, I can't tell you--" "Shhh, not yet."  She pushed herself up
and put her lips over his, pushing hard and harder still until Michael
had no choice but to kiss her back.  He parted her lips.  There was no
question he had wanted her for a very long time.  But he wouldn't let
her run away from what she had to face.  It wasn't his style.

It never had been.  He held her back.  Kathleen's eyes were closed; her
lips were parted, begging him to make love to her again so that they
could just skip over the next days and months until she could open her
eyes and look past her loss.

Gently, Michael lowered her and kissed her lips and both cheeks.  Then
he pushed her away and sat up.  She had no choice but to do the same in
the narrow bed.  Tired, she made no effort to cover herself.  Michael
threw his legs over the side of the bed, gave her arm a squeeze, and
got his shirt.  Carefully he put it on her rolling up the sleeves,
buttoning the front, and then he sat down beside her on the bunk.

"I missed."  He pointed between her breasts.  The shirt was askew.
Kathleen looked down and fingered the small, white button he had
overlooked.

"It's all right."  She pushed on it but couldn't manage to get it
through the hole.  She pushed harder, fumbling with the fabric until
she grunted in frustration and pain and her hands beat on the mattress
that only moments before had cushioned their lovemaking.

"Damn.  Damn, Michael."

Kathleen threw herself against the wall, just to the right of a
porthole.  Her face was as pale as a foggy morning, the sea outside was
as blue as Gerry O'Doul's eyes.  Michael concentrated on her.  He
pulled the sheet around him and sat parallel to her, his back against
the wall, the porthole between them.

He looked through the window on the other side of the cabin while he
spoke.

"It's going to be a rough day.  A rough couple of weeks actually."

"I don't know if I can face it."  Kathleen was quiet, still picking at
the offending button but no longer trying to rectify the problem.

"I didn't have this trouble with my parents.  I just took care of
things.  I thought I could always just take care of things.  Why do you
think it's so different now?"

"Because you loved Gerry like a father.  He treated you like a
daughter."

"No, he didn't.  My father stayed."

"Gerry let you grow.  Staying doesn't really mean a damn thing,
Kathleen.  I think I realized that last night when I was driving over
to get you."  Michael picked at the blanket and put that across his
lap, too.

"Gerry never stagnated, you know?

He stuck to his guns, sure.  He never stopped working or looking for
ways to move forward.  It was a lesson I wish I'd learned years ago."

"What do you mean?"

"I guess he showed me that I wasn't being as heroic as I thought I was
by staying at Tysco.  It's harder to move and look for a way to do what
you were meant to do.  That old man had it all over me.  He had it all
over you, too."  Kathleen hung her head.  Michael waited, then coaxed
her on.

"Admitting it would help, Kathleen."  He reached for her hand.  She let
him take it, then she squeezed to make sure his wasn't going to
disappear.

"I'm not going anywhere, babe."

"I think I would fall apart if you did, Michael.  And I do admit it.  I
thought I wanted to hurt him, and now he's dead.  I didn't really want
to hurt him.  Not really."  She raised his hand to her lips and
confessed the rest with that hand tight against her cheek.

"It was stupid, stupid, stupid.  I just wanted him to see that I'd
waited and he was the one who had failed me.  He hadn't.  He hadn't.
Michael, he gave me everything that really mattered.  He gave me love
and advice and hope.  He gave me a chance.  He wasn't wrong.  My
parents were and I was.  When I became an adult, I could have picked up
that phone, couldn't

I?"

Michael nodded.

"And when I stopped being effective at Tysco, I could have walked out,
but I didn't.  I was going to, though, when you guys didn't need me
anymore.  I wanted to sit and have a cigar with Gerry and tell him all
the new things I was going to do."

"So, now?"

"Now, we stick together.  We finish what we started with Louise.  Then
we find out what it is we're supposed to do together.  Think you're up
for it?"

Kathleen sniffed and raised her eyes.  They would never drain of all
their tears.  They weren't close to gone when she looked at Michael.

"Yeah.  I can do that.  I can, Michael."

"Good."  They came together in one of those moments no longer Kodak or
Hallmark but their very own.  They kissed like lovers who'd known each
other forever and still loved.

They clasped hands.  Michael let them sit in silence for a moment and
then said, "I think I found out what was upsetting Lionel."

Kathleen nodded.  She stood up, shed his shirt, and went to shower.  It
was time to work.

Chapter Sixteen

Gerry O'Doul would have loved his funeral.  The press was there.  Not
in force, not the way it had been after the Road Warrior case, but two
reporters and a photographer stood on the edge of the crowd that had
gathered to pay their respects.

The reporters were jotting notes, collecting the names that would mean
something to their readers.  Most of the mourners were Gerry's
contemporaries.  There was the comic who'd become famous insulting
people in the fifties.  Now, kindergarten kids were crueler.  There was
the song-and-dance man who'd made a transition to television with a
family sitcom.  There was the host of a syndicated radio talk show, and
a sprinkling of lesser personalities that might make the
Where-Are-They-Now?  page of People.  They were all at Gerry O'Doul's
funeral along with some the general public wouldn't know from Adam.
Kathleen Cotter and Michael Crawford thought those were the people more
than worthy of note.

Richard Jacobsen had murmured the proper condolences but Kathleen felt
a distance from him, as if he no longer found her interesting.  She put
such a dramatic change of heart down to the daze of her own grief.
There were five or six others from Shay, Sylvester & Harrington
including Craig Nelson, lead counsel on the environmental case on which
Kathleen toiled.

She appreciated the show of force from her employer; she just wasn't
sure why it was necessary.  She hadn't had a personal bonding with her
colleagues, Kathleen had not burst upon their scene like a bright
professional light.  Most of them were too young to have known Gerry in
his prime.  They had, no doubt, come out of respect for Richard.  If he
felt it was important to see Gerry O'Doul off, then it must be
important.

There were businessmen, most of whom Kathleen didn't recognize.  But
Michael knew at least one.  Mr.  Grossman.  Prom Tysco.

There were women who introduced themselves and shook Kathleen's hand.
She smiled and murmured pleasantries as they each claimed to be Gerry
O'Doul's one true love at some point in his life.  Through their tears,
each lamented that it hadn't worked out.  Henrietta came, walking with
a cane.  Go still by her side.

There were no children standing on the green grass, afraid to step on
headstones in case the long dead reached for them out of the ground.
Kathleen thought that was sad.  No nieces, nephews, grandchildren. Just
her.  She would have to do.  She hoped he'd look down from heaven when
he got his angel wings and see just how much she grieved for him.

"Kathleen?"  Marlene Wong touched her arm.  Kathleen smiled.  The
assistant coroner gave her a tight-lipped grimace that was close to a
smile.  Marlene was sad, too.

"Nice service."

"Gerry would have liked Father Fallen's speech.  I can see why they
were great friends.  Both of them knew how to lay it on thick."

Marlene chuckled and slipped on a pair of sunglasses.  They were big
and pink and made her look like a bright-eyed bug.

She glanced around.  People still stood about talking, slowly breaking
up and heading to their cars.  Kathleen followed her gaze.  There
wouldn't be many at the reception.  The movers and shakers would be
anxious to get back to business.  Those who had none would be the ones
at the buffet table.

"I heard you went over to Shay," Marlene noted, somehow managing to get
Kathleen moving.  The two women walked slowly away from the grave
site.

"Gerry told me when he called last week."

"Yeah.  It's different."

"More lucrative?"

"Much," Kathleen assured her.

"Good.  If you're going to be in a morgue, you might as well make some
good bucks."  Kathleen kept walking, staring at the black toes of her
shoes as they came into view with each slow step.  She remained silent,
waiting for Marlene to lead the conversation.  She didn't have to wait
long.

"Look, I don't know if it means anything anymore, but Gerry was after
me to find out exactly who called for Dr.  G on that Brooker thing."

"Did you find out?"

Marlene shook her head.

"Nope, and that's what I wanted to talk to Gerry about.  I had gotten
pretty far.  I knew it was an attorney, but the more I looked into it,
the more the grapevine closed down.  The fact that it seems to be a
big, dark secret is something that's totally weird on its own and
that's what I wanted to tell him about.  I did check our logs.  We got
the call from the LAPD dispatching us at four-thirty-three in the

A.M.

The van rolled and everything was normal.  Dr.  Wipling was on duty; he
signed the body, tagged and logged it.  No big thing.

Brooker took his place in line.  I finally got to talk to Wipling about
it--he'd been on vacation--and he had his nose out of joint.  Dr.  G
showed up at eight that morning and actually pirated the examining room
where Wipling was just starting on another subject.  He had Brooker
rolled in, ticked off to high heaven about having to dirty his hands,
did a slapdash job on the body then instructed for it to be released.
It was over in a couple of hours.  Normally, Brooker's body would have
laid there for days before anyone even looked at him."

"Dr.  Greischmidt never said why it was so important to him?"

Marlene shook her head, "Last time he was out was for that model's
murder.  He likes the limelight.  But if Gerry's to be believed,
Brooker was a nobody."

"Believe it.  There was no reason for special treatment."

"Well, it sure is suspicious behavior.  The closest Wipling got to an
explanation was that someone Dr.  G thinks is pretty nifty in the
private sector pulled in a favor.  Maybe whoever is handling the estate
wanted the body to disappear so they could probate fast?"

