Seeing Chrissie’s name, I feel an immediate lift. Chrissie Perez is one of those friends who doesn’t go ultra-far back in my life but whose friendship goes deep. We met seven years ago, sweating on adjacent stair climbers at the gym, and just … clicked. In the years since, Joy and I have been to her place for more Sunday brunches than I can count. Chrissie, her husband, and her three-year-old son are as close to family as we get in New York.

“Chrissie,” I breathe in relief.

“Just wondering how you’re doing.”

“Funny you should ask,” I sing, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear. “As we speak, I’m looking for a gun.”

“The gun?”

“Yup. Our dining room always had a slew of vases. None are transparent, which makes them plausible hiding places. My mother used to fill every one with flowers from the garden.” I peer into a trio of squat ones, all empty. “When there were no flowers, it would be greens, and when there were no greens, it would be sticks. Even the sticks were stunning. They were in the tallest vases.” Plunging my arm into one of those tall ones, I sweep my fingers around its hollow base. “She was an artist.”

“You never told me that.”

“She said she wasn’t, which is why I got her camera equipment. And after that there was the whole accounting thing, which was practical and methodical and worked so well for her that I forgot about the flowers.” Retrieving my hand from the last vase, I look around. “There’s no gun in this room. Lots of memories”—for which I have no time, so I head for the kitchen—“but no gun.”

“What about the kitchen?” Chrissie asks. We do think alike. “Lots of places to hide something there.”

“Too many,” I decide, casting a discouraged look around. “I don’t have long, and there are too many cabinets and drawers to check quickly. Besides, between Anne and the housekeeper, would he risk hiding anything here?”

“What about his bedroom? That would be the obvious place.”

“Yes,” I say, holding the phone to my ear as I zip up the stairs. Halfway down the hall, though, I stop. “I can’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s his room.”

“That’s the point.”

“No. It’s his room. The judge’s room. Searching there would be a violation.”

“Mal. He’s your dad. And you’re looking for a murder weapon.”

“Potential,” I correct and, resolved, start forward, only to stop after a step. “If I find the gun elsewhere, I won’t have to search his room at all. And besides, isn’t the attic a more likely place to hide a gun? He was up there yesterday. He probably goes there a lot. Reading Lawyer’s Diaries could be his cover.”