No one—not the pretty receptionist in the black dress nor Fellinger’s assistant—had mentioned Fellinger leaving the office with Ursula the morning of her murder. But bosses didn’t check in or out and if the young woman had stepped away from her desk, who’d have known?

Sheep. Uncharitable appraisal of humanity but as I’d just seen, accurate.

I left the building, was talking on my phone by the time I got across the street.

Earl Cohen, Esq., had agreed to meet me in his office if I got there soon but when I arrived, his secretary said, “Mr. C.’s having lunch. Café Europa, it’s next door.”

“Café” turned out to be hype for a niche with a three-foot take-out counter on the ground floor of an adjoining medical building. Two young women in nurse’s uniforms waited for packaged salads. The single eat-in table in the corner was occupied by Earl Cohen.

In bright light, the old man was a wax apparition in bespoke tailoring. Lunch was monastic: unflavored yogurt, plastic spoon, glass of water.

I sat down. Cohen waited for the nurses to leave before speaking. “What now, Dr. Delaware?”

“As I said the first time, Grant Fellinger spoke highly of you. First time I’ve heard that from an opposing attorney.”

Cohen grinned. “Maybe I deserved the accolades.”

“No doubt,” I said. “But you weren’t as enthusiastic about him.”

“How uncharitable of me.”

“Anything you can tell me about Fellinger would be helpful.”

“You suspect him of having something to do with Ursula’s death?” No trace of surprise.

“It’s not at the level of suspicion but I find him interesting.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, we’ve been told he was sleeping with his client.”

Cohen smiled. “Which client, in particular?”

I smiled back. “It’s like that, huh?”

“Well,” said Cohen, “I’ve never heard of Grant going for men, but several female clients are reputed to have fallen under his charm. Such as it is.”

“Legal lothario.”

Cohen laughed. “Hard to understand, but so I’ve been told.”

“This is common knowledge among your colleagues.”

“Not common. The topic has come up a few times. Off the record and destined to remain that way. Including this conversation, Doctor. I’m too old for complications.”

“Has anyone ever filed a harassment complaint against him?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Cohen. He spooned yogurt. “Maybe he’s a command performer, leaves the gals happy and sassy.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

“Exactly? At my age, precision is out of the question. Approximately? Seeing as poor Ursula’s dead? Anything’s possible,” said Cohen. “As long as it remains off the record.”

He deposited yogurt on the tip of his spoon, treated himself to half a calorie. “Off the record means you keep it to yourself.”