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All of which made this discussion even more awkward, given the subject matter and the disparity in our ages. It was like interrogating Walter Cronkite on his favorite masturbation technique.

Speaking of which, I had to concede, as I studied Neville McBride standing by the fireplace, that the image of him hunched naked over the exposed backside of a bound and gagged Sally Wade, his eyes straining, breath rasping, sweat dripping from his face as, in Benny's coarse metaphor, he furiously choked his chicken—well, it was an image so implausible that it seemed preposterous. But then again, given some of the scenarios in my nastier divorce cases, what seemed preposterous often proved genuine.

Leaning back on the couch, I decided to try another approach. “When did you last see Sally?”

He squinted, trying to remember. “About two months ago, in a meeting arranged by our respective divorce attorneys.”

“How did it go?”

He seemed to contemplate the question. “She was cool but civil. The meeting lasted an hour and then I left.”

I nodded. “And it's your position that you didn't see her after that?”

“It's not simply my position,” he said, an edge to his voice, “it's the truth.”

No sense picking a fight now. There'd be plenty of time for that if the case continued. Jonathan had brought him here tonight solely for me to assess his credibility, and the jury was still out on that topic. I studied him. Time for the main event.

“I assume you are familiar with the allegations of Sally Wade's lawsuit.”

“Oh, yes,” he said with a bitter snort. “Yes, indeed. I am quite familiar with every single loathsome fabrication contained therein.”

“Okay,” I said, aiming for a detached tone. “As you recall, the petition alleges that the assault took place late on that Tuesday night.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me.

“Where were you on that Tuesday night, Mr. McBride?”

“In my residence.”

“Were you alone?”

His lips curled into a smirk. “I was with a woman.”

“From when to when?”

“We arrived at approximately nine-thirty. She left the following morning at approximately six a.m.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Tammy.”

I nodded. “Okay. Does she live here?”

“No.”

“Where does she live?”

“Actually, I'm not certain.”

I kept my expression neutral. “Why is that?”

He tried a smile, but it came off closer to a grimace. “She refused to tell me. She said she enjoyed the mystery of it. No last names, no office addresses, no strings attached—just an occasional, anonymous sexual rendezvous. I was doubtful at first, but it's been quite, uh, well, quite exhilarating.”

“So,” I said evenly, “you don't know her last name and you don't know where she lives.”

“Good God, Rachel, you make something fun sound downright sinister. She's a delightful girl. Although I may not know her last name, I do know that she's an airline stewardess.”

“Which airline?”

He gave a nervous chortle. “Actually, I am not certain.”

I nodded, keeping my expression blank. “Tell me how you met her.”

“Quite simple. It was in the restaurant bar in our office building. About six weeks ago. I met her at happy hour. We hit it off quite well. I invited her to dinner, and afterward she spent the night at my place. Since that night, we have been together twice. The last time, fortunately, was the night of the incident alleged in your lawsuit.”

“Fortunately?”

He smiled. “For me. Her testimony will totally refute your ridiculous charges.”

“Assuming you ever hear from her again.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I'm quite certain I will. Her travel routes bring her through St. Louis every two weeks or so. She calls the night before she's scheduled to fly into St. Louis. As a matter of fact, I should be hearing from her fairly soon. I can guarantee that Tammy will be able to confirm every single thing I have just told you.”

He came back over and sat down on the loveseat facing the couch.

I was quiet for a moment. “Her first name is Tammy?”

“Yes.”

I considered the story. His key alibi witness was a mystery woman—no last name, no hometown, no employer. By any measure, it was lame. Lamer even than the premises in those thrillers that every attorney in America seemed to be writing except me.

But that was a problem. McBride's story was so lame that it just might be true. After all, Neville McBride was a savvy, ingenious lawyer. He was certainly savvy enough to recognize a lame alibi. He was certainly ingenious enough to concoct a better one. All of which meant that if he didn't have a real alibi for the night in question, he surely could have invented something more compelling than this flat retread of
The Lady Vanishes
. Indeed, the most plausible reason for his Tammy alibi was that it was true.

I stared at him. “I have a few more questions,” I said.

He gave me a determined smile. “Fire away.”

“Let's go back to your relationship with other women.”

***

“Well?” my mother said after they left. We were back in the kitchen cleaning up.

I sighed and shook my head. “I can't decide. He definitely knows how to make a good presentation. He didn't try to oversell himself, and he made sure to show me some of his warts.”

“Such as?”

“Such as failing to honor his marital vows. He's not too good at monogamy.”

“That man?” my mother asked in disbelief. “What kind of woman would sleep with him?”

“All kinds, from the sound of things. Secretaries, showgirls, wives of other lawyers. What's that old saying? ‘Power is the greatest aphrodisiac'? It apparently works for him.”

“Tramps.” My mother frowned. “Why would he tell you something like that?”

“So that I could talk to them if I wanted. He claims he's never hit a woman in his life.”

She wiped the counter with a sponge. “What about the night your client claimed he attacked her?”