Kathleen shook her head, "I can't imagine Tony Maglio showing that kind
of interest.  I'm not sure he'd have that kind of connection even if he
did."

"I suppose you might be able to ask the good Dr.  G directly.

What've you got to lose?  Who knows what the connection is?

I'm sorry, wish it were more."

"I'll think about it, Marlene.  Thank you very much."  Kathleen took
her hand, knowing Greischmidt wouldn't give her the time of day.
Marlene nodded and offered a few more words of condolence.

"You know, Kathleen, I did the autopsy on Gerry.  He didn't suffer.  I
thought you'd want to know.  It was quick."

"Thanks."

Marlene shook Kathleen's hand.

"If you're going to stick around this area, keep my number.  Don't know
what I'll ever be able to do while you're at Shay, but at least you can
say you've got someone inside the coroner."

Kathleen nodded and Marlene left.  Richard was waiting.

" Kathleen, it was a lovely service."  He called out the compliment
before he actually took her hand.  He was smiling now.

Funny that a funeral service should make him seem almost lighthearted.
Maybe it was just being outdoors.  Maybe it was Father Fallen.  Maybe
it was the fact she wasn't going to be in for a few days.  "I want you
to know I meant what I said about time off.  A leave of absence isn't
unheard of in situations like this.  Close up Gerry's office.  I can
suggest a few private practitioners who might be able to take up a few
of his clients.

Or, perhaps, you'd like to sell the practice.  Just let me know,
Kathleen.  Whatever you need, take as long as you like."

You don't want me anymore.

"I appreciate that, but I won't be away long."

/ see it in your eyes.

"I just don't want you to be pressured."  He reached for her arm, as
if he might give her an affectionate squeeze.  Realizing what he was
doing, he stepped back.

"Nice service.  Very nice."

Kathleen watched him go, keeping her eyes on him even when Michael came
and took her hand.  He was at his car and she was almost ready to turn
away when she realized there was someone inside, waiting for Richard.
There was a leg, an arm, part of a shoulder.  A man in a gray suit
whose dark head was shadowed, making him unidentifiable.  He was
dressed in a sharkskin suit, that kind of fabric that shimmered.  Gerry
had had a sharkskin suit years ago.  She'd seen it in a picture.  Now
it had made a comeback.  Vogue had shown it in the fall preview issue.
Whoever was in that car was nothing if not fashion forward  She looked
back to the knot of people by the grave, to those who were heading to
their own cars, and then back to Richard's.  Had he been there?
Wouldn't she have noticed a man dressed like that?

But looking back now, there was nothing to see.  The passenger door was
closed.  Richard was already in the driver's seat.

There was a ring on the stranger's finger.  Oval and dark.  Onyx, more
than likely.  But more importantly, it was a young hand.

Not one of Gerry's peers, too dandy for an associate or partner.

She would have remembered a man like that.

"You ready?"  Michael asked, his hand lying protectively on the small
of her back.

"Yes, I think so."  She wrapped her arm around his waist.

"Look, Michael.  Someone was waiting in the car for Richard.

Who do you think would sit through an entire service just waiting like
that?"

"I don't know.  Maybe whoever it was didn't feel well."

"Maybe he didn't want anyone to see him, like he was afraid to show his
face?"  Kathleen speculated as they turned toward the limousine.

"Like who?"

"I don't know.  Who wasn't here that we should have expected?  Who
wasn't at the service that Richard knew and

Gerry knew?"  Michael shrugged and let his arm wind round her
shoulder.

"I know," she said quietly.

"Mayor Walsh.  He wasn't here."

"They had words the day Gerry died," Michael said.  There was no need
to muddy the waters by pointing out they were about her.

"I didn't know that.  Still, do you think that would be enough to keep
him from coming to Gerry's funeral?  There was such a history there.1'
"I don't know, Kathleen.  I'm having a hard time trying to figure out
what the little we do know means.  We've got enough mysteries to deal
with.  Why don't you call Walsh and ask him where he was?  You could do
one of those girl-things that make men think you're really worried
about us."

Kathleen laughed gently, "One of those girl-things, huh?"

"Yeah.  I like it when you do those girl-things," Michael murmured and
kissed the top of her blond head.

"So, we'll put the mystery of who was in Richard's car on the back
burner, and you can tell me who that lady was you had your head
together with."

"Marlene Wong.  Assistant Coroner.  She had a little twist to add to
our story of Lionel Brooker.  Dr.  Greischmidt actually threw another
body off the table to get Lionel's autopsy done fast.  A regular van
brought Brooker in; everything was going by the book, then Dr.  G shows
up, angry, muttering about favors and lawyers and misery."

"Lionel didn't know anyone in high places," Michael reminded her.

"That's the point.  Curiouser and curiouser, Michael.  But maybe it was
one of the Tysco attorneys who wanted to keep all this quiet.  Do you
think you could check that out?"

"Are you going to ask me to walk on water next?"  He kissed her lightly
on the lips.

"I'll get you the names, then you can call in an official capacity."

He handed her into the back of the limousine.  Inside, Louise sat with
her arm around Sarah, who continued to cry quietly into a Kleenex that
had seen better days.

"Thanks," Kathleen said.

"You two doing okay?"  Michael folded himself onto the back seat.
Kathleen gave Sarah a pat and Louise a sympathetic look.  Louise had
outdone herself.  It was probably better she had taken Sarah back to
the car after the church service.  Some one might have tried to push
her into the grave after Gerry if they'd gotten a good look at her in
the sunlight.

Louise was as pale as a ghost, still shaken by Gerry's passing.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, though no one had seen her cry.

Her stiff upper lip was firmly in place only because she'd drawn it on
with her lipstick.  Her dress was black and, for the first time, her
formidable chest was covered.  Nonetheless it seemed as if the material
was hard pressed to contain the mounds of flesh beneath it.  She'd run
her dark stocking and her nails were painted pearl with flesh-colored
praying hands tastefully airbrushed on each tip.  Gerry would have
appreciated the gesture.  So did Kathleen.

"Darn right, kiddo."  Louise's voice was full of pebbles and Kathleen
allowed her the little lie."

"We're fine.  We got pictures of everybody through the window.  We know
who was here.

There's someone out there who had it in for Gerry.  You're not going to
convince me otherwise."

"No, Louise, no," Kathleen assured her.

"Gerry fell in the tub.  That's all."

Louise pulled Sarah closer and glared at Michael.

"Do you believe that?  After all you know, you believe that?  This is
all about money, and Lionel was killed because of money."

"It's looking that way," Michael agreed.

"But I don't think there was any foul play with Gerry."

"Have you found anything else?  I mean anything other than what Lionel
left at the house?"

Michael shook his head.

"I haven't been in the office since Gerry."

"I still don't understand it, Michael," Sarah said.

"I'm so scared.  I still don't know why someone would want to kill
Lionel, and now Mr.  O'Doul is dead."

Michael knocked on the dividing window of the limo and the car pulled
away from the curb.  He opened the bar and handed Sarah a canned iced
tea.  Louise shook her head, as did Kathleen.

"Okay, we'll go over it again.  The papers you gave me were invoices
from a Tysco's Office Supplies division, which sells to local
government agencies, hospitals, schools, institutional kinds of places.
Everything from pens to desks.  That's big, big bucks for Tysco and
big, big expenditures for those businesses and services.  Lionel's
invoices had the correct client code for shipping, but the billing code
was incorrect.  Over half the Tysco invoices for the city of Los
Angeles sent during the last quarter carried a billing code for St.
Peter's Hospital.  So, the city gets the goods, but the hospital is
paying for them and Tysco still gets the money."

"It could be an honest clerical error," Kathleen suggested.

"I don't Chink so.  It showed up on every single invoice in increments
that wouldn't be immediately identifiable to an untrained eye.  I think
this is exactly what upset Lionel," Michael said with certainty.

"But I'm willing to give Tysco or the city or whoever's behind this the
benefit of the doubt.

The only way I'll be able to know for certain if this was a fluke or an
ongoing problem--and I use the word problem lightly--is to search back
through those division invoices.  It's going to take some time."
"Why
would anyone want to do that purposefully?"  Louise had folded her
hands and was listening intently.

"I don't know what benefit it would be to Tysco.  I haven't figured
that out yet, and they're the ones who have to be manipulating the
billing.  The city's bottom line would look great, though."  Michael
sat back and laced his fingers through Kathleen's.  They sat quietly,
looking out the window, knowing no one could look in.  The car turned
and turned again.  They were getting close to Gerry's house.

"It could be a mistake," Kathleen reiterated quietly, wanting
everything to be simple; wanting really nothing more than to give up.

"Yeah, it could," Michael answered.

Then they all listened to Sarah's sniffles.  Kathleen wished she had
the words to tell them it was over.

* * *

"Here's the last of the files.  I think we've taken care of everything
else."

Becky put the folders beside Kathleen and sank into a chair beside the
desk that used to be Gerry's.  She propped her chin on both hands and
looked at Kathleen through her Coke-bottle lenses.  A Tootsie Roll hung
listlessly from her fingers, only the end nibbled and that, clearly,
without much gusto.

"Have you finished the billing to date?"

Becky nodded.

"Did you notify all of Gerry's credit cards, the utilities, and
everything?"  Kathleen flipped through the first three folders,
withdrew the second and set it aside.

"Yes."  Becky sighed.

