“When was the last time you talked to Bill?” I asked to change the subject.

“A couple of months ago, he called me out of the blue and asked me to lunch. We met and talked about nothing until I got tired of it and said, why did you call me, Bill? What do you want? He hemmed and hawed some more, and then he said, do you have it? Are you sick? I almost threw my wine in the bitch’s face. I told him, I’m fine. What about you? He said, I’m fine too. A couple of weeks before he died, I got another call from him. Same thing, lots of small talk but I could tell something was bothering him. He really wanted to tell me, but he couldn’t.”

“What do you think it was?”

“What do most men feel guilty about?” Lauro asked archly. “Cheating on the wife. I think he wanted to tell me I was right about Nick and that he was going to dump him.”

“That was the last time you heard from him?

“Yes,” Lauro said. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I have to get to the salon. Can’t keep the blue rinse ladies waiting.”

“Of course,” I said, rising. “Thanks for your time.”

I had an arraignment the next morning at the Hall of Justice—a dismal misnomer if ever there was one. While I waited for my client to be brought up from the holding cells, the Public Defender declared a conflict of interest in two cases, much to the irritation of the arraignment judge. She brusquely appointed me to represent the defendants so I didn’t get to my office until after lunch. Our receptionist handed me a half-dozen pink message slips from my cubbyhole that I perused as I headed to my office. The one that caught my attention was from Isabel Trejo: “Called re her brother.”