Like a pebble thrown into a pond, Cooper may have left some ripples—some evidence of his intentions. The contents of the fireproof box would soon be in my possession. Alex Kramer said the papers looked like "insurance" that Cooper was keeping as evidence of what the embezzlers were up to. If my hunch was right, Cooper had gone to Philadelphia for more than a cheesesteak. Perhaps he approached the parent company to cash in his policy, so to speak.

I got online and looked up the parent company, Mid-Atlantic Entertainment, Inc. Before dialing, I jotted notes of what to say and a list of responses to questions they were likely to ask. After listening to a litany of choices, I pressed "0" for a human being—a woman who spoke in a high-pitched, nasal whine. I explained that I was a lawyer, interested in speaking to someone about a matter concerning their Kozmik Games subsidiary. I reviewed my crib notes as I spoke.

"Can you tell me about the specific matter you wish to discuss?" the grating voice asked. "I want to direct you to the right person."

"I'm representing a Kozmik Games employee who's been placed on administrative leave, pending a financial audit. I believe his supervisor, Darrell Cooper, may have contacted someone at your office to discuss something germane to the audit."

"Does this concern active litigation?"

"No." Not yet.

There was some hemming and hawing. "I'll direct you to Garland Perry, the vice president who handles that subsidiary." She gave me a four-digit extension, in case we got disconnected, then said, "Hold please."

I visualized what a guy named Garland Perry would look like and wondered why on earth a parent would choose such a moniker for a son. I repeated my story to an administrative assistant who put me on hold a moment, then patched me through to a man. His pleasant, bland voice told me he was bound for a lifetime of service in middle management. I pictured someone of medium height with a soft midsection and thinning hair, possibly a comb-over.

"A lawyer, eh? I'm not sure I'm supposed to be talking to you . . . ."

"If I promise not to use any Latin words, will you humor me?"

He laughed—a hearty Chamber of Commerce mixer laugh. "And a charming lady lawyer, too. You're dangerous."

"'I'm not bad,'" I quoted Jessica Rabbit. "'I'm just drawn that way.'"

Garland laughed again. I was getting good at this.

"Oh, dear," he said, still chuckling. "Charming and funny. You're lethal." He composed himself. "Well, how can I help you today?"

His manner was light and casual, but his voice had a purposeful undertone. Garland was no fool.

"I was hoping to talk to Darrell Cooper, but he's left Kozmik. I understand he moved to Philadelphia. I've been having a heck of a time finding him." I paused to let it sink in. "I hope you can provide a lead." I skipped over the part about Darrell being dead.

"Interesting." Long pause. I wondered if Garland knew about Darrell. Had I said the wrong thing? Maybe he'd hung up. "What makes you think I would know where he is?"

Garland may not have been a fool, but he was no expert at this game. An answer like that was too guarded, too cagey. I had the distinct feeling that he knew more about Darrell than he was telling. Smelling blood, I shoved my crib notes aside.

"As the vice president responsible for this subsidiary, I assumed you might be aware of the fact that Cooper left Kozmik shortly after the, uh, situation there arose." I avoided the term "embezzlement," because it reeked of legalese. "When I heard he went to Philadelphia, I thought, perhaps, he might approach you about a new job or a reference." I paused, sighing for dramatic effect. In my best forlorn voice, I said, "I don't know. I was just taking a shot."

Another silence. Please, please, I thought. Throw me a crumb.

"Cooper did call me recently, but not about a job or a reference. And I'm afraid I don't know where he is."

"What was it—?"

"Now, that's all I'm at liberty to say." Garland was all business now. "If you have any other questions, you'll have to direct them to our legal department."

Ah, the legal department. That pretty much said it all. "Okay," I said, working to keep my voice even and somber. "Thanks."

"Certainly."

I hung up, clapped my hands and said, "Yes!" The conversation had been short and Garland never gave me anything. But I would have bet my next retainer check that Cooper had gone to Philadelphia to use the contents of his lock box to rat out the Kozmik embezzlers. And, with any luck, those papers could clear Brad and point to the culprits.

*****

The next day, I had a lengthy conversation with the asshole attorney about the discovery dispute in the Divorce from Hell. In my experience, the term applied to all litigious divorces. I told him I wouldn't withdraw my motion to compel until he'd provided better answers. He said he had nothing more. Stalemate, putting it squarely in the judge's hands. The judge wouldn't like having to spend time listening to us argue. Judges always prefer that attorneys work things out. And my client wouldn't like it, because he'd have to pay for my time. I was running through his money quicker than a shoe freak at a Manolo Blahnik store.

I left the office and picked up the photos of our suspect, then drove to CID to leave one with the homicide detective on the Sondra Jones murder. At the front desk I was referred to Detective James Willard. He wasn't in. I remembered Willard from a case I'd handled as a public defender. He was the stoic, cynical type. Walt and I would have difficulty convincing him to shift his investigation from Brad—with a possible motive and the murder weapon— to someone doing business with Kozmik, who may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I gave the desk sergeant my card with a note asking Willard to call me. As I turned to leave, I saw another familiar face—Detective Martin Derry, whom I'd dealt with on several occasions, not always happy. His navy suit enhanced his blue eyes. He stopped beside me.

"Do we have business?" he asked.

"No. I'm here about one of Detective Willard's cases." Despite the tension between us, I felt regret. He, on the other hand, looked relieved.

I'd last seen Derry several months before on a case in which he'd had to placate an FBI agent while investigating a homicide. Because it also involved identity theft, federal agents from an alphabet soup of agencies ended up crawling like flies all over the matter. Derry and I were hardly pals. Nonetheless, he ended up as the "good cop" to the FBI's "bad."

My problems with Derry began when I worked as a public defender. I'd won an acquittal for a man accused of killing his fiancée because the evidence against him had been mishandled. Sometimes I wondered if we would ever reach a truce. And even though it happened years ago, I knew that time doesn't always heal wounds.

"Anything interesting?" he said, drawing me back to the present.

"The Sondra Jones murder."

"Oh, yeah." Derry's chin dipped in a semi-nod. "The White Collar Killing. I thought Walt Shapiro was representing the perp."

"Alleged perp," I said. His jaw clenched. "The case has acquired a nickname, huh?"

"Let's just say it's not representative of our caseload." He meant drug killings, domestic disputes, gang killings—most of them involving minorities.

"Well, you may have to change the name, if the evidence I have for Willard turns up any other leads." I waved the tape before him. "The surveillance camera showed someone who did business with the suspect's employer coming and leaving ten or fifteen minutes before our client arrived. This guy." I held up the photo.

Derry did a double-take and squinted at the image. "Looks familiar. