Williams said, “Done,” in a faint voice and hurried off. Maybe his was a job that required aerobic training.

Grant Fellinger kept his arms folded as he studied us. Everything about him was thick—flat nose nearly as broad as the bud-lips below it, banjo-earlobes sprouting a few dark hairs, bull-neck, sturdy wrists, stubby fingers, sloping shoulders.

As if a sculptor had applied an extra layer of clay.

Milo introduced himself.

Fellinger nodded. “Ursula run over? I can’t believe it, she was just here, Jesus.” He gnawed his lip. “Forty-five minutes ago, she’s on top of the world. Now this. Jeesus.”

A finger swiped at the corner of one eye. “Damn. Did you get the moron who did it? If he didn’t have the decency to stick around, it should still be easy because there’s a surveillance camera above the exit.”

Milo said, “Ms. Corey left here forty-five minutes ago?”

“Give or take,” said Fellinger. “And not that much take, maybe five minutes, so check out who left the lot during that period and you’ve got your bad actor.”

Milo said, “Appreciate the information, Mr. Fellinger. Unfortunately, Ms. Corey wasn’t hit by a car.”

“No? What, then?”

“She was shot.”

Grant Fellinger’s head thrust forward, as if ready to butt reality. “Shot? Jens said it was an accident.”

“We gave him no details so he assumed.”

“Great,” said Fellinger. “He does that a lot—jumps to conclusions, I’m always telling him about it. Yale, no less. Shot? By who?”

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Fellinger.”

“Shot,” Fellinger repeated. “Shot? Ursula? Jesus Christ.” His meaty arms dropped. Both hands were hirsute fists. He punched a palm. “This just knocks the stuffing out of me.”

“Anything you can tell us, sir—”

The attorney’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked spit, creating a bubbling noise. He threw up his hands. “You’d better come in.”

His office was surprisingly modest with a sliver of sky barely visible to the east. Plain wooden desk and matching credenza, oversized black leather chair, three functional chairs. A tweed sofa and glass coffee table created a conversational area near the rear wall. Fellinger moved behind his desk and motioned us toward the hard-backed chairs.

The grass-cloth wall above the credenza sported diplomas from the U. and its law school, supplemented by certificates in family law and arbitration. Photos hanging askew portrayed Fellinger with a pleasant-looking dark-haired woman and two boys at various stages of development. In the most recent shots, Fellinger’s sons were sullen teenagers. His wife had aged conspicuously.

Milo said, “You do family law. Was Ms. Corey involved in a nasty divorce?”

“They all have the potential to be nasty,” said Grant Fellinger. “If you’ve got two crucial ingredients.”

He waited.

I said, “Kids and money.”