"I just needed a break for a minute, you know.  It gets so depressing
sending the same letter out over and over again."  She looked toward
the ceiling.

"This is to inform you that Gerry O'Doul is deceased."

"Becky, please."  Kathleen closed her eyes and started to count.  She
got as far as three, then managed a smile.

"I'm sorry.  I guess I'm on edge.  It's funny; I didn't think there was
this much going on when I worked here.  I had no idea he was on
retainer with so many people."

"Yeah, I always thought that was really neat how he and his buddies
stuck together.  I mean all those old guys never got into any trouble,
but they paid him like clockwork.  Guess they all figured he'd be doing
their estates and working out the fights between the kids once they
kicked off.  Now, look.  He's gone before all of them."

Kathleen handed Becky the tissue box.  Off and on through the last two
days they'd both needed it.  But now there was business to attend to.
Gerry wouldn't have wanted her to sit around weeping when there was so
much to do.  In fact, she could almost hear him whispering in her ear
to get on with the important things.  There was no doubt in her mind
what those important things were.

"Becky, look, I'm almost done for the day.  Why don't you take off?
Get yourself into a hot bath.  You'll feel better tomorrow and we'll
start on the paperwork again."

"Are you sure?  It's only four o'clock."

"Of course I'm sure.  We only have two hearings pending-and Louise
Brooker's trial of course.  Luckily, we have another week or so on
that.  I managed to change the court date."

"You didn't need to do that.  Mr.  Morton's office called.  He wants to
meet with you at the end of the week if you're not back to work at
Shay, Sylvester & Harrington.  Are you really going back there, Ms.
Cotter?"  Big tears plopped into Becky's lap faster than she could wipe
them away.

"Oh, Becky."  Kathleen put down her pen.  She stood up and patted the
girl's shoulders, at a loss to know what to do.  She'd never ever cried
in front of her parents.  Actually, she'd never cried in front of
anyone but Michael.  So, thinking of Michael, she did what she assumed
would help.  Bending down, Kathleen put her arm around Becky and
whispered, "He would have really been proud of you, Becky.  Gerry would
have been so happy that you wanted to keep the office open."

"He would have been happier to know that you did," she sniffled and
then patted Kathleen's hand.  The two women stayed locked together a
minute longer and then Becky left, dragging herself out the door and
home to the hot bath and whatever comfort her refrigerator had to
offer.

Alone, Kathleen sat back down at Gerry's desk and pulled the file back
to her.  Brooker, Louise was neatly typed at the top.  Bob Morton
wanted to talk to her.  It was settlement time, but happiness wasn't
sitting there right along with that surety.

Once this was settled, she'd have to make everyone see that she
couldn't help them any longer.  She wanted to forget about Lionel
Brooker.  There really wasn't any mystery; and if there were, she
didn't have the heart to deal with it.

Who were they now that Gerry was gone?  She opened the file to
reacquaint herself with the issues, the arguments, and anything new
Gerry had put there thinking he would be in front of Judge Kelley
arguing the matter.

Quickly she perused the information only to find there wasn't much that
was new.  He had left her argument intact, making a note of every
piece of information regarding Lionel that she had managed to collect
before leaving for her new position.

There were notes and doodles on the manila folder and Kathleen smiled.
She had never thought of Gerry as a doodler.  She checked out the
hearts and knives and books the artistic Gerry had penned, and then she
saw something else on the top of the inside cover.  She spread it out
flat this time and took note.  This was more than a doodle.  Here were
things that were on Gerry's mind: SS & H, Lionel, Tysco, money, money,
money????

Bills!!!  Billings!!!  CW, RJ, Los Angeles, City of!  Kathleen.

Here was an extension of Gerry's doodling at his home desk.

It could have been anything.  A laundry list of the things that worried
Gerry O'Doul: his niece, his client, his competition, his worries. That
would be a plausible explanation except for the boldly drawn arrow, the
redundant circle etched around a woman's name and phone number. 
Kathleen had never heard of Mrs.  Able and she was sure Louise never
had either.  Louise, who had an opinion on everything, would certainly
have shared any opinion she had on Mrs.  Able if she'd known the woman
existed.

She tapped her finger on the number.  Kathleen bit her lip.

She picked up the phone and, before she lost her nerve or came to her
senses, dialed the number.

"City Hall."

Kathleen was silent.

"City Hall."

"Mrs.  Able, please?"  Kathleen swiveled so she was exactly parallel to
the desk.  Slowly she picked up the pen she had earlier discarded and
let it hover over the file folder where Gerry had made his cryptic
notes.

"One moment, I'll transfer you."  No problem.

"Thank you."

Kathleen's voice was small, no more than a whisper.  Moving faster now,
Kathleen rummaged through the drawers, finally finding a half used pad
of paper.  A file folder just wouldn't do.  She nipped open to a clean
sheet when a cheery voice floated over the line.

"Monica Able, how may I help you?"

"Well, I don't really know," Kathleen began.

"I found your name and number on a file and I wanted to follow up."

"Oh, I see.  Not to worry, I get calls like this all the time.

One person leaves, another comes.  Files are passed around.

How about we start with your company name and the billing number on the
file in question?"

"Actually, that's kind of the problem.  I'm with a law firm, O'Doul &
Associates.  I believe Mr.  O'Doul contacted you--"
"Oh, yes.  I just
heard about Gerry.  My goodness, I thought my heart would break."
Kathleen could almost hear the woman putting her hand to her breast as
if to prove that her heart had been in peril.

"You're not alone, Mrs.  Able.  And I'm going to do my best to make
sure his business is taken care of the way he'd want.

I'm his associate and his niece."

"His niece."  Yes, good move, Kathleen.

"Oh, I know all about you--well, when you were little anyway.  But
imagine, old enough to be a lawyer!  How wonderful.  You know, I used
to date your uncle.  Many years ago, of course.  He was sixteen years
older than I. How wicked it seemed back then.  Wish I hadn't let him
get away."  The woman sighed and Kathleen could swear she felt the
phone line wilt.

"Oh, but you don't want to reminisce.  I'm sorry, what was it you're
looking for?"

"I think Gerry called you recently.  He jotted some notes on a file,
and I'm afraid I can't read his writing."

There was silence, only this time it wasn't the quiet of good memories.
Mrs.  Able was being cautious.

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Kathleen Cotter.  My mother was Gerry's only sister.  We lived in
Banning."  Kathleen gave her credentials and tried to still her beating
heart while she waited for Mrs.  Able to decide if she were to be
trusted.

"Okay.  I just wanted to know because, really, what I did for Gerry was
something I shouldn't have done, and I sure don't want to lose my job
when I'm so close to getting my pension."

"No, I wouldn't want that either," Kathleen assured her quickly and
sincerely.

"I promise to treat the information with the same discretion as Gerry
would have."

"Okay.  Okay."  Her voice lowered almost to a whisper.

Kathleen could hear the rustle of paper.  She clutched her pen, ready
to take notes.

"Gerry asked me if there were any special procedures in the city
billing department.  I gave him the general numbers that we call when
there are questions about bills that are sent to us from our major
suppliers.  Are you ready?  Here they are."

Mrs.  Able read the list and at the top were Tysco and Shay, Sylvester
& Harrington, followed by a transportation firm, a cleaning service,
and others.

"Thank you.  That's great."

"Oh, but that's not all," Mrs.  Able said quickly.  Kathleen wondered
if she talked fast because she was losing her nerve.

Not that it mattered, really, as long as Kathleen got the same
information Gerry had.  Mrs.  Able was chattering but her voice was so
quiet it was hard to hear.

"I did something I shouldn't have done.  I accessed the mayor's
personal phone records.  It's not hard to do since the telephone bills
come through this department.  Gerry wanted to know if he had
personally called the billing departments.  Well, I found out that he
had called a few numbers that showed up over and over again.  They
aren't the numbers for general accounting, but they are numbers for
Tysco, the lawyers, and other suppliers.  They seem to be special
numbers.  The mayor is the only one who calls those numbers."

Quickly, Mrs.  Able gave her the numbers.  Kathleen wrote them, big and
bold, on her paper and then on the cover of the folder.  She thanked
the woman, assuring her that no one would ever know that she had done
Gerry such a favor.

Taking a deep breath, she clutched the receiver tight, counted to ten,
mouthed go for it and dialed quickly.  The phone rang once, twice.  It
was halfway through the third ring when it was answered.

"Grossman."

"Hello.  This is Mrs.  Able from the mayor's office.  Mr.

J.  J. Walsh asked me to check in with you, Mr.  Grossman.  He wanted
me to check about the special invoices."  Kathleen took a deep breath
and prayed that would be enough.  It was.

"Oh, for God's sake," the man muttered.

"Tell him we've got everything straightened out.  They've all gone
through the system without a hitch.  You tell him, if he has any more
questions to call me directly.  I don't talk want to talk to clerks
about this.  Maybe I'll tell him myself.  Put him on."

"Mr.  Walsh called from his car," Kathleen adlibbed

"He's not in the office right now.  I'll tell him--" The connection was
broken rudely, but Kathleen had what she wanted.  Lionel had stumbled
upon invoices from Grossman's division that assigned city costs to
other Tysco clients.  If this were happening at other suppliers, it
meant the mayor's incredibly frugal budget, the foundation of his
campaign platform, was a sham.

"Let's see who's next on the list."

Galvanized she dialed and got an answering machine attached to a
private number.  Kathleen compared it to her master list.

