When Herschel Rhodes appeared in the doorway, Walker thought he was hallucinating. Herschel Rhodes? Why was he stepping into his hospital room? Walker had known him at Santa Teresa High School, where the two had occasional classes together. Herschel was a homely teen, awkward and overweight, with bad skin and no social skills. To compensate for his failings he was earnest and studious, the poor schmuck. Teachers fawned over him because he paid attention in class and actually participated. That’s how out of it he was. The boy was hell on raising his hand and the answers he gave were usually right. He turned in his class assignments on time, even going so far as to type his term papers, including the copious footnotes. What a little kiss-ass. Herschel was one of those kids shunned and ignored by the popular kids. No one was ever outright rude to him and if he was aware of the smirks and eye rolling that went on behind his back, he gave no indication of it.

He was now in his late thirties, still round-faced, with his dark hair slicked back in a style Walker hadn’t seen since the early 1960s. He’d been a merit scholar and graduated from Santa Teresa High third in his class. Walker had heard he’d graduated from Princeton and had then gone on to Harvard Law. He’d passed the bar the first time around. His specialty was criminal defense. Walker had seen his full-page ad in the yellow pages—murder, domestic violence, DUI, and drug offenses. It seemed like a sleazy way to make a living, but he must have done well at it because Walker’d seen his house in Montebello and the guy lived well. He’d become better-looking with age, and the traits that were deficits in his teens now stood him in good stead. He was reputed to be a ruthless competitor at anything he undertook—golf, tennis, bridge. “Cutthroat” was the word they used. He played hard, he played to win, and no one got in his way.

Herschel seemed startled at the sight of him. “Jesus, you look like shit.”

Walker said, “Herschel Rhodes, of all people. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Hello, Walker. Carolyn asked me to stop by.”

“As an attorney or a friend?”

Herschel’s expression was bland. “We’re hardly friends.”

“Nicely put. If you must know, I’m in the doghouse with her, piece of shit that I am. I can’t believe she’s taking pity on me.”

Herschel smiled slightly. “She figured it was in her best interests. You go down, she goes down with you. None of us wants to see that.”

“Oh, god no,” Walker said. “Have a seat.”

“This is fine. I can’t stay long. I hope you know the kind of trouble you’re in.”