Christine had no idea what that meant. “Did you ask?”

“Of course not.”

Christine didn’t understand. “So what happened in the meeting? How do you have a meeting where that doesn’t even come up? Isn’t that the elephant in the room?”

Griff sighed theatrically. “I asked him what happened the night of the murder. He told me the same story he told you. I took notes.” He gestured at his legal pads. “Somewhere in here.”

“You didn’t ask if he did it?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Griff frowned, recoiling. “Is this what it’s going to be like? You bothering me with stupid questions, ad nauseam?”

“Zachary called 911 that night, you know. He was the one who reported the Robinbrecht murder.”

“So?” Griff shrugged. “Serial killers have been known to do that. Robert Durst called 911. So did the BTK killer. They like the game. They toy with the cops. They like to tease. Show their superiority.”

Christine held up a hand. “Okay, I’ll move on. What else have you done so far on the case? Catch me up.”

“I filed an Entry of Appearance, which puts everyone on notice I represent him. I cleared his visitors’ list at the prison of everyone but me. I’ll have to put you back on. I went to the scene.”

Christine gasped. “You went to Robinbrecht’s apartment?”

“Robinbrecht’s apartment is the scene, so, yes.” Griff flared his cloudy gray eyes. “How is it I don’t need a hearing aid but you do?”

“How did you get in?”

“How do you think? I called the D.A. Detectives take you. They stand watch. You look around.”

“Did you see anything helpful?”

“No.”

“I wish I had gone.” Christine couldn’t imagine what it had looked like, but she wanted to know.

“Then go. I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” Christine felt her pulse quicken. It would be grim, but maybe she would see something that Griff had missed.

“Hold on.” Griff dug under his accordion files and produced a single-lens reflex camera, which he passed her over the desk, dragging the black strap across his papers. “I took pictures.”

“Thanks.” Christine rose, took the camera from him, and turned it over to look through the pictures, but the back was sealed. “It’s not digital?”

“No, it’s not. Human beings are digital, not cameras. See these?” Griff wiggled his arthritic fingers. “They’re called digits. Know why? From the Latin, digitus, meaning fingers or toes.”

“Really?” Christine sat down with the camera. “You learn something new every day.”

“I don’t, but you do.” Griff waved at the camera. “Get that film developed. That will be your first assignment as my paralegal.”

“Okay, but I do have something I want to do first. In fact, right now.”

“Already, you’re not listening.” Griff frowned.

“I’m listening, I’m just not obeying.”

“You said you’d obey.”

“No I didn’t.” Christine hadn’t even said that in her wedding vows, which was turning out to be a good thing. “Let me tell you what I want to do, and if you give me the go-ahead, I’ll go. How about that?”

“No.”

But Christine didn’t obey, and told him anyway.

Chapter Thirty-four

Christine dropped off the film at a drugstore, which unfortunately didn’t have one-hour developing, then went on to Warwick Street, arriving at six o’clock, which was perfect timing. It was still light out, so she could see the lay of the land, and residents were returning home from work. She circled the block, noting that some were finding parking spaces in front of their houses but others were driving down the block, taking a right turn on Warwick, and turning into the skinny driveway behind the houses on Warwick.

She pulled into a space a few doors up from Gail Robinbrecht’s house and parked the car. She cut the ignition, grabbed her purse, and got out of the car, chirping it locked behind her. She walked to 301, two houses up from Gail’s, and scanned Warwick Street on the fly. All of the houses, from 301 to 307, which was at the corner, were redbrick row houses, the same except for the paint color of their shutters, window treatments, and plantings.

Number 301 had petunias and pretty black window boxes, with a black door to match, and Christine could see from the two front windows on the first floor that lights were on inside the house. She walked up the two front steps, knocked on the door, and reminded herself to act like a paralegal, which was basically a teacher with a better pay scale.

The door was opened in a few moments by a good-looking, if scruffy, young man in a purple WCU T-shirt and gym shorts, with red Dr. Dre earphones on. “Hi,” he said, lifting one from his ear.

“Hi, I’m Christine Nilsson, and I’m a paralegal working for an attorney in town.” Christine slid one of Griff’s business cards from her pocket and gave it to him.

“Okay, I’m Phil Dresher.” Phil tugged the earphones off and let them rest around his neck, but his rap music was loud enough that Christine could still hear the shouting.

“Phil, I just have a few questions about Linda Kent, who lived around the block at 505 Daley. Did you happen to know Ms. Kent?”

“No, not really. I know the neighbors on this street. We have block parties and stuff, it’s cool. But I don’t know around the block, on Daley Street.”

“You may have heard that Ms. Kent was killed in an accident on Sunday night. She fell down the back steps.”

“Oh that sucks. I didn’t know.” Phil frowned.

“Yes, we’re investigating the matter, and I was wondering if you saw or heard anything that night, perhaps saw her fall or heard her shout?” Christine wasn’t exactly lying, and neither she nor Griff wanted to do that. But if she led with what happened to Linda Kent, rather than what happened to Gail Robinbrecht, residents would assume it was about a negligence lawsuit and be more likely to talk.

“No, I don’t think so. What time did it happen?”

“We think midnight.”

“No, heard nothing.”

“Do you generally hear noises out back? Does your house go all the way through?”