Prom the prefix it seemed to be a private number within Corpraclean,
janitorial services.

She began to dial again, but the other line rang before she could
finish.

"O'Doul & Associates."

"Hi, sweetheart."

"Michael.  I just talked to that man who was at Gerry's funeral.
Grossman.  The guy from Tysco."

"Funny you should mention him."  He was excited and Kathleen was all
ears."

"Grossman heads up the food service division.

They supply the city.  I got the billing code for the city and
cross-referenced automatic purchases for the city and other clients.
Guess what?"

"The city bills have been assigned to other large clients where the
charges would go unnoticed."

"Exactly.  They've been buried in billing that goes out to other mega
corporations and institutions.  We supply a ton of them.  Airlines,
schools, hospitals.  How many middle managers or clerks do you know
that check the billing with a fine-tooth comb?  I bet they're all
eating big chunks of city costs, and Walsh is looking like a god
because the city budget's balanced."

"And there would be a lot to lose if a lowly auditor with a big mouth
and an overblown sense of morality decided to make waves.  This is the
kind of thing that actually would get press.  Lionel must have scared
the hell out of Carl Walsh and Grossman and whoever else is involved in
this scam.  You don't think Carl killed Lionel though, do you?"

"No."  Michael scoffed.

"He wouldn't have the guts.

Besides, we already know they sent some goons to Sarah.

They've got people on the payroll we'll never know about.

You can bet their salaries don't show up on any billing records.

What I still can't figure out is why the drugs?  There had to be an
easier way."

"Listen, it's almost five.  I want to make one more call."

Kathleen held the phone against her shoulder, bouncing in the desk
chair.

"Meet me at my place tonight.  I want to start mapping this out so we
can see where we need to fill in the blanks.  I want to make sure when
we go to the authorities we've got enough for them to open an
investigation of Lionel's case."

"Okay.  I'll see you around seven.  I want to run as many records as
possible before the end of the day."

As Michael signed, off, Kathleen asked, "Jules Porter was probably
involved, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I do," Michael said definitively.

"I think Jules had been signing off on those invoices for years.  Now
that he's moved up, he's got to have someone else initialing this
stuff, 'cause I sure haven't been doing it."

"Be careful when you try to figure out who it is."  Kathleen knew she
should hang up, but there was another question she had to ask.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think Gerry just fell in that tub?"

Silence.  She could hear his thoughts; she just couldn't make them
out.

"I do.  I really do think so."  Michael didn't hang up.  He said, "You
know, I thought you were going to give up."

"I thought so, too," she answered.

"See you tonight."

It was showtime.  She dialed and listened and waited to go into her
spiel once more.  But when the connection was made, Kathleen Cotter was
speechless.

"Richard."

She knew that voice as well as she knew her own.  She'd listened to it.
She'd believed it.  She'd let Richard Jacobsen lead her away from Gerry
O'Doul like the Pied Piper.

Kathleen slammed down the phone and began to sweat.

Michael kissed her goodbye at seven-thirty the next morning.

Both of them were exhausted, not from their lovemaking, but from the
long hours tossing and turning as they considered what needed to be
done.  None of their options were without risk, yet neither considered
quitting.  There was too much at stake: Michael's honor, Kathleen's
proof of worth, justice for Lionel, Sarah's peace of mind, and, of
course, Louise's money.

Yet Kathleen knew that, even for Louise, this had become a quest for
the truth.  Now Kathleen was moving forward to bring them all what they
needed.  So, Kathleen dressed carefully and headed out on her own while
Michael went the opposite way.

She nodded to the guard at the front desk and waited patiently for the
elevator, trying hard not to wear her nerves on the outside of her
skin.  Kathleen did all the things she usually did once she got to the
office.  She put her briefcase in the back corner .  She looked at the
painting of the houses Richard had seen fit to put in this otherwise
bare room.  How easily she'd been bought.  At least the purchase price
made her feel better.

She went for coffee and she waited for Richard to make his rounds,
praying her resolve would see her through.  She could be wrong about
him, after all.  It could be that Carl often called Richard's private
number just to chat.  It could be that.

Kathleen timed her departure from the coffee room to coincide with
Richard Jacobsen's regular morning patrol of his domain, she ran into
him near Doreen Cusler's office.

"Richard, good morning."  She smiled brightly, her face painted on
beautifully, her red lips smiling as they had never smiled before.  She
was taller than he, but her knees quaked, when he drew near because he
was more powerful than she.

He might even have the power of life and death.

"Kathleen.  I'm surprised to see you back.  I thought you were going to
take an extended leave to take care of Gerry's affairs."

Wouldn't you have loved that?

' "There wasn't much to take care of.  I still have to meet with Bob
Morton.  I think he wants to settle the Brooker matter.  I don't know
if you remember--" "Yes, I do remember.  That's fine.  Excellent.  I'm
sure you'll settle with Bob equitably.  He's a good man.  Very fair.
It's in everyone's best interest to wrap things up."

"He's a friend of yours, then?"  Kathleen asked, stepping into his
path.  Richard eyed her curiously.

"Yes, as a matter of fact.  I've known Bob for some time."

"That's nice.  I'll have to call you if I need a good word put in."

Richard smiled and the temperature went down ten degrees.

"I already have, Kathleen."

Slam.  What a put-down.  He might as well have asked her straight out
if she thought she was smart enough to reel in All Life by herself.

"Thank you.  That was very kind," Kathleen murmured.

Richard took another step.  His schedule was off and he was getting
peevish.  But Kathleen needed more.

"I was wondering if you could spare a minute on another matter. Gerry's
business is almost wrapped up, and I really want to settle down here.

You know, really be a part of this firm.  I wondered about the billing
records for my client.  I noticed them on Jake's desk and I was
confused by some of the paperwork.  I didn't want to do anything
untoward, so I was wondering ..."

"Don't wonder, Kathleen."  Ice.  His voice chilled her.  Richard took
a step toward her instead of around.

"Just do.  I want you to perform for us as an attorney, not an
accountant.  Jake will get the billing.  I will okay the reports, and
accounting will do the paperwork."

Kathleen persisted.

"I just didn't want to do anything detrimental.

Everything was so easy at Gerry's office."

"I'm sure it was, and that's why Gerry had the kind of business he did.
Perhaps I made a mistake bringing you on board, Kathleen.  Perhaps you
were cut out for something-simpler."

He left her standing in the hall.  She looked after him, pleased as
punch by his reaction to her questions.  She wiped the smirk off her
face when she realized someone was looking right at her.  Kathleen
looked over her shoulder.  Doreen Cusler had been watching and
listening.  Kathleen looked right back at her.

"It was a mistake, him bringing me on board, you know," she said to the
astonished associate.

Kathleen sipped her coffee as she headed down the hall.

Richard Jacobsen would soon be finding out just how big a mistake it
was.  Kathleen walked right past her own office and stopped at the end
of the hall, where she turned into the big office.  It took her three
seconds to spot her prey.  The lady was at the first desk.  Accounting
was a busy place, so she smiled at the girl, who looked like she could
use a break.

"Hi, I'm Kathleen Cotter.  Do you have a minute?"

"You know, this is really nice."  The young woman's name was Jenny and
her morning drink of choice was cola.  It had taken her about five
minutes to become Kathleen's best friend.

"Most of the associates don't even know our names, and the only reason
the partners do is because they worry about what they'll have to divvy
up at the end of the year.  They think we'll give them a heads-up if
the balances look grim."

"See, that's exactly the kind of thing I'm not real sure about.  It's
so weird, the expectations around here.  I mean, I'm supposed to know
all the ins and outs, but I came from a really small firm.  It was
nothing like this.  It makes me feel like such a hick."

"Yeah, I heard.  Everybody thought it was pretty strange."

Her eyes fluttered closed while she apologized.

"I'm sorry, but around here we need any kind of gossip we can get. Most
of.

the attorneys are so dam boring.  I have to tell you, we figured they
hired you because you looked so great.  We never even saw a curriculum
vitae from you.  Everyone in personnel wanted to know where you'd come
from."

"It's nice to know everyone found me so interesting."  Kathleen
giggled.  She did the girl-thing when all she really wanted was the
hard information she'd come for.

"But I'll tell you, I really, really want them to admire me for my
mind.  The law doesn't worry me, it's the business part of the whole
thing that makes me crazy.  I want to make sure I look good on paper to
this firm."

"Hey, that's not a problem.  Just bill what they expect, and what they
expect isn't forty hours a week.  If you can hang in there at sixty
plus, you'll do fine."

"So, I just fill out that time sheet with my hours.  But I thought
there must be something more to it because I heard Mr.  Jacobsen gets
the billing records.  I sure don't want to do anything that's going to
make him mad."

"Of course he does.  He has to go over every single attorney's billing
and make changes," she said, clicking her tongue as if this were the
most ridiculous question in the world.  Kathleen played along.

"Wait, now I'm confused.  How can you change how many hours someone
worked?  I mean, what I put down is what I put down."

"Oh, it's not that you don't get credit for all your hours," the woman
said, concerned that she'd given Kathleen the wrong impression.

Hurry.  Hurry.

"Boy, that's good to know."

"Naw, it's just that sometimes adjustments have to be made to keep the
clients happy.  Business people do it all the time.

