“One more thing,” Culligan said. “Our man overheard something. The gun? It was a ghost gun.”

“What the fuck’s that?”

“Homemade. They sell these DIY kits online, and any bozo with basic machining skills can put it together.”

“Jesus. Is that legal?” Barrett said. Not that he cared, but as a lawyer he always liked to know.

“Legal to build, legal to own. It’s only illegal to sell to somebody else. But Barry, here’s the thing. There’s no serial number. There’s no registration.”

“You mean—it’s untraceable?”

“Almost always.”

Barrett blinked. Suddenly there was an earthquake in his landscape of possibilities. “Hold on a minute. Let me think.” He held up a hand at Lester, a crossing guard’s command to halt even though the man hadn’t moved. If Barrett could have a superpower, this was what it would be: the ability to freeze a scene and all the other players in it. Then he could take his time to think and strategize, maybe even peek into the others’ files, and, when he was ready for them, snap his fingers and bring them all back to life.

He didn’t need a superpower with these players, though. They worked for him. Lester froze where he stood, and Culligan remained obediently silent on the phone.

“Hey, listen, Jack,” Barrett said finally. “What if it wasn’t suicide?”

“What?” Culligan’s voice crackled over the line.

“She didn’t leave a note and it wasn’t her gun. And she wasn’t alone in that elevator.”

“Huh.”

“Lester,” Barrett said abruptly, and the tall man snapped to attention. “Do we have to worry about Lambert? Anything she could do or say?”

“No, sir. She never broke protocol. Not once.”

“But what’s her motive?” Culligan asked.

“I’ll take care of that.” Barrett had long known that the secret to being a good lawyer was the ability to define the issue and thereby direct the avenue of inquiry. Instead of wondering why Lucy killed herself, people would wonder why Lambert killed her. They’d go looking in the other direction, and he could control what they found.

“All right, then,” he decided. “That’s our play. Everybody got it?” He didn’t wait for them to answer. “Jack, any ETA on the cops?”

“They left here ten minutes ago.”

“Okay. Lester’s heading back in now.” Barrett pointed him to the back door. “Pull all your background on Shay Lambert,” he said to Culligan. “Pull the video. I’ll meet you in Tech in an hour.”

The call ended, but Lester still stood there in the kitchen, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Barrett pocketed his phone. “Is there a problem?”

“Sir.” Lester cleared his throat. “She’s a nice girl. She didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“I know.” Barrett heaved a sigh. “It’s a damn shame. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Lester bowed his head, and after a moment, he gave a nod and slipped soundlessly out the back door.

ELLIOTT GUTMAN WAS in the living room, slumped on the low-slung silk-covered sofa. He wore a turquoise brocade robe that Lucy probably brought back from one of her trips to Asia; it was far too flamboyant for a tweed-and-elbow-patches guy like Gutman. He looked like the academic he was—stoop-shouldered and concave-chested, with frizzy gray hair in a Dershowitz do and steel-rimmed glasses in need of some polishing.