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  “Don’t see too many muggers in a suit,” the short cop added.

  It was clear that the cops had decided it had to be a mugging even though I had insisted I had been followed all the way from Queens. I might have argued with them about whether it was a mugging on most nights, but my jaw was really starting to hurt and all the talking wasn’t helping it either.

  “It was a cheap suit,” I added, as if the fabric choice was somehow important.

  “Perhaps so he would blend in,” Sulla added. “His victims wouldn’t realize who he was until it was too late.”

  The two cops looked at Sulla, who nodded sagely.

  “Blend in,” the short cop repeated.

  “I saw that on NCIS recently,” Sulla admitted.

  “Oy,” the short cop said with a shake of his head.

  “It kinda makes sense,” the tall cop said as he scratched behind his ear. “I mean, why else would a mugger be in a suit? Even a cheap one?”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a sigh. “But I could really use some Tylenol right about now. Do you need anything else from me?”

  “Not right now,” the shorter cop replied. “We’ll call in your description and tell the units to be on the lookout. If you could stop at the precinct tomorrow to look at some photos, that would be a big help.”

  I tried to nod, then stopped when my jaw rattled. I doubted the units would find the driver tonight. If he hadn’t ditched the car already, then he was probably on his way back to Queens or wherever he had come from. I also had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t find his picture in any photo lineup the cops gave me. At least he didn’t have the pistol any more, which almost made me smile. I buried it quickly, though, when the two officers looked at me.

  “I’ll head back up,” I said as I turned back to the elevators. “I hope you find this guy.”

  “So do we,” the tall cop assured me.

  I could hear Sulla and the cops start talking again as I waited for the elevator. As best as I could tell, the Ugandan was describing what he had seen of the fight, with a few embellishments that made me sound like a heavyweight champion. I plastered the frozen broccoli against my face again and tried to tune out the voices. When the elevator doors slid open, I darted inside and pressed the button to close the door before I had pressed the button for my floor.

  Thankfully, someone had shut off the weird music selection. Or maybe it was simply a song that couldn’t be heard over the clanking gears. Either way, I made it back to my floor without the musical accompaniment and slipped inside my apartment without encountering another human. I popped the broccoli back in the freezer, then went in search of aspirin or Tylenol. I finally found a half empty bottle of Aleve I’d bought when my buddy Denny had talked me into being his training partner for the marathon. There were still a few months left before they hit their expiration date, so I slugged four of them back with a glassful of water.

  Somehow, I managed to strip off my clothes and tumble into the bed. I skipped the rest of the usual evening routine and fell asleep while I was still pondering why I was suddenly so interesting to a guy in a cheap suit. Now that I knew Salvatore Febbo was in the mix, the number of reasons seem to grow exponentially. My brain gave up, and I drifted into a restless slumber while my neighbor blasted the volume on the Late Show.

  I didn’t wake up until some part of my brain registered that my cell phone was ringing. I peered at the bedside clock, then noticed that I hadn’t left the phone in the charger. With a grunt, I sat up on the edge of the bed and tentatively ran a hand over my cheek and jaw. It was still sore, and I had no doubt that it would be a lovely color of purple, but the fog had lifted from my brain and all of my teeth were still in place.

  I heaved myself to my feet and went in search of the phone. It was still in my jacket pocket, though the battery was in the red zone. I checked the phone calls and saw that Liz had been the caller who woke me up. I dropped the phone in the charger, then ventured into the bathroom.

  I was happy to see that the bruise was not as large as I had feared, though it did have a nice purple color. I took another Aleve, then took a long, hot shower that eased away all the tension I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying. I even managed to shave, though it cost me another Aleve to get through it.

  When I was finally feeling human again, I walked back to the kitchen to start the coffee machine and then poked through the cabinets. I poured a bowl of cereal and added an orange that was still okay. I was nearly done eating by the time the coffee was ready, and I poured a giant mugful while I rinsed the bowl in the sink.

  I checked the time again, then carried the coffee into the bedroom to retrieve my cell phone. It wasn’t fully charged, but it was at least out of the danger zone. I grabbed the phone, and retreated to my all purpose table. I thought about calling the police to see if anyone had dusted the gun for prints yet, but I had a feeling the police would call me once they had run the prints. If my attacker was indeed involved with one of the families, I’d probably be getting phone calls from a lot of interested parties besides the police. After another swig of coffee, I decided to call my old law school romance instead.

  “I called the desk this morning and had myself added as co-counsel so I could get the reports,” Liz said when she answered the phone. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t,” I replied as I gulped down more coffee. “I was going to enter a not guilty plea, then argue for a lower bail.”

  “That’s the best you can do here,” she agreed. “Do you know if they took him in for a medical exam yet?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “Though they collected skin and saliva samples while he was in the precinct.”

  “We should try to get that done today,” she mused. “The sooner we can show that he wasn’t the one who caused the bruises, the sooner we can shut down this investigation.”

  “I gather some of the beating was delivered with bare fists,” I replied.

  “Well, there’s nothing definitive from the ME’s office yet,” she replied. “But based on the preliminary, I’d say that was likely.”