Anyway, Mr.  Jacobsen makes sure that no one inadvertently marks too
much time to one client.  Or if the firm needs to give a client a
break, you know they want to look good to the client, Mr.  Jacobsen
transfers the hours between different dockets so that the bottom line
looks the way he wants it to."

"Wow, that must be tough to keep everything straight.  Do you each meet
with Mr.  Jacobsen to go over the changes."

She laughed.

"You've got to be kidding.  I'd quit if I had to go to all that
trouble.  We just tally the bottom line and input it into the computer.
Then I initial it and send out the accounts assigned to me and make
sure the receivables are up-to-date."

"Wow, I don't know how you keep it all straight."  Kathleen shook her
head admiringly.

"Do you think I could see some of the final billing, just so I'm
familiar with it if I ever have to justify anything to my client?"

"Sure.  If you're that dedicated, you deserve all the help you can
get."  Taking a last drink of her cola.  Jenny stood up and slid open a
file drawer that was almost as long as the wall.

"Here, this is the refinery docket.  You can see exactly what you look
like to the client on paper."

"Thanks.  I really didn't mean to put you to all this trouble."

Kathleen forced herself to be casual.  She flipped open the file folder
and let her eyes run down the latest invoice.  There she was, laid out
in black and white, all her glorious hours, billed at a lowly
associate's rate.  But there was Craig Nelson, too, exclusive senior
partner to city business.  He billed triple her hourly rate and the
refinery was picking up the tab for his services.  If anyone noticed,
they were probably pretty impressed that one of the senior partners was
actually doing the daily dirty work on their business.

"Boy, I really admire you.  I'd go crazy if I had to keep track of all
these bits and pieces of hours."

"You get used to it."  She preened, pleased to impress an attorney.

Kathleen's hands were sweating as she handed back the billing docket.

"I didn't realize how much of your time I'd taken up.  I better get
going.  Thanks for all your help.  I hope I don't screw up."

"You won't.  I'll bet you'll do just fine."  The woman's smile faded
as she turned away from the file drawer.  Kathleen turned, right into
Richard Jacobsen who stood in the doorway.

"I've brought this month's time sheets.  Jenny."

He walked past Kathleen and deposited the paperwork.  When he retraced
his steps, he paused beside her, his expression quizzical.  Kathleen
began to perspire.

"I was just leaving," she whispered, standing and offering the only
explanation she could think of.

"I needed to change the beneficiary on my insurance policy.  I mean,
now that Gerry's dead.  Tax information.  You know.  Thanks again.
Jenny."

Kathleen glanced at her new friend, who looked a little sick.

Kathleen hoped the woman wouldn't catch it for talking to her.

When she looked behind her, she saw that Richard Jacobsen had already
left accounting.  He had no interest in Jenny.  He was standing in the
hall, looking thoughtfully after her.

Kathleen clutched her coffee mug with two hands, letting go of it only
when she reached her office.  Taking a deep breath, she picked up her
purse and her briefcase and walked out the door, down the hall, and
through the lobby.  Eyes forward, afraid to look around in case Richard
were there watching her, Kathleen waited for the elevator.  She stepped
in, let the doors close, and then collapsed into the corner sure that,
at any moment, the emergency trap would open and Richard Jacobsen would
be staring down at her, quietly informing her that she was about to
die.

Richard would never go to such lengths to terrorize Kathleen Cotter.
When Richard Jacobsen encountered a problem, he took care of it simply
and swiftly.  Picking up the phone, he called the one person who
understood this predicament.

"It's me.  I think there's a problem with Kathleen Cotter.  I know, I
know.  I thought it would be all right now that the old man is gone. It
won't be."

Richard listened.  He objected.  He listened again and, finally, was
convinced.

They would meet that evening.  They might never make it to bed.  Once
this was over, though, everything would be as it had been and they
would take to bed for a week with no worries.

That was really all he wanted.  He hung up the receiver just as
Kathleen Cotter was picking one up outside at a pay phone.

She told Michael the news.

Michael redialed.  He called Sarah and Louise.  They were all waiting
when Kathleen got home.

Chapter Seventeen

Michael was on the couch, his head propped up on one arm and his heels
on the other.  Kathleen sat under his legs.  She used his flat midriff
as a deck and dinner table.

"More pizza?"

Sarah stood up and offered to refill their paper plate.  All they had
to do was tell her whether they wanted vegetable or pepperoni.  They
both shook their heads.

"I'll have pepperoni."  Louise held out her plate.

"Hey.look at these.  Oh, Sarah, these came out great.  I really should
have been a photographer.  I bet I would have been a fashion
photographer if I hadn't gotten married so young."

Sarah handed Louise the pizza and Louise gave her a stack of
photos--double prints, glossy finish.  Sarah settled herself, then
tried to settle herself again.  Louise had taken it upon herself to
make over Sarah Brooker.

The little widow's hair was now pulled to one side in a ponytail, her
eyes were shadowed in a blue that made them look muddy.  Half her
mascara was on her lashes, the other half smudged under her eyes.  Red
wasn't her color and her chest couldn't hold a candle to Louise's, yet
she had gamely donned one of Louise's halters.  Over it all she'd
thrown her gray sweater and pulled it around her for comfort while she
looked at Louise's pictures.

"This one is really good."  Louise leaned over, beaming at Sarah's
compliment.  The nail that delightedly tapped the photo was lavender;
The Artist Formerly Known as Prince was illustrated in all his
pouty-lipped glory.

"Yeah, doesn't that just look like something you'd see in the Enquirer?
It has that look, you know, like he's done something really bad and he
doesn't want anyone to know about it.

What a slime.  Him and that Richard guy.  Show Kathleen and Michael.
They haven't seen this batch."

Sarah did as she was told, offering Kathleen the stack with a shy
smile.

"They really are good, you know.  Louise has a real talent."

Kathleen took them and almost put them aside, but she looked closer and
shuffled the three-inch glossies like a deck of cards.

" Kathleen, here, look."  Michael handed her a sheet of paper.

"This one matches the file Lionel gave Sarah.  It's from the office
supply division at Tysco.  So far I've found two divisions and one
subdivision in on all this.  No wonder Carl Walsh looks like a god to
the voters.  If you add up everything that's been misdirected in
billing and put it back where it belongs, the city budget would
skyrocket."

"Can I see?"  Sarah put her hand out.  Kathleen passed them over. She'd
look at them later.  Now it was the photos that had her intrigued.

"Poor Lionel," Sarah mused.

"Yeah."  Louise pulled her knees to her chest.  Her chest pushed up
almost to her chin, but she managed to rest her chin on her knees.  Her
palazzo pants were purple, her peasant blouse white eyelet.  She looked
fetching.

"I feel bad that I've been after money when that's what did him in.  I
feel just like one of those slime-balls."

Michael turned his head and looked at Louise.  As often as he saw her,
he never quite got enough of her.  Louise was a piece of art, a work in
progress.  He looked back at his paperwork.

"I know where I've seen him.  I know now."  Kathleen had paled.
Michael watched her carefully.  She handed him the photo.

"Jules Porter.  I have to laugh when I think about his telling me that
things fall through the cracks like it was just business as-usual.  He
was the one making the cracks.  I can't wait to find out who's been
forging my signature to approve these."

Michael held up recent invoices that had been initialed with an ME that
looked close to his actual signature.  I hope they made a heck of a lot
of money, 'cause the gravy train is coming to a halt."

"No.  I didn't see him at Tysco.  I saw him at Gerry's."
"Gerry's.  You
mean the office?"  Louise rocked back, raising her eyebrows.

"No, his house.  The night he had his accident.  This man was across
the street, getting into a car."

They fell silent.  Everyone knew what that meant.  Gerry had been
helped along with the slip in the tub.

"Oh, Lord," Sarah breathed.

"Oh, Kathleen, I'm sorry."

The lump in Kathleen's throat came up fast, but she fought with that
thought.  She wasn't going to think the worst now.  If she did, she
would fall apart.  Instead, she lifted Michael's legs off her and poked
through the hundreds of pictures Louise and Sarah had taken during
their surveillance.  She picked out two, three, and--finally--five
pictures of Jules Porter.

"He was at the funeral, too."  She laid her fingers across the top half
of one picture.

"I recognize the suit.  It was hard to miss.  And that ring.  He was in
Richard's car at the funeral."

"Hah!"  Louise scampered up as best she could with the yards of fabric
that swathed her legs.  She went through the photos like a whirlwind
until she found what she wanted."

"Wait till you see this!"

When Kathleen saw the photo in Louise's hands, everything went out of
her head.  Nothing but a flash of hot-white light remained.  That and
the full, complete, and painful realization that she had been stupid
and ignorant and unworthy of Gerry when she'd put Richard Jacobsen
above him.  When she focused again, she was able to look at the photo
with clear eyes and she saw Richard and Jules Porter.  Richard's arm
around the man's shoulder, like a father telling life's secret to a
son.  Two men with a great deal between them.  At the very least, they
were guilty of misusing her, Gerry, and Michael and abusing their
positions as powerful men; at the worst, their sins included fraud,
duplicity, and possibly murder.  And for what?  To elect a man
senator.

"What, Michael?  What did they want from all this?"

"I don't know, Kathleen.  I don't think like them.  I can't conceive of
what drives them."  He moved closer and took the photo from her hand,
then wove his fingers into hers.  She laid her head on his shoulder.
Sarah watched silently.  Even Louise didn't disturb the moment.  It
hadn't been just Lionel who had lost his life because of these men, but
Gerry, too.  A pan of Kathleen died as well, now that she knew.
"What
do we do now?"  she asked them all, raising her head.

