Vintage Warner. I had a problem, he already had the solution. Nice and neat. Twelve

months, I'm a new man. A quick detour, but my future is secure.

"Not for associates," I said. 'Tve heard of a partner or two leaving to work for this

administration or that one, then returning after a couple of years. But never an associate."

"But your circumstances are different. You've been traumatized, damned near killed

simply because you were a member of the firm. I'd throw my weight around some, tell

'em you need time off. Take a year, then get your ass back to the office."

"It might work," I said, trying to placate him. He was a type A personality, pushy as hell,

always one word away from an argument, especially with the family. "I gotta run," ! said.

So did he. We promised to talk more later.

Lunch was with Rudolph and a client at a splendid restaurant. It was called a working

lunch, which meant we abstained from alcohol, which also meant we would bill the client

for the time. Rudolph went for four hundred an hour, me for three hundred. We worked

and ate for two hours, so the lunch cost the client fourteen hundred dollars. Our firm had an account with the restaurant, so it would be billed to Drake & Sweeney, and

somewhere along the way our bean counters in the basement would find a way to bill the

client for the cost of the food as well.

The afternoon was nonstop calls and conferences. Through sheer willpower, I kept my

game face and got through it, billing heavily as I went. Antitrust law had never seemed so

hopelessly dense and boring.

It was almost five before I found a few minutes alone. I said good-bye to Polly, and

locked the door again. I opened the mysterious file and began making random notes on a

legal pad, scribblings and flowcharts with arrows striking RiverOaks and Drake &

Sweeney from all directions. Braden Chance, the real estate partner I'd confronted about

the file, took most of the shots for the firm.

My principal suspect was his paralegal, the young man who had heard our sharp words,

and who, seconds later, had referred to Chance as an "ass" when I was leaving their suite.

He would know the details of the eviction, and he would have access to the file.

With a pocket phone to avoid any D&S records, I called a paralegal in antitrust. His

office was around the corner from mine. He referred me to another, and with little effort I

learned that the guy I wanted was Hector Palma. He'd been with the firm about three

years, all in real estate. I planned to track him down, but outside the office.

Mordecai called. He inquired about my dinner plans for the evening. "I'll treat," he said.

"Soup?"

He laughed. "Of course not. I know an excellent place."

We agreed to meet at seven. Claire was back in her surgeon's mode, oblivious to time,

meals, or husband. She had checked in mid-afternoon, just a quick word on the run. Had

no idea when she might be home, but very late. For dinner, every man for himself. I

didn't hold it against her. She had learned the fast-track lifestyle from me.

* * *

We met at a restaurant near Dupont Circle. The bar at the front was packed with well-

paid government types having a drink before fleeing the city. We had a drink in the back,