She kisses my nipple through my shirt. The sharp edges of her teeth pull at flesh and wet cloth, sending a delicious current of pain through me.

“It’ll only take a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll be right—”

With three or four quick movements she unbuckles my pants and pushes them far enough down to free me, then entwines her fingers behind my neck. When I try to speak, she takes my right hand and lifts it to my mouth, cutting off my words. Her scent on my fingers is overpowering.

“Me first,” she whispers.

Even as I despise myself for it, in one violent motion I reach beneath her dress, lift her into the air, and set her down upon me.

CHAPTER 29

I am parked in the alley between Wall and Pearl Streets, the legal center of the city. It’s nearly dark and raining steadily, a drizzle with a breath of fall in it. The courthouse towers above me on its pedestal of earth, grayish-white and imposing amid the windblown oaks that surround it. Across the street, running down the block in a line, stand the offices of various law firms, all of them small, most very profitable. The most prestigious among them is Marston, Sims. Founded in 1887 by Ambrose Marston, Leo’s great grandfather, the firm has handled everything from high-profile criminal cases to corporate litigation involving tens of millions of dollars. And I am parked in this alley to see whether the senior partner of the firm will commit a felony tonight.

I filed my requests for production this morning, and if Leo plans to hide or destroy any documentary evidence, the sooner he does it the better, at least from his point of view. I would like to be there when he tries. I’ve staked out his office because Tuscany—his fenced estate—does not lend itself to surveillance. Daniel Kelly is covering the back entrance for me, and we’re in contact via handheld radios, which were among the toys he and his associates brought from Houston. Also among those toys was a Hi-8 video camera with a night-vision lens, which rests on the seat beside me. The rear entrance of the office is well lighted by a security lamp, so Kelly is using a standard camcorder borrowed from Caitlin Masters. The pistol he lent me last night lies on the seat beside the Hi-8 camera, its safety off.

“One-Adam-twelve, one-Adam-twelve.” Kelly’s voice crackles out of the radio. “Sitrep, please.”

I laugh and press Send on my walkie-talkie. “Nothing out here but rain.”

“It’s like fishing. That’s what my butt’s telling me, anyway.”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll catch something.”

As I set the radio back on the passenger seat, something bangs against my window, nearly stopping my heart. I grab for the gun, knowing I’ll never bring it up in time to save myself if the person outside the car means me harm.