Leah Caudwell had been the firm’s receptionist since before Dick joined the firm. She had always liked me, and had seen me as an aggrieved party when Dick and I split up. Without exactly encouraging her to believe it, I’d never directly contradicted the idea; the wear and tear on Dick was my substitute for alimony.

I walked over to the reception counter with a cheery greeting on my lips, but found myself looking at a strange young woman easily thirty years Leah’s junior. She was pencil thin, wearing a green knit sheath and a lavish amount of lipstick.

“Leah sick today?” I asked.

The young woman shook her head. “She quit when we moved last November. Can I help you?”

I felt unreasonably hurt that Leah had left without notifying me. With a little brusqueness I gave the young woman my name and told her I’d come to see Freeman.

“Oh, my. Did you have an appointment with him?”

“Nope. I spent the morning trying to get through on the phone and thought it would be easier to come in person. I’ll talk to his secretary, though; what I need doesn’t require his personal attention.”

“Oh, my,” she repeated helplessly, shaking her feathered curls. “Well, maybe you’d better talk to Catherine. If you’ll have a seat I’ll page her for you. What did you say your name was?”

Catherine Gentry was Freeman’s secretary. Since she hadn’t been answering his phone I didn’t know that she would answer a page. The receptionist’s manner made it clear that something was wrong with Freeman, but it seemed hopeless to get her to tell me anything. I handed her one of my cards and went over to the russet armchairs underneath the Ferraghan. When Dick started at the firm fourteen years ago he’d told me, awed, that the rug was insured for fifty thousand dollars. I suppose it was now worth three or four times that, but Dick’s awe had probably diminished commensurately.

After I’d waited ten minutes, thumbing through the Wall Street Journal and back copies of Newsweek, a thickset young woman came out, whispered something to the receptionist, and came over to me.

“Are you Ms. Warshawski?” She made a credible stab at my last name. “I’m Vivian Copley. I’m one of the paralegals—I’ve done a lot of work for Mr. Carter recently. What did you need to see him about?”

“It’s certainly something you could help me with, but is something wrong with Freeman? I haven’t talked to him for a while.”

She put a hand over her mouth and giggled nervously. “Oh, dear. I hate … I don’t know if we’re supposed … but it’ll probably be in the papers anyway.”

“What?” I demanded sharply. I was getting tired of the helpless fluttering of the office staff.