  “That’s good,” I said as I tried to remember what my client had looked like the night before. “There weren’t any bruises or blood on his knuckles.”

  “They may argue that he was wearing gloves, but that will be easy enough to prove or disprove,” she mused. “I think the bigger problem is that they may try to say that he had a cohort and the cohort was the one that punched the victim.”

  “Then where was the cohort when the police arrived?”

  “I’m sure they’ll have a story to explain that,” my co-counsel said. “We’re going to have a lot of legwork in this one.”

  “Isn’t that the kind of case you prefer?” I laughed, then quickly smothered it when my bruise protested.

  “It is,” Liz admitted. “I’d much rather be out investigating than sitting in the office reading case law. What about you? Will McHale, Parrish let you spend the time on this?”

  “As long as I take care of the rest of my clients,” I fudged.

  “Great!” Liz exclaimed. “I’ll see you at the courthouse, then.”

  We ended the call, and I checked the time again. I had just enough time to boot the laptop and answer a few emails, as well as send yet another notice about my absence to represent a client. This time, though, before I had a chance to log off, I received two immediate replies, one from Peter Noble and one from Barbara Ovitz.

  Noble’s email was short and reminded me that there was a mandatory team meeting that afternoon. I was also supposed to be working with the lead paralegal on the case on a stack of sample documents that could be used to get the reviewers up to speed quickly. I sent Noble a quick reply that I would be at the meeting and that I had received documents from the paralegal and was trying to winnow it down to something more manageable.

  Ovitz’s email was a demand to know which client I was representing. I was tempted not to respond, but I had a feeling that she and
Noble would compare notes and she would learn that I had answered his email but not hers. I thought about that for a moment, as well as the fact that she had no doubt learned from Bridgit that my pro bono client was Anthony Lamon. After a moment, I responded that my client was Anthony Febbo, and then quickly shut down the computer.

  I repacked my briefcase, and polished off the last of the coffee. After a quick peek in the bathroom mirror, I grabbed the bottle of Aleve and tossed it in my briefcase as well. Satisfied that I had everything, I left the apartment and walked slowly down the stairs as I tried not to jar my sore jaw with any sudden movements. Part of me wished I’d taken the elevator again, but since the stairs would probably be my only exercise for the day, I gritted my teeth and walked.

  Sulla was off duty by the time I made it back to the lobby, but the story of my fight had clearly spread, at least among the building staff. The woman dusting the lobby and the doorman on duty both clucked at my bruise and wondered what had happened to the neighborhood. I thanked them for their sympathy and assured them I was fine, then trotted to the nearest stop on the G.

  Unlike most of the other lines on the subway, the G skipped Manhattan and only ran between Brooklyn and Queens. People often thought that meant the G was never full, but as that morning’s crowd proved, the route between the outer boroughs was as popular as the other lines. I squeezed onto the train and stood for the entire trip to the courthouse stop.

  I found my new co-counsel outside the courthouse with her ear to her cell phone. I paused for a moment to study her, and decided she didn’t look much different than she had when we first met. Her dusky blonde hair was shorter, cut in a layered bob that was probably easier to maintain than the long tresses she’d worn before, but the smooth skin was still untouched by wrinkles and the sky blue eyes might have been even brighter.

  I smiled as I remembered the first time I’d seen her, in a pair of shorts that had shown off her long, trim legs and a baggy t-shirt that didn’t hide her other assets. Today she was in a dark blue suit, but the skirt still emphasized those lovely legs. The jacket did a better job of concealing her breasts, but that tease only made it more interesting. She smiled in return when I stepped up next to her, but didn’t wish me good morning until she’d finished issuing instructions to what I assumed was her secretary.

  “One of our clients called in,” she said with a sigh after she tucked the phone in her purse. “He wants to know if he can swing by his wife’s house to pick up some of his personal items.”

  “Let me guess,” I chuckled. “There’s a restraining order.”

  “There is,” she agreed. “Though he seems to have trouble grasping the concept. Now, what happened to you last night?”

  “Someone followed me home from Queens,” I said.

  “Seriously?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Seriously,” I assured her.

  “Damn,” she said as she studied the bruise. “Did you win?”

  “Well, he drove away, so I guess that counts as a win,” I replied.

  “You think it’s related to this case,” she said.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But I can’t come up with anything else that would have triggered it. There just aren’t that many people in the world that are fanatical about mergers.”

  “And even if there are such people,” she added with a snicker, “wouldn’t it make more sense for them to stalk the company executives and not some junior associate?”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And now that I’ve told you, I think you need to be extra careful.”

  “Trust me, I’ve had my share of scary clients,” she replied. “Though I can’t say any have arranged for strangers to follow me home. That’s a new level of creepiness.”

  “Well, I’m not sure who arranged it,” I said as we started towards the line waiting to enter the courthouse. “But I did learn one thing about my client last night that might explain it. His real name is Anthony Febbo.”

  “Salvatore’s son?” Liz asked in surprise.

  “The one and only,” I agreed.

  “Well, that does put a wrinkle in things,” she mused. “It also adds a whole slew of potential suspects to our list.”

