I watched as Shafer courteously shook hands with the members of his defense team. Jules and Jane Halpern both had forced smiles on their faces. They know, don’t they? Their client is the Weasel, a mass murderer.

“Geoffrey Shafer has the ability to make people believe in him when he needs to. He’s the best actor I’ve seen,” I said.

Then John left and I snuck out the back way again. This time neither Shafer nor the press was lying in wait downstairs or in the rear parking lot.

In the lot, I heard a woman’s voice, and I stopped moving. I thought it was Christine. A dozen or so people were walking to their cars, seemingly unaware of me. I felt fevered and hot as I checked them all. None of them was her. Where had the voice come from?

I took a ride in the old Porsche and listened to George Benson on the CD player. I remembered the police report about Shafer’s thrill-seeking ride that ended near Dupont Circle. It seemed a strangely appealing prospect. I took my own advice not to try to guess how the jury would decide the case. It could go either way.

I let myself think about Christine, and I choked up. It was too much. Tears began to stream down my cheeks. I had to pull over.

I took a deep breath, then another. The pain in my chest was still as fresh as it had been the day she disappeared in Bermuda. She had tried to stay away from me, but I wouldn’t let her. I was responsible for what had happened to her.

I drove around Washington, riding in gently aimless circles. I finally reached home more than two and a half hours after leaving the courthouse.

Nana came running out of the house. She must have seen me pull into the driveway. She’d obviously been waiting for me.

I leaned out of the driver’s-side window. The deejay was still talking congenially on Public Radio.

“What is it, old woman? What’s the matter now?” I asked Nana.

“Ms. Fitzgibbon called you, Alex. The jury is coming back. They have a verdict.”

Chapter 100

I WAS APPREHENSIVE as could be. But I was also curious beyond anything I could remember.

I backed out of the driveway and sped downtown. I got back to the courthouse in less than fifteen minutes. The crowd on E Street was even larger and more unruly than it had been at the height of the trial. At least a half-dozen Union Jacks waved in the wind; contrasting with them were American flags, including some painted across bare chests and faces.

I had to push and literally inch my way through the crush of people up close to the courthouse steps. I ignored every question from the press. I tried to avoid anyone with a camera in hand, or the hungry look of a reporter.