Weider shot him a cold smile. “How funny, Lauritz. I called Davidson last week. His secretary told me he had a prior commitment.”

“If you want him for your kid, maybe we can work something out,” said Montez.

“No need,” said Weider, breezily. “I’ve got LaMaria from Cal.”

I said, “Do either of you have a theory as to why your clients murdered Kristal Malley?”

They swiveled toward me.

Weider said, “Doctor, exactly what are you asking?”

“What you think your clients’ motive was.”

“Isn’t motivation your thing, Doctor?”

“I’d imagine it would be yours, too.”

She stood, shook her head, stared down at me. “You really think I’m going to lay my strategy out right here?”

“I’m not interested in strategy,” I said. “Just insight.”

“Doctor, I don’t have any insight. Which is precisely my point vis-à-vis your report: A fresh perspective is required. I hope you’re prepared to deliver that.”

Montez’s eyes followed Weider as she walked to the door. “See you in court, Doctor.”

Montez left a second later; he avoided looking at me.

I sat there for a while. Wondering what I was going to do.

* * *

As I entered the jail parking lot, Sydney Weider called out my name. She was standing next to an ice-blue BMW convertible, tapping the croc bag against a long, lean thigh. To her left stood two women and a man.

Weider waved as if we were old buddies. I walked over. When I reached her, she smiled as if we’d just shared a pleasant afternoon. She drew one of the women close. “Doctor, this is Troy’s mom, Jane.”

Jane Hannabee was several inches shorter than the attorney and she seemed to shrink further under Weider’s grasp. My files put her at twenty-eight. Her sallow face was scored with paper-cut wrinkles. Her long-sleeved knit top was bisected by a wide red stripe and looked brand new. So did her baggy jeans and her white sneakers. A snake tattoo coiled up past the sweater’s crewneck. Its triangular head terminated just behind her left ear. Fangs bared, some sort of adder.

She had a thin body, thin lips, thin nose, lank brown hair that hung past her shoulders. Three holes punched in each ear but no earrings. A tiny black dot on her right nostril said that region had once been pierced. A caved-in mouth foretold missing teeth. Her eyes were blue and red-rimmed.

Crusted makeup failed to mask a bruise on her left cheek.

The police report said Troy had hit her from time to time.

She looked older than Weider.

I said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Jane Hannabee bit her lip and looked down at the oil-spotted floor of the parking garage and slipped me cold, dry fingers.

Sydney Weider said, “Doctor, I’m sure you’d like to talk to Ms. Hannabee.”

“Absolutely. Let’s set it up.”

“How about now?”

Taking control.