Peter came around his desk and shook her hand firmly. “Serena, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “This is what’s called ‘lawyer time.’ We are perpetually late for everything except court dates. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“That’s all right,” Serena told him.

He gestured at the round oak conference table near the window. “Please.”

They both sat down. Serena noticed a photograph over Peter’s shoulder of Randall Stanhope and his son, who was about ten years old in the picture, standing on the span of the aerial lift bridge over the ship canal near the Point. Peter saw her staring.

“That’s one of the few photos of me and my father together,” he told her. “Randall didn’t spend a lot of time with me. Anyone who says those were simpler times doesn’t know how hard he worked.”

“I’m a little surprised that you’re a lawyer now and not CEO of Stanhope Industries,” Serena said.

“I saw the writing on the wall,” Peter replied. “The big money in steel was long gone and never coming back. Too much foreign competition. When Randall died, I figured I would let someone else run the company into the ground. Which they did.”

“So you decided to become a lawyer?”

“Yes, Randall’s probably turning in his grave. He hated lawyers. To me, though, litigation is the ultimate competition.” He added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Sure.”

Peter retreated to his desk to phone his secretary.

This meeting was only the second time that Serena had met Peter Stanhope in person. Peter didn’t hide his money. His suit was cut out of a charcoal fabric that glistened in the light. His shoes were like mirrors. He wore an amber-colored silk tie with a matching pocket square, a Tiffany watch, and silver cuff links engraved with his initials. In her heels, Serena was about two inches taller than Peter. He was handsome, though, with a stocky, muscular frame. He had a strong chin and sunburned nose, and freckles dotted his face. He wore glasses that made two tiny copper circles around his eyes. His thinning silver hair was swept straight back. Like Stride, he was in his late forties.

Serena always found that intelligence was in the eyes, and Peter’s eyes were smart. He carried himself with polish and confidence, like someone at ease in his own skin. Even so, you couldn’t have so much wealth, or so much success, and not have arrogance ooze through in your demeanor. Every now and then, Peter smirked, and Serena saw the cocky boy peek out from his soul. She knew that lawyers were experts at wearing masks, and she wondered who the real Peter was, the savvy professional or the arrogant teenager. Probably both.

“Have you thought about the job?” he asked as he sat down again.

“I have, and I’m still thinking. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need, but not a minute more. I want you with me. You could do great work here. Plus, the compensation would be a lot more than you ever made as a detective or a PI.”