“Do it. See him after the crime scene. Ask him any questions you come up with. See if you can find out if he lied. But only tell me good things.”

“What’s that mean?”

“When were you born? Yesterday?” Griff sighed theatrically. “If I know he lied, I can’t put him on the stand. Lawyers can’t lie, officially. Only Congress.”

“Okay.” Christine understood what he was saying. He wanted deniability.

“After that, pop over to his apartment in Exton. The landlord was expecting me at noon, but you go instead. Snoop around.”

“Wow, okay.” Christine hadn’t thought she’d get to see inside Zachary’s apartment. She liked the idea, even if she didn’t learn anything about the case. The more she knew about him, the better. “Where does he live?”

“I wrote down the address somewhere.” Griff gestured at his messy desk.

“See? That’s why we need the bulletin board.” Christine bubbled over, only half-kidding. “Organization! Communication! Sharing! Cooperation!”

“Go, team, go.” Griff scowled.

“Ha!” Christine set the bulletin board against the wall. She’d need to buy tools to hang it up, plus office supplies, paper towels, Fantastic, and Windex. “Is there a Staples around here?”

“God knows.”

“Why don’t you look on the Internet? Oh, wait. You don’t believe in progress.” Christine smiled to herself.

“You’re making me tired.” Griff rubbed his forehead, leaving pinkish marks.

“So go home, let me take over. Where do you live anyway?”

“None of your business. Go.”

“But I’m not tired.” Christine would have been exhausted at home, but fatigue hadn’t hit, maybe because so much was at stake. She was curious, and her curiosity led her where it always did, to books. She crossed to the bookshelves and scanned the bound lawbooks, blue volumes with gold numbers, which read ATLANTIC REPORTER, SECOND SERIES.

“What are you doing now?” Griff asked, wearily, leaning against the desk.

“I wish I knew more about criminal law.”

“Leave the law to me.”

“It would help if I knew the basics, too.” Christine pulled a book off the shelf.

“Don’t touch that.”

“Would it help if I read a few of these?” Christine opened the book, which had yellowed pages. The print was old-timey and small, and the paper so thin that she could read through to the other side. She read the first line: this dividing line is significant in a discussion of the extent of riparian rights …

“No. That’s a casebook. Reports of decided cases, from all areas of the law. Not just criminal.”

“Do you have any books about the basics of criminal law?” Christine closed the casebook and put it back on the shelf.

“You’re talking about a hornbook. I have a criminal hornbook from law school.”

“Is it still good?”

“Of course. Am I still good?”

Christine let it go. “Where is your hornbook?”

“In one of those boxes.” Griff motioned to the hallway, reluctantly.

“Great.” Christine went back to the threshold and peered down the hall. Stacked boxes lined the walls on either side, making a narrow walkway between, and there was a wooden door on the left. The boxes bore the printed name CHESTER SPRINGS BUSINESS ARCHIVES, but they weren’t labeled on the side. “Are these labeled on top, so you know what’s inside?”

“I know what’s inside.”

Christine didn’t believe him. “Do you remember where the hornbooks are?”

“Far right. Second row. Third one from the bottom. But don’t go in there.”

“Just a minute.” Christine walked down the hall, scanning the boxes. She went to the door on the left, opened it, and flicked on the light. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing, as she took in the windowless white room about the size of a large storage room, with a neatly made single bed on one side next to a night table that held a small, open carton of milk and an unwrapped packet of half-eaten chocolate cupcakes. Next to the table was a dorm-sized refrigerator, a white IKEA cabinet, and a stainless-steel rack of suits—seersucker, light gray wool, heavyweight tweed three-piece—then a rack of striped bow ties and a row of wingtips on a wire shelf at the bottom, each shoe filled with a cedar shoe holder. Attached to the room on the left was a tiny bathroom with a shower. It was obvious that Griff was living here and didn’t want her to know that. She felt a stab of sympathy for the old lawyer, and sadness that he had come to such dire straits.

“What are you doing?” Griff called from the office.

“I think I found the box!” Christine called back, closing the door quickly so he wouldn’t suspect she had seen anything.

“Don’t touch my boxes!” Griff called out from his office.

“I won’t, I’m coming back!” Christine swallowed hard as she walked back down the hall and entered the office. “I think I found the right box, but I can’t get it out. Do you have a hand cart?”

“Why would I have a hand cart?” Griff sighed, but he looked tired, his lids lower, and Christine knew it was time to go.

“It can wait. Tomorrow, can we borrow a hand cart from the other law firm?”

“Yes, good.” Griff went back to his desk and eased into his desk chair slowly, with a squeak from its dry springs. “I’ll finish up here. You go.”

“You’re the boss,” Christine said, her throat tight. She went to the door. “See you after my morning stops. I’ll keep you posted on what I find.”

“Hold on, I almost forgot.” Griff dug through the piles on his desk, found a manila envelope, and handed it over. “This is from the police. They didn’t have to turn ’em over yet. They threw me a bone.”

“What is it?” Christine took the envelope, intrigued.

“Look ’em over. But not before bedtime.”

Chapter Forty

The Warner Hotel turned out to be as charming as the rest of West Chester, and Christine’s room reminded her of a Victorian dollhouse; it was a cozy size, with a panel of mullioned windows that overlooked a horse pasture, so she didn’t have to bother closing the curtains. She left the windows open since the night air was surprisingly cool and smelled fresh, if vaguely earthy. A bed with a chintz canopy and matching bedspread sat on top of a pink-and-green hooked rug, and the dresser and armoire were both carved antiques. Soft crystal lamps gave off a gentle light, lending the room a serene country feel, but even the lovely setting couldn’t put Christine’s mind at ease.