I’m about to bang on the window when Doris very pointedly looks downward. Following her eyes, I see her hand at her waist, beckoning me inside. At first I think she means to let me in, but then I realize that since she was hiding the gesture from Quentin, that’s unlikely. Then it hits me.

Taking my keys from my pocket, I simply unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen.

“You’re trespassing, goddamn it!” Quentin snaps.

“I own this house.”

“We’ll move to a goddamned hotel, then!”

“We’re not moving anywhere,” Doris says firmly, “unless it’s back home.”

I try to catch her eye, but Doris Avery is far too smooth a customer to let her husband detect conspiracy between us. I’m happy to have this woman as my ally. I met Doris two years ago, but I still don’t know how she wound up married to a man my father’s age.

“What do you want?” Quentin demands. “You ruined my lunch. Have you come to ruin my dinner, too?”

Before I can answer, he says, “The least you could have done is brought a couple of those bodyguards of yours with you. We need the help. The tourists are bad enough, trying to walk in the front door every ten minutes, but now we have the media maggots all over this case.”

“I’ll see about getting a man for your door.”

“Make sure he’ll protect me from you, too.”

“I’m surprised, Quentin. You usually like holding forth to the press.”

He gives me a quick glare, then rolls away and starts eating Ritz crackers from the plate on the marble island. Doris walks into the doorway that leads to the front room, then leans against the casing and waits to see what I’ve come to say.

“Quentin, I’m here because my mother wants to fire you.”

“Is that all?”

“No. Every lawyer in the courtroom thinks you’re suffering from dementia.”

He actually cackles at this. “Yeah, I see all those hacks out there second-guessing me. Armchair quarterbacks. Your fat pal Rusty’s been staring a hole in my back all day. I’ve been worried he might have a stroke.”

“Do you blame him? I’m surprised the judge hasn’t stepped in from being worried about being reversed on appeal.”

“On what grounds?”

“Ineffective assistance of counsel.”

He chuckles with defiant pride. “I’d like to see the judge with the balls to say that of me.”

“Joe Elder’s no pushover.”

Quentin’s eyes glint with emotion I cannot read. “No. But he’s not about to stop this thing. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because he wants us to lose. He’s enjoying this.”

This takes me aback. “Why do you say that?”