“Nothing that you need to know.”

“I’m an attorney of record on the case. I need to know everything.”

“Later. Let’s concentrate on the boy first.”

Again the no-argument monotone.

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Myron continued. “Not telling the police about the kidnapping?”

“We can always tell them later,” Victoria Wilson replied. “That’s the mistake most defendants make. They think they have to talk their way out of it right away. But that’s dangerous. There is always time to talk later.”

“I’m not sure I agree.”

“Tell you what, Myron. If we need some expertise on negotiating a sneaker deal, I’ll put you in charge. But while this thing is still a criminal case, let me take the lead, okay?”

“The police want to question me.”

“You say nothing. That is your right. You don’t have to say a word to the police.”

“Unless they subpoena me.”

“Even then. You are Linda Coldren’s attorney. You don’t say anything.”

Myron shook his head. “That only works for what was said after you asked me to be co-counsel. They can ask me about anything that happened before.”

“Wrong.” Victoria Wilson gave a distracted sigh. “When Linda Coldren first asked you to help, she knew you were a bar-appointed attorney. Therefore everything she told you fell under attorney-client.”

Myron had to smile. “That’s reaching.”

“But that’s the way it is.” He could feel her eyes on him now. “No matter what you might want to do, morally and legally you are not allowed to talk to anyone.”

She was good.

Myron drove a bit faster. No one was tailing them; the police and the reporters had stuck to the house. The story was all over the radio. The anchorman kept repeating a one-line statement issued by Linda Coldren: “We are all saddened by this tragedy. Please allow us to grieve in peace.”

“You issue that statement?” Myron asked.

“No. Linda did it before I got there.”

“Why?”

“She thought it would keep the media off her back. She knows better now.”

They pulled up on Porter Street. Myron scanned the sidewalks.

“Up there,” Victoria Wilson said.

Myron saw him. Chad Coldren was huddled on the ground. The telephone receiver was still gripped in one hand, but he wasn’t talking. The other hand was heavily bandaged. Myron felt a little queasy. He hit the gas pedal. The car jerked forward. They pulled up to the boy. Chad stared straight ahead.

Victoria Wilson’s indifferent expression finally melted a bit. “Let me handle this,” she said.

She got out of the car and walked over to the boy. She bent down and cradled him. She took the receiver away from him, talked into it, hung up. She helped Chad to his feet, stroking his hair, whispering comforts. They both got into the backseat. Chad leaned his head against her. She made soothing shushing noises. She nodded at Myron. Myron put the car in drive.

Chad did not speak during the drive. Nobody asked him to. Victoria gave Myron directions to her office building in Bryn Mawr. The Coldren family doctor—a gray-haired, old family friend named Henry Lane—had his office there too. He unwrapped Chad’s bandage and examined the boy while Myron and Victoria waited in another room. Myron paced. Victoria read a magazine.

“We should take him to a hospital,” Myron said.

“Dr. Lane will decide if that’s necessary.” Victoria yawned and flipped a page.

Myron tried to take it all in. With all the activity surrounding the police accusation and Chad’s safe recovery, he had almost forgotten about Jack Coldren. Jack was dead. It was almost impossible for Myron to comprehend. The irony did not escape him: The man finally has the chance at redemption and he ends up dead in the same hazard that altered his life twenty-three years ago.

Dr. Lane appeared in the doorway. He was everything you wanted a doctor to look like—Marcus Welby without the receding hairline. “Chad is better now. He’s talking. He’s alert.”

“How’s his hand?” Myron asked.

“It’ll need to be looked at by a specialist. But there’s no infection or anything like that.”

Victoria Wilson stood. “I’d like to talk to him.”

Lane nodded. “I would warn you to go easy on him, Victoria, but I know you never listen.”

Her mouth almost twitched. Not a smile. Not even close. But there was a sign of life. “You’ll have to stay out here, Henry. The police may ask you what you heard.”

The doctor nodded again. “I understand.”

Victoria looked at Myron. “I’ll do the talking.”

“Okay.”

When Myron and Victoria entered the room, Chad was staring down at his bandaged hand like he expected the missing finger to grow back.

“Chad?”

He slowly looked up. There were tears in his eyes. Myron remembered what Linda had said about the kid’s love of golf. Another dream lay in ashes. The kid did not know it, but right now he and Myron were kindred spirits.

“Who are you?” Chad asked Myron.

“He’s a friend,” Victoria Wilson replied. Even with the boy the tone was completely detached. “His name is Myron Bolitar.”

“I want to see my parents, Aunt Vee.”

Victoria sat across from him. “A lot has happened, Chad. I don’t want to go into it all now. You’ll have to trust me, okay?”

Chad nodded.

“I need to know what happened to you. Everything. From the beginning.”

“A man car-jacked me,” Chad said.

“Just one man?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on. Tell me what happened.”

“I was at a traffic light, and this guy just opens the passenger door and gets in. He’s wearing a ski mask and sticks this gun in my face. He told me to keep driving.”

“Okay. What day was this?”

“Thursday.”

“Where were you Wednesday night?”

“At my friend Matt’s house.”

“Matthew Squires?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, fine.” Victoria Wilson’s eyes did not wander from the boy’s face. “Now where were you when this man got into your car?”

“A couple of blocks from school.”

“Did this happen before or after summer school?”

“After. I was on my way home.”