During the second half, caterers had set up shop in the lobby. Four tables, formed into an enormous rectangle, were covered with staggering amounts of food: shrimp molded into mountains, giant bowls of strawberries, cakes, rolls, salads, platters of raw oysters. The shorter sides of the rectangle held hot dishes. From my perch I couldn’t make out the contents very clearly, but thought egg rolls and chicken livers jostled next to fried mushrooms and crab cakes. In the middle of the two long sides, white-capped men poised carving knives over giant haunches of beef and ham.

People were stampeding to get at the spread before it vanished. I noticed Teri’s bronze breastplate in the first surge toward the shrimp mountain. She was riding in Dick’s wake as he snatched shrimps with the frenzy of a man who feared his just share would be lost if he didn’t grab it fast. While stuffing shrimp into his mouth he talked earnestly to two other men in evening garb, who were plunging into the oysters. As they slowly moved toward the roast beef in the middle they punctuated their conversation by stabbing at olives, crab cakes, endives, whatever lay in their path. Teri bobbed behind, apparently talking to a woman in a blue gown whose surface was tightly covered with seed pearls.

“I feel like Pharaoh watching the locusts descend,” a familiar voice said behind me.

I turned to see Freeman Carter—Crawford, Mead’s token criminal lawyer. I grinned and laid a hand on the superfine broadcloth of his jacket. Our relationship went back to those days when I used to bob along behind Dick myself at the firm’s social functions. Freeman was the only partner who ever talked to the womenfolk without showing what a big favor he was doing us, so I’d started turning to him for my own legal needs those times the system looked like mangling me.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I know.”

“Love of music.” Freeman smiled sardonically. “What about you? You’re the last person I’d look for at a hundred-and-fifty-buck function.”

“Love of music,” I mimicked solemnly. “The cellist is the son of a friend—I’m sorry to say I’m freeloading, not supporting the cause.”

“Well, Crawford, Mead seems to have adopted Chicago Settlement as a pet. All partners were encouraged to buy five tickets each. I thought it would be collegial of me to join in—make it my last gesture of goodwill to the firm.”

My brows went up reflexively. “You’re leaving? Since when? What will you do?”