"What do you want to do?"  Michael asked.

"Get them," she answered without hesitation.  Sarah nodded.

Louise, too.  Those two women moved closer together.

"What do we need?"

"Billing records from any of the suppliers.  We need to talk to Marlene
and ask her to reassess the autopsy with the idea that Gerry didn't
fall.  We need to go to the police and get the investigator's report
the night Gerry died," Michael said.

"I'll call Marlene tomorrow afternoon.  I'll subpoena Richard's phone
records to see if he called Greischmidt at home.

It will take time, so what else until then?  Sarah?"  The young woman
sat up straighter.

"Will you sign a request to have Lionel's body exhumed?"

"Yes."

"Michael.  Will you come with me to the police?"

"You didn't even have to ask."

"Okay.  Then there's only one thing left that I need to do."

The three people around the coffee table strewn with pictures and pizza
looked at the tall blonde with the very, very serious expression.  She
looked at each in turn.  They were a funny collection, yet they were
closer than any family could be, tied together by a man Kathleen had
never met.  She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring.

"Since we have to prove that the Tysco billings aren't just clerical
errors and we need to prove that there was a conspiracy and we need to
make a case that these fine, upstanding citizens feared exposure enough
to kill a Tysco auditor who was asking too many question--" Kathleen
paused, a tiny, cold shiver gripping her.  It didn't last long..

There was no other decision she could make.  "Since we need to do all
that, I'm going to have to get the Tysco billing from Shay, Sylvester &
Hamngton; and I'd better do it soon, 'cause I don't think I'm long for
that place."

They all had their assignments.  Michael was going to take on Jules
Porter.  Sarah and Louise were off to City Hall to ask the mayor a few
questions during the afternoon city council meeting, and Kathleen was
headed into the Shay, Sylvester & Harrington office to see her new best
friend in accounting.  God knew how she was going to wangle the Tysco
billing, but have it she would by the end of the day, even if she had
to steal it.

"Morning, Kathleen."

She stepped into the elevator and smiled at Doreen.  Rude though it
was, she turned her back and watched the numbers slide by as the
elevator took them to the office.  Kathleen didn't have an ounce of
small talk left in her.  When the doors opened, she stepped out,
thought twice about her silence, and realized later it could be
construed as odd behavior.  She waved at Doreen.

"Have a good one."  Kathleen managed a smile that she hoped looked
somewhat normal, nothing felt right.  She had dressed as usual and put
on her face as usual and it all seemed like a poor disguise.  Kathleen
wished she could throw it off and run to the marina.  She'd make
Michael take the boat out.

She'd throw her head back and let the sun bake her.  She would be
renewed, reborn, and she would choose every step she took after that
with such great care that she would build the life she wanted, not live
the one she had once thought she wanted.

But that would be later.  Now, she had chosen a plan of action.  It was
right and just and Gerry would have done it himself had he been there.
So, she smiled at the receptionist as she went by.  The woman smiled
back, then did a double take.

"Oh, wait, Ms.  Cotter.  Come back."

Kathleen hesitated.  She didn't want to be out in the open or noticed.
She just wanted to be in her office, biding her time until she could
make her move.  But two other associates were headed her way and she
was blocking the door that led to the offices.  She had no choice but
to retrace her steps.

"What is it?"  she asked, resisting the urge to bolt for the elevators
and run.

"Here.  Mr.  Blanco left this for you.  He said you weren't even to
have a cup of coffee, but to meet him as soon as possible.  I really
thought you'd be in earlier, so make sure you tell him that I gave you
this as soon as I saw you."

"Sure, no problem."

Kathleen ambled away, hitching her briefcase, and opening the note with
one hand.  Harry Blanco was second seat on the suit the government had
brought against her client.  Harry Blanco was a good guy, but he sure
had lousy timing.  The request for on-site investigation had finally
come through, and she was on call to follow up.

Kathleen looked toward the door, knowing she had no choice.

To refuse would be career suicide.  There would be questions.

perhaps asked before she had time to get the backup she needed.

Checking her watch, she saw that it was already inching toward
nine-thirty.  San Pedro was forty-five minutes away.  Two hours with
the guy max and she'd be back by midafternoon.  Maybe it was better.
Everyone was focused in the afternoon; there wouldn't be many roaming
around looking for coffee or poking their noses into her business.
Kathleen went to the phone in the reception area and dialed Michael.

"I won't be able to finish that business until this afternoon," she
said, hoping she sounded as if she were just filling in a client.

"No problem.  I got stonewalled when I called Jules this morning.  I'm
going to do some housekeeping around here and head in a little late."

"At least we're on the same timetable.  I'll see you as soon as I'm
done.  I love you," she said without giving a second thought to the
fact she'd never said it before.

"I love you, too," he answered without one whit of hesitation.

That she noticed.  It made everything all right.

The minute Kathleen was in the elevator, the receptionist picked up the
phone.

"She's gone, Mr.  Jacobsen."

"Excellent," he answered, and then made another call.

"Meet me" was all he said.

The pictures in the file didn't do justice to the Ardol refinery and
manufacturing plant.  On film, the place looked imposing enough, but in
reality it seemed to be some alien village transported intact to this
scruffy place just off the Harbor Freeway in one of the less attractive
parts of San Pedro.  From afar she could see low-slung buildings that
no one had bothered to prettify like Tysco.  Huge tanks ballooned here
and there, like Sumo wrestlers resting on their haunches on acres of
untended land.  Some were connected by arteries of bulbous pipes and
veins of spidery ladders and catwalks, some stood stoically alone.  The
place appeared deserted.

Kathleen looked at her notes and turned left when she hit Anaheim Road,
almost passing the small east gate where she was supposed to turn in.
She nipped the wheel; the tires screeched, and she drove a quarter mile
to a security gate only to find there was no security.  But there were
two cars in the parking lot.  The place wasn't quite deserted.  Slowly,
she accelerated and parked next to the green sedan, squinting toward a
small building off to the south that seemed to be a place where she'd
check in.

She left her briefcase, but took her tape recorder and camera.

Just as she was locking her fantastic new Shay, Sylvester & Hamngton
company car, she caught sight of someone out of the corner of her eye.
A man in a hard hat left the small building and disappeared around the
corner.  Kathleen thought of calling after him, but the day was already
warm and she didn't have the energy or the inclination to hurry.  Her
mind was elsewhere, which, when she thought about it, didn't come as
much of a surprise.

She fiddled with the tape recorder, then put it back into her purse
along with the camera as she took the three steps up to the office.
Opening the screen door, she walked into a big, very empty room.
Kathleen spent all of two minutes checking it out, then went back
outside to stand on the porch.  For a second she shaded her eyes,
looking for me man in the hard hat.  Unable to see him, she followed in
his footsteps and walked into the bowels of the refinery.

"Damn.  Damn."  Michael kicked the back wheel of the BMW; then he
kicked the front wheel.

"Damn!"

Traffic slowed to look at him, hateful rubber-neckers on the North 405.
Above him a traffic helicopter was no doubt issuing a Sigalert, and
thousands of early lunch commuters would be cursing him for pulling
over to the side and causing a distraction.

God knew what was wrong with this heap, and only God knew why he was
the last man in California without a car phone.

With one final kick to the tire, Michael started to walk.  The next
freeway emergency phone was a half mile away.  That would give him time
to cool off.  He didn't want to be crazed when he saw Jules Porter--he
wanted to be fully in control when he ripped out that idiot's eyes.

Louise popped a breath mint and offered Sarah one.  Sarah shook her
head.  Her hair was back to normal, parted in the middle, hanging over
her eyes.

"You okay?"  Louise asked.

"Sure.  Yeah."
"Hey, don't you worry about anything anymore.  We're
going to have you home in no time.  Tell you what, after all this is
over, when they finally figure out about Lionel and Kathleen gets me
that money from All Life, I'll buy you a present to cheer you up.  New
rabbits.  How's that sound?"

Sarah swiveled her head, that shy little smile on her lips.

"That's a nice thought," she said quietly, but Louise wasn't
listening.

"Oh my God, look who's coming.  Can you believe it?  The man himself.
Guess we won't be going to City Hall today.  That jerk.  That idiot.
Come on, Sarah," Louise said, reeling the seat belt over her
substantial breasts, "let's go on a little road trip.

Whaddaya say?"

Louise didn't need to ask twice.  Rambo was back.  Sarah turned the key
and bided her time.  When he drove out of the parking lot, she was on
his tail like a pro.

"Hello!  Mr.  Nola?  It's Kathleen Cotter.  Mr.  Nola?"

Kathleen stopped walking and did a half turn.  She had no idea where
she was or where she would even begin to look for the man she was
supposed to meet.  Three more minutes and she was out of there.  She'd
just have to tell Harry Blanco that she'd never connected with engineer
Nola.  She'd make another appointment.  Of course, once she had the
Tysco files, she wouldn't be keeping any more appointments.  She'd
probably never work in this town again, and that thought alone was
enough to give her a giggle.  Cherie was right, working in this town
wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

"Mr.  Nola!"  She tried once more, finishing her turn just in time to
see some movement.  Her heart leapt to her throat, then settled down.
The man was coming from between two cylindrical storage tanks.  The odd
shadows made his approach seem slow and sinister.  Kathleen started
forward.