“He has an alibi.”

My mother turned to me with a dubious expression. “Oh? Let's hear it.”

I told her the tale of Tammy.

My mother scoffed. “No one is going to believe that cockamamie story.”

I joined her at the table. “So,” I said, weary of the subject of Neville McBride, “how did you and Prince Charming get along in the kitchen?”

She looked at me and raised her eyebrows impishly. “He's not so terrible.”

“Terrible? No. Just obnoxious and egotistical and rude.”

“I like him.”

I laughed in disbelief. “Mom, you've got to be kidding.”

She gave me a proud smile. “Did you know he loved my
kamishbroit
?”

“Mom, Saddam Hussein would love your
kamishbroit
. Idi Amin would do cartwheels for it. That doesn't prove a thing.”

“He makes it himself.”

“Kamishbroit?”

She nodded serenely. “We compared recipes.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said in amazement. “You and Jonathan Wolf were in here talking about recipes for
kamishbroit
?”

“And why not? Did you know he used to help his
bobba
make it when he was a boy? Now he makes it with his daughters. Oh, my goodness, Rachel,” she said, placing her hand over her heart, “do you know about his wife?”

“I know. She died of cancer.”

My mother shook her head sadly. “Such a tragedy.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thanks for dinner, Mom.” I stood up to gather my stuff. “It's late. I have a big day tomorrow.”

As I headed for the dining room to get my purse and briefcase, I called over my shoulder, “Who stays with his girls during the day?”

“He has a housekeeper. An older woman.” There was a pause as my mother got up to follow me. “Did you know he keeps kosher?”

“Good for him,” I said as I bent down to pick up my briefcase.

“He's not a bad-looking man.”

I straightened up slowly. Without a word, I turned toward my mother, who was standing in the doorway.

“I'm not so crazy about a beard,” she said, trying to sound offhand, “but otherwise you have to admit that this is a handsome man.”

“Mother, please tell me you're joking.”

“What?” she asked, pretending to be confused. “You don't think he's good-looking?”

I looked toward the ceiling and shook my head. “No comment.” I headed toward the front hall to get my jacket out of the closet.

“All I meant,” my mother said, following after me, “is that this is a nice Jewish man, and is it such a crime that he also happens to be tall, dark and—”

“—arrogant,” I said, looking back at her.

“Proud, Rachel, not arrogant. Pride is a good thing. As a matter of fact,” she said with a wink, “I think I know someone else with plenty of pride. And she happens to be a gorgeous knockout to boot.”

I shook my head. “Please, Mother.”

“Hush.” She gave me a kiss. “My tall, dark, and proud daughter.”

We hugged. She stood back to look at me, her eyes bright. “And so beautiful,” she whispered. “Here, I'll hold your briefcase.”

I handed it to her and slipped on my jacket. “That was a scrumptious meal, Mom.”

“Thank you, sweetie pie.”

I opened the front door. “I love you, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow.”

She walked out on the front porch and handed me the bag of
kamishbroit
. “Let me know what you find in her safe deposit box, okay?”

“Sure.”

As I opened the car door my mother called out, “Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“Did you notice he wears a yarmulke?”

“Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, darling.”

Chapter Seven

I waved the Walgreens receipt triumphantly. “Yes!”

Jacki looked up from the inventory list. “What?”

“Bingo.” I handed it to her. “Check it out.”

Jacki and I were in a small conference room at the main offices of Laclede Trust. Earlier that morning I had watched as two workmen drilled open Sally Wade's safe deposit door. Afterward, they carried the large steel box to one of the conference rooms, where Jacki was reviewing the entries on the inventories of items in Sally's office and home.

Jacki squinted at the Walgreens receipt. “Photo developing?”

“Look at the date.”

“October sixteenth.” She looked up with a frown. “So?”

“Jacki,” I said impatiently, “what was the date Sally came to the office?”

“The sixteenth?”

“Close. The fifteenth.”

“Ah,” she said with a smile, “you think those are them?”

I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up. “We just might be back in business with that lawsuit. Although,” I said, pausing to look down at the receipt with a frown, “I wish she'd had these done by a professional photographer. How're we ever going to find out who took these shots?”

“Do we need to know that?”

I nodded. “It would help. I'm going to have to lay an evidentiary foundation to get the photos admitted into evidence. It'd be nice to have the person who took the shots get on the stand and testify when and where he took them. Moreover, Sally may have told the photographer something about the assault. We might be able to get those statements into evidence.”

“Maybe Amy Chickering will know who took them,” Jacki said.

“Good point.”

Amy Chickering was Sally Wade's assistant. I was scheduled to meet with her at Sally's office after I finished at the trust company.

“Let me have it,” Jacki said, reaching for the receipt. She checked the address. “I'll pick them up at lunch.” She entered the Walgreens receipt on the inventory she was compiling for the safe deposit box. As she wrote she asked, “What else is in there?”