  We each considered those possible suspects in silence as we made our way slowly towards the x-ray machine. The crowd here was more relaxed then the people who had been trying to get into the Manhattan courthouse, but the court police were still as grim. The guards checked my briefcase so thoroughly that I almost expected them to swab for gun residue. But eventually, the guards were satisfied, and I was waved on through to join Liz at the elevators.

  The morning’s court appearances were being handled by a judge I knew mostly by reputation. Judge Holfield wasn’t fond of arguments or speeches in her courtroom, and had been known to place time limits on attorneys who irritated her with long-winded requests. She also held the unofficial record for fastest hearing, one in which, if the stories were to be believed, exactly four words had been spoken during the entire process.

  “Whatever you were planning to say, you should probably cut in half,” Liz suggested as we watched Judge Holfield plow through the first cases.

  “I think I’ll go with ‘not guilty’ and ‘we request bail’,” I said.

  “Even that may be too long,” my blonde co-counsel chuckled.

  Despite Holfield’s speed, we still spent an hour in the benches before Lamon’s case was called. I sprinted towards the table, since I’d already seen Holfield chastise two other attorneys for moving too slow.

  “How are you doing?” I asked my client quietly while the prosecutor flipped through his file.

  “Fine,” Lamon assured me. “But what the heck happened to you?”

  “Just a misunderstanding,” I replied.

  “Any time now,” Holfield warned as she peered over her glasses at the prosecutor. She looked like a younger version of Ruth Bader-Ginsburg, complete with bun and lacy collar, though Bader-Ginsburg didn’t sound like she’d been smoking two packs a day since she was sixteen.

  “Your honor, the defendant has been arrested and charged with murder in the second degree,” the prosecutor began.

  “I read that,” the judge snapped. “Is there a plea?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” I said quickly.

  “Uh-huh,” she noted. “Bail?”

  “The state requests the maximum,” the prosecutor replied.

  “Counter?” the judge asked as she turned to look at me.

  “No prior criminal record,” I noted. “No flight risk. He’s employed and needs to be able to work in order to pay his bills.”

  “Don’t we all,” the judge snorted.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor cut in, “Given the nature of the crime…”

  “Right, yes,” the judge interjected. “Beaten, then injected with heroin. Defense?”

  “There’s no evidence that my client is now or has ever been a threat to anyone,” I replied.

  The prosecutor opened his mouth, but Holfield shot him a death glare. The prosecutor quickly closed his mouth and waited for a signal from the bench.

  “Okay, I’ll agree Mr. Lamon looks like a good citizen, on paper,” the judge noted. “But I can’t overlook the nature of this crime. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.”

  The prosecutor looked disappointed, but there wasn’t time to protest. The next prisoner was being led to the table and the attorneys were darting forward.

  “Hold up,” I ordered the bailiff that was tugging my client towards the door. “I need a moment to speak to my client.”

  The bailiff shrugged and moved away.

  “I know it sounds like a lot of money, but it’s actually not that bad given the crime,” I said. “Do you have any assets you could use?”

  “My biggest asset is my car,” Lamon noted. “And it’s worth maybe two thousand on a good day.”

  “What about your parents?” I pressed.

  “No,” Lamon said sharply. “I won’t as
k them.”

  “Just consider it,” I urged.

  “Gotta go,” the bailiff said as he shuffled back towards us. “The Judge is giving you the stink eye.”

  I nodded and the bailiff grabbed Lamon’s arm again. I watched the guard lead my client from the courtroom, then turned around to look for my co-counsel. Liz stood by the door to the hallway, and I made my way towards her as unobtrusively as I could.

  “That went well,” she said as we stepped into the hallway together.

  “He won’t call his parents for the bail money,” I sighed. “And he doesn’t have any assets on his own. I’m afraid he’s stuck in Rikers until we can solve this case.”

  “So let’s get started,” the leggy blonde suggested. “There’s a decent coffee joint near here and I know a spot where we can start going over what we have so far.”

  I glanced at my watch, then nodded. Thanks to Judge Holfield, I still had time to get some work in before I had to head into the office. Liz led me to a bakery two blocks away, where we picked up a couple of coffees and donuts. Armed with caffeine and sugar, we then made our way to one of those co-share office spaces.

  “Your firm’s a member here?” I asked in surprise as we made our way to an available office.

  “We found it was easier and cheaper, believe it or not, to have this available near the courthouses,” she explained. “We’ve got spots near all of the courthouses where we conduct business on a regular basis.”

  “And they won’t mind that you’re using it for a pro bono case?”

  “Not at all,” she assured me as we stopped in front of the door to room three.

  Liz opened the door to reveal a beige room filled with beige furniture. There was a round table with five chairs, a chrome desk tucked into a corner with a long row of outlets in the wall next to it, and a skinny cabinet with just enough space for a coffee machine on top.

  We dropped our briefcases on the table, then sat down in the ‘ergonomic’ chairs. I took a sip of the very hot coffee, selected a donut from the bag, then turned my attention to Lamon’s case. My long-legged co-counsel did the same, and soon we had several lists that covered everything from witness interviews we needed to conduct to other suspects.