"Hi, I was worried we were going to miss each other."

She stopped the minute she heard his voice.
"Don't worry your
attractive little head, Kathleen.  I wouldn't miss this for the
world."

Richard Jacobsen emerged from the shadows.  Impeccably dressed, he
looked as oddly out of place here as she did in her high heels and fine
makeup.

"I didn't know this was such an important meeting that the general
partner would show up," Kathleen said cautiously.

"Oh, this is a very important meeting.  In fact, Kathleen, you have
become one of the most important people in my life."

Kathleen blanched, her eyes darted right, then left, only to snap back
toward Richard as another man materialized.  A young, good-looking man
who discarded a hard hat as he came forward.

Richard smiled at him and made the introduction.

"I believe you know Jules Porter, if not formally, by reputation."

Kathleen nodded.  Jules did not.  Instead, he came close behind
Richard, touched his shoulder, and let his hand run across his back as
he positioned himself to the side and slightly in front of the older
man.  He was so close to Kathleen that she could smell his after-shave
and see that his eyes were glassy.  His hands shook ever so slightly,
and the intimate pose of the two men made her more than
uncomfortable--it made her afraid.

"I wouldn't suggest you try anything," she said and was disheartened to
see that her warning fell on deaf ears.

"There are others who know exactly what you've been up to.  They know
why Lionel Brooker was killed.  Even if you hurt me, they'll still go
to the police and tell them everything."

"And what exactly is it you know, Kathleen Cotter from Banning,
California?  Why did Lionel Brooker have to die?"

Kathleen was momentarily speechless.  Richard hadn't denied any
wrongdoing.  Good Lord, she felt sick.  Thinking of Sarah, knowing how
afraid she had been and how courageous, Kathleen willed herself to the
same bravado.  If she didn't act, she would die of fright.

"I know that you've been manipulating city billing."  She spoke slowly,
looking for any sign that she was off base with her theories.  There
was none.  Richard was so very, very confident.

She couldn't look at Jules Porter; he was too frightening.

Kathleen licked her lips and went on.

"So has Tysco.  I don't know why, but I know it's happening.  I've seen
the paperwork at Tysco."

"Crawford," Jules muttered.

"Just so," Richard answered back.  Neither took their eyes off her. She
had to keep talking.

"What I don't understand, Richard, is why?  Why on earth would you do
such a thing?  You have everything."

Kathleen took a step, the first effort in a still-unformed plan to
escape.  Her heart sank when neither man looked concerned.

"No one has everything.  The world isn't as limited as you would
imagine, Kathleen.  The reason you will always remain a little girl
from a little place is because you have no imagination."

"I was willing to learn."

"You were.  But you were too much your uncle's niece.  You would never
have been willing to play."

Reaching for straws, Kathleen bluffed.

"Try me."

Richard looked at Jules.  He looked concerned, even worried about the
younger man, but Kathleen was asking him to prove his superiority.  He
couldn't resist.

"It was simply a beautiful plan.  We have a marvelous network of men in
positions of varying degrees of power, all of whom would like to be
more powerful or be held in greater esteem.  We siphoned off city costs
to other clients where we knew the additional charges would be buried
in piles of paperwork.  The Pentagon does it all the time."

"To what end?"

"To get Carl Walsh elected to the Senate."
"Is he really that special?
Will he be such a fabulous leader if he is elected fraudulently?"
Kathleen felt light-headed.  He was right.  She wasn't cut out for
this.  None of it made sense.

"Carl won't be anything in and of himself," Richard answered.

"And that's why I say your vision is limited.  All we want is a
friendly body where it counts.  We've done well by the city; the
business is prestigious and lucrative.  We helped Carol's bottom line
look good; he made us look good to our shareholders and board of
directors by giving us city business.

If Carl were in a position to funnel federal money to Shay, Sylvester &
Harrington, Tysco and a few others, our billings would be incredible,
our status in the business world beyond compare.  Our influence would
be worldwide.  It was just business.

Bottom-line stuff.  We wanted Carl Walsh in Washington;

he needed a track record no one could take exception to.  Money always
talks."

"And Lionel Brooker got in the way.  He knew exactly what was
happening at Tysco and that's why he died."

Jules laughed.  Richard shook his head.  Two little boys with club
secrets they didn't really want to share with a girl.  But, in the end,
they were boys.  They had to boast.

"No.  That was not why Lionel Brooker died, and that's what makes this
all so funny.  Lionel Brooker."  Richard took a few steps, clasping his
hands behind him.  Jules swayed, his hand remaining levitated now that
his support was gone.  Kathleen forced herself to look at Richard.  He
was such an ugly little man.  Why hadn't she noticed that before?  He
didn't seem quite so formidable here among these giant structures, yet
that didn't make him any the less dangerous.

"Lionel Brooker wouldn't have been even a footnote in Tysco history if
it hadn't been for you and that client of yours.

Lionel would never have gotten to first base with his allegations.

Jules and Grossman had already seen to that.  He had prepared the way
for Lionel to fail no matter how he persisted.  Things like this are
buried all the time.  It's nothing new, just as crusaders like Lionel
Brooker are nothing new."

"Then why kill him?"  Kathleen wailed.  Richard raised a brow.  Light
glinted off his glasses.  He looked blind, but his aim was good.  He
hit a deadly mark next.

"And Gerry, too; you might as well know that."

Kathleen's eyes flicked to Jules Porter.  He looked neither shamed nor
remorseful.  She thought she might faint.

"Why Gerry?"

"Because Jules got nervous when he was pushing issues he didn't want to
deal with.  Because you both were keeping Lionel Brooker alive with
your ridiculous arguments for that creature he used to be married to. A
disgusting woman.  You were digging too deep to prove that Lionel
wasn't a suicide.  If the authorities had listened, if anyone had put
two and two together, you might have raised questions we didn't want
raised."

"You and Carl?"

"No, Kathleen," Richard said quietly, turning his head toward her.

"Jules and I."

Kathleen shook her head, confused beyond reason.

"Because of the billing?"

"Because I love him."

Kathleen's head exploded.

"What?  What am I missing?"

"You're missing the whole point.  You've been running around trying to
prove that Lionel Brooker's character was beyond reproach.  A noble
thing to do, Kathleen.  For a man's character is the crux of all things
in this world.  His character determines what he will be, how far he
will rise.  My mother taught me that."  Richard turned and came back to
Jules.  He laced his arm through the younger man's.  He lay his head
upon his shoulder.  "People will not respect those who are perceived to
lack character.  Corporations will not trust those who are perceived to
lack character."  Richard's head shot up; he edged away from Jules
Porter, who stood zombie still beside him.

"And my reputation--my character--if you will, was in jeopardy.

If you had determined that Lionel Brooker was of sound enough character
not to kill himself, then the authorities might have found out exactly
how he died and I would have been ruined.  My character would have been
besmirched beyond repair."

Richard paced, short steps that led him nowhere.  He spoke quickly,
like a general informing the troops they had lost their comrades to a
suicide mission.

"Yes, we were there when Lionel Brooker died.  It was late.

Everyone had gone home.  I was leaving with Jules, but we had to make a
stop in the men's room.  We decided on one far from his office.  There
was no way to know that Lionel Brooker had been over that way, trekking
around with his sheafs of paper, trying to drum up interest in his
manipulation theory.  Lionel Brooker had stopped to relieve himself
after his last, humiliating interview with one of the people on our
side."  Richard shook his head, not so much amused as incredulous at
the turn of fate.

"Then why kill him?"

He glanced up, surprised to see Kathleen there.  He blinked.

He smiled.

"He died only because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Jules?"  Richard looked at his companion.

The younger man unbuttoned the cuff on his shirt and rolled it up.

"I want you to know that, in many ways, I continue to be a man of
impeccable character.  Were I not, I wouldn't want you to know the
truth.  I owe Gerry's last living relative that much.  I owe you the
truth because you're a woman who actually exceeded my expectations."
Richard took Jules's arm.

"Look at the scars on his arms, Kathleen.  Jules is a junkie.  Dear,
dear Jules, the man I love, loves something more than me.  I would do
anything to help him get what he loves."

He looked as if he would cry over Jules's battered arm.

Instead, he turned his head her way, unmoved by the disgust he saw in
her eyes.

"I couldn't let anyone know about Jules because there's someone I love
even more than him.  My mother, who stood by me when the world taunted
me for my looks, my dour demeanor, my intelligence, my lack of humor.
That woman is everything to me, and I would no more hurt her by having
my dirty laundry aired in public than I would abandon Jules in his time
of need."

"Richard, please."  Jules's voice was hoarse.  He loosened his tie, no
longer quite the fashion plate he had first appeared.

It was time for a fix.

"In a moment."  Richard reached up and patted the younger man's head
affectionately.

"A moment," Richard leaned forward and kissed the back of Jules's
neck.

"I need you wound tight right now.  I need you to act on instinct.
Remember Lionel?"

Richard's eyes were still on Kathleen, and for the first time she saw
them come to life.

"Lionel walked out of that stall, Kathleen.  He saw us, and that
righteous little nothing told us he was going to call security.

That little nobody was going to call security on me."  Richard was
energized by the memories of Lionel's impertinence.  Lionel had been
nothing to him, and Richard never thought about what Lionel Brooker
might have meant to the rest of the world.