I peered into the steel box. “Let's see…one passport.” I flipped to the first page, studied her photograph for a moment, and then handed it to Jacki. I looked back in the box. “One large manila envelope.” I took it out, undid the clasp, opened the top flap, and pulled out the contents. “U.S. savings bonds.”

Jacki looked up from the passport. “How many?”

I shuffled through them. “Nine, each for one hundred dollars.” I put them back in the envelope and placed it on the table near Jacki. She was still paging through the passport.

“Any interesting places?” I asked.

“Lots of trips to Hong Kong.”

“Anywhere else?”

“France. Here's one to Spain.”

I pulled another manila envelope out of the box and opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper. At the top of the page, handwritten in blue ink, were the letters BCS. Below it were four rows of numbers, also in blue ink:

BCS
011-41-22-862-1823
108-795-2581-3883
111385
11787

“Bank accounts?” I said, handing it to Jacki.

She examined it a moment and then looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “B-C-S?”

I peered into the safe deposit box. Another manila envelope. This one contained a nine-page handwritten document. Each page had several columns of names and data. The first page was typical of the others:

“What do you make of this?” I asked, showing it to Jacki.

She scrutinized it. “These,” she said, pointing to the first column, “have to be clients.”

“Probably so.”

The first column had the π symbol at the top. The π symbol, as every first-year law student struggling to take lecture notes quickly learns, is shorthand for “plaintiff.” (Δ is shorthand for “defendant.”) Presumably, the names in the first column were plaintiffs, and since Sally had been a plaintiffs lawyer, those names were presumably her clients.

Jacki ran a finger down the second column. “These don't look like defendants,” she said. “Too many repeaters.”

I nodded. “Maybe defense lawyers. Or maybe the treating physicians.” Personal injury lawyers tend to have favorite doctors, which they use as expert witnesses over and over again.

“Or judges,” Jacki said. “I'll check the directories when we get back to the office.” She pointed to the third column, which had the numbers grouped under the % sign. “What's that?”

“It sure isn't her fee.”

Although personal injury lawyers usually charge on a contingent fee basis, the range of typical contingent fee percentages (usually from 30 to 40 percent of the recovery) was far higher than those listed on the document (5 to 10 percent).

“These last two,” I said, pointing to the fourth and fifth columns, “must be payment amounts and dates.”

“But what kind of payments?”

I frowned at the dates and dollar amounts. “Don't know.” I shook my head. “There's something fishy about this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If these are client matters, why did Sally keep the list in her safe deposit box? Why wouldn't she keep it at her office?”

“Maybe there's one there, too,” Jacki said.

“I doubt it. Let's make sure we get a copy of this.”

Next in the safe deposit box were three savings accounts at three different banks, each in Sally's name alone, each showing activity before, during, and after her marriage, each showing a balance of between $12,000 and $35,000. There were also stock certificates from several corporations, all in Sally's name alone. The stocks, like the bank accounts, listed Sally's address as a St. Louis post office box. It didn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that Sally had concealed these assets from Neville McBride. I handed them all to Jacki and turned back to the box. We had reached the bottom, and the last item was a thick manila envelope. I lifted it out, opened it up, and looked inside.

“Whoa.”

Jacki looked up. “What?”

I turned the envelope upside down. Onto the table clattered twenty packets of paper currency, each bound with a white paper band.

“Good grief,” Jacki said.

We sorted and counted. Ten packets contained crisp hundred-dollar bills and the other ten contained fifty-dollar bills. Total: $31,200 in cash.

I summoned the trust officer as Jacki recorded the cash amounts on the inventory list. When he arrived, we gave him the cash, bonds, and stock certificates for safekeeping. I had him make copies of the various documents I'd found in her safe deposit box, including the nine-page list.

As Jacki and I rode down the elevator to the parking garage, I reviewed our tasks. “You'll pick up her pictures at that Walgreens,” I said. “You also have to stop by the post office. Check her post office box.”

Jacki nodded, jotting notes on her steno pad in the elevator.

We stepped off the elevator and headed toward our cars, which were parked side by side. As we walked, I said, “I'm heading over to the East Side, to meet with her assistant. What's her name again?”

“Amy Chickering.”

“By the way, Jonathan Wolf is sending a messenger to our office to pick up a photocopy of the attorney-client agreement Sally signed.”

Jacki gave me a curious look. “How come?”

I opened my car door. “He wants his handwriting analyst to take a look at her signature.”

Jacki shook her head in disbelief. “He can't seriously believe that an impostor hired you?”

I shrugged. “He's a criminal defense lawyer. They like to deal in alternative scenarios.”

“Right,” Jacki said angrily. “Like she wasn't really injured that day, right? Like she was wearing makeup? Alternative scenarios? I think it's disgusting.”

I snapped my fingers. “One last thing. Shift gears a sec. Different case. That trial date for Cissy Thompson's libel case is getting close. Check on those two subpoenas. Neiman-Marcus must have something for us by now.”

“Will do.” She winked. “Keep your fingers crossed on that one.”

I smiled. “That's what I'm doing.” I held up my hands to show her.