The old lawyer’s desk could’ve been swiped from the White House attic—a carved Georgian piece, the one discovered to be too large for the Oval Office. Crystal decanters, designated Gin, Whisky, and Brandy by silver badges on silver chains, sat atop a brass cart. Windows facing Roxbury Drive were blocked by oak shutters and tie-back brocade drapes that could’ve been sliced from an Aubusson tapestry. Soft light issued from a blue-and-gold dragonfly-patterned chandelier that was probably real Tiffany.

Cohen’s paper was from Harvard. His own collection of certificates shared space with photos of himself with senators and every governor since Reagan, as well as multiple shots of a blond woman who could’ve been an actress when Reagan was an actor. One child reappeared progressively, a blond daughter who favored her mother. In one picture, Cohen handed her a degree, both of them decked out in crimson caps and gowns.

“Sit, please,” he rasped, lowering himself with discomfort. The scar tissue on his neck bore the gloss of long-ago intrusion. Not a recent incision; something else was bothering him.

Near his pen set was an ebony humidor from which he took three claros. “You fellows smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then I won’t either,” said Cohen. “Maybe it’ll extend my life by five minutes.” He looked at Milo. “You’re the one I talked to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you …”

“Alex Delaware.”

“I know that name,” said Cohen. “Unusual name. American Indian?”

“Supposedly that’s part of the mix.”

“There’s a psychologist with that name, does custody work.”

“That’s me.”

Cohen’s stare was long and appraising. “Small world. You were recently recommended to me as someone who doesn’t take guff from shysters. Fortunately, the case settled and I didn’t need to test that hypothesis.”

“Lucky break,” I said.

“Oh, boy, it sure was,” said Earl Cohen. “When I started out, I took every client that came my way, such ugliness, such vitriol. When I turned sixty-five, instead of retiring, I decided only to take cases where a high degree of animosity was unlikely.” His chuckle was faint, a puff of dust. “Those I inflict on my daughter. She’s young, her cardiovascular system can take it.”

“The Coreys were low risk.”

“Cut to the chase, eh?” Cohen turned to Milo. “Might I inquire why a psychologist is here?”

Milo said, “We sometimes consult Dr. Delaware.”

“This isn’t child psychology. The Corey girls are older. One’s a legal adult.”

“We use Dr. Delaware on cases that are unusual.”

“I see. Actually, I don’t.”

Milo said nothing.

Cohen said, “Okay, no sense dillydallying, you’re here to learn about poor Ursula. Not my client but a lovely, lovely woman, nonetheless. They don’t come more gracious. Brits of a certain class learn manners in a way we don’t.”

“You represent her husband—”