"Jules came to my defense.  Jules hit him like a football player and
Lionel Brooker went down.  They both went through the stall door.
Brooker's leg hit the toilet.  He reached back to break his fall.  One
does look over one's shoulder when thrown off balance that way.  It was
instinct that did Lionel in.  I think Jules actually forgot he had that
syringe in his hand.  Jules doesn't think clearly when he's like this.
As they scrap pled the syringe went in.  It was surprisingly quick with
Mr.  Brooker.  Over before we knew it.  It actually took us a few
moments to realize what had happened."

"Did you call Dr.  Greischmidt?"  Kathleen's voice was barely a
whisper.

He nodded.

"I was long gone by the time the police arrived.

It was a simple matter to call the man at home once Jules was
comfortable and settled.  The doctor took care of the matter quickly.
The police report was filed, and once Greischmidt made his ruling, no
one bothered to look at it again.  It was actually quite funny since
the one thing they didn't have was a syringe.  When Jules and I figured
that out, we had a sleepless night.  But no one really cared; the case
was closed, the man buried.  Some things are so simple.  Other things
that are simple can become large problems.  And you, Kathleen, are one
of those."

Richard gave Jules a push so small Kathleen would have missed it if she
had closed her eyes the way she wanted to.

But they were wide open with fear and she saw him do it.

Jules's reactions weren't as swift as hers.  Fear will do that.

Kathleen sprinted, thanking God for her long legs, cursing Evan Picone
for the height of her heels.

A cry of outrage--or was it pain?--followed her, and she pulled her
purse tighter.  That was the last thing she wanted to lose and the
first thing that Jules Porter grabbed.  He pulled on the strap and
Kathleen yanked back, managing another few steps before he pulled again
and the strap broke.  Kathleen went spinning out of control and slammed
into one of the storage tanks.  She saw stars for a second, then she
saw a pair of hands reaching for her and she ducked.  On her knees, she
crawled, then scrambled up, only to be pulled down again.  She screamed
when Jules Porter clambered on top of her, then she stopped when his
hands went around her throat.  But his grip was unsure, his fingers
shaking, and Kathleen was big and strong and, for the first time, that
was to her advantage.

"No, you don't," she muttered and gritted her teeth.  With a great
yowl, Kathleen brought her knee up.  Though it missed the bull's-eye,
it made enough of an impact to send Jules Porter rolling away from her.
Kathleen scrambled up and pivoted left.

The maze of refinery equipment might hide her, but it also might hide
the two men who wanted her dead.  She'd take her chances in the
wide-open spaces.

With that thought, Kathleen stumbled toward the parking lot.  Just
before she cleared the last tank, she tripped, the heel of her shoe
wedging in a metal grate.  She hit the ground again, hard on her hip.
Whimpering, breathing hard and tight, Kathleen pushed one foot against
the other, trying to get her shoe off;

but her foot was twisted and Evan Picone had her trapped with tiny
little straps that had once seemed so attractive, she had said she
would die if she didn't have them.

Her eyes darted up, her head twisted, and still she saw no hope.  She
sat in the shadows of one of the storage tanks, scrabbling with the
tiny buckles.  Short of ripping her foot off, there was no way to
unstrap the shoe before Jules, who was stumbling toward her with murder
in his eyes, had his hand around her neck once more.

"Michael," she whimpered, moving back, scooting along the asphalt in a
half circle since she couldn't move backward.

If there were a time she needed Michael Crawford, it was now.  Michael
of the Special Forces.  Michael, cool under fire.

Now, she thought frantically.  Now is the time he should be riding in
on his white horse.  Jules was almost there.  Jules was so close and
looked so horrible that Kathleen couldn't tear her eyes away from him.
She was positive, sure in her heart, that Michael's marvelous hands
would soon be on Jules Porter.  He would pull the murderer away from
her.  He would.... Do nothing.

She hadn't even told him where she was going.  It was over, and she
cried out in anticipation of the pain that would soon come.  From the
corner of her eye, she glimpsed someone.

Richard was coming to watch.  Richard was coming to make sure that she
would never tell anyone about his secret.  Richard, damn, sick Richard
Jacobsen was coming like the angel of death.

Kathleen stopped moving and, when she did, Jules Porter hesitated.
Slowly, so slowly, she lay back on the concrete, aware of everything
around her--the liquid rushing through the pipes overhead, the heat of
the ground, the heavy breathing of the man who would kill her.  Soon,
she would think of nothing because she'd be dead.

Kathleen Cotter began to pray and that was when she heard an
all-too-familiar sound.  An explosion.  The sound of buckshot hitting
solid objects, pinging off tanks that could be filled with unstable
gases, flammable liquids--but who cared?  Death had been put on hold.
Then she heard something she'd never heard before ... the sound of
buckshot hitting its mark.

She bolted upright just in time to see Jules Porter fall to his knees,
looking quite surprised that his suit was being soiled by his very own
blood.  Stunned, Kathleen watched until he was face down on the
concrete, so close that she could reach her good foot and touch his
head.  Instead, she looked toward her right in time to see Sarah and
Louise coming straight at her, grim-faced given what had just
happened.

They knelt beside her--Louise unbuckling Kathleen's shoe and freeing
her foot; Sarah cradling the shotgun, just in case.

Jules Porter died beside the women who finally wrapped their arms
around each other and cried.

"Four, five, six."

Louise shook the box, and the last of the little white rabbits tumbled
out onto the grass.  Sarah scooped them up and put them in the hutch as
fast as they came.

"Louise, you should pick them out like this," Sarah held the last one
by the scruff of the neck and showed her.  Louise made a face.

"It was enough that I drove them all the way here in the car and now
you want me to touch them?"

"No, I don't want you to touch them," Sarah said, putting the last
little guy away before closing the door.

"Thank goodness, kiddo.  I like you, but I don't like you that much."
Louise turned toward Michael and took his arm.

"So, how does it feel to be a free man?"

Michael cocked a grin and looked over his shoulder.  Kathleen and Sarah
fell in step behind them.  The last place he wanted to be was alone
with Louise Brooker.

"I don't know yet.  I only gave my notice yesterday.  How's it feel to
be a rich woman?"

"Great.  I don't even have to think about that one.  Hey, Kathleen, did
I ever say thanks?"  Louise hollered over her one bared shoulder.

"Nope," Kathleen answered.

"Okay."  Louise let go of Michael and stepped up onto the porch to get
her purse.

"Listen, I've gotta go.  I have a nail appointment."  She held up her
right hand.  Whoever had been immortalized on those talons of hers had
been sufficiently mutilated as to make him or her unrecognizable.
Kathleen felt as if she'd lost a friend, though she imagined it
wouldn't be long until she saw another celebrity on the tip of those
nails.  They waved goodbye to Louise, and then it was time for Michael
and Kathleen to leave as well.

"We're going to head out, too.  Thanks, Sarah, lunch was wonderful."
Michael wrapped his arm around Kathleen, who wrapped one right back.

"I think Lionel would have loved it.  He would have been so proud of
you," Kathleen added.

"Are you going to be okay here alone?"

Sarah nodded and pulled her new sweater closer around her.

It had been a present from Kathleen.  It was gray, but the buttons were
white.

"I'll be fine.  I have my rabbits to take care of and I feel safe
again.  I can't thank you all enough for that."

"Don't include me in that.  Kathleen was the one who really put herself
on the line."  Michael shook his head.

"And you're the one who explained to the police what Lionel had found.
You're the one who cleared his name.  Harold was so pleased."

Kathleen smiled.  Sarah could do worse than Harold, but she doubted she
could do better.  Kathleen touched Sarah's shoulder.

Kissing her cheek had never quite seemed right.

"We're pretty happy, too.  It looks like everything turned out for the
best.  Jules isn't dead--" "I don't know that that's best," Michael
mumbled.

"Richard is in jail.  His head is probably still hurting him where you
hit him.  Carl is under investigation--" Kathleen talked over him.

"And O'Doul & Associates isn't closing its doors," Sarah added.

"I have to work somewhere," Kathleen said with a shrug.
"Just do me a
favor: Put the shotgun away.  Much as I appreciate what you did, I
don't want to be defending you anytime soon."

"I promise," Sarah said softly.  Michael kissed her goodbye.

When they got into the car, Kathleen lay back in the seat and watched
the trees of the canyon turn to highway, the highway turn to freeway,
and before she knew it they were walking along the dock toward the
Gentle Reminder.

"Can you make it?"

Kathleen looked at her straight skirt.  The day was over.  No more
meetings with Bob Morton.  No more court.  The office was closed for a
long, long weekend.  She didn't think twice.

Kicking off her shoes, she handed them to him along with her bag.  She
hitched her skirt and was on deck in the blink of an eye.  Michael
kissed her; she kissed him back, and they smiled at one another.

"I'm going to change," Kathleen whispered.

"I'm going to cast off."

She went below; he went aft, and ten minutes later, they had both done
what they needed to do.  Kathleen half lay in the deck chair, dressed
in jeans and a T-shirt, her head thrown back, her short, blond hair
ruffled by the breeze as they headed out to sea.  She didn't hear him
coming, but she felt his hands on the arms of the chair; then she felt
him tip up her sunglasses.

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"I love your face," she whispered.

He touched her cheek; there was no powder, no blush.  He kissed her
lips.  They were tinged pink, but the Cover Girl had been left
behind.

"I love yours, too, Kathleen Cotter.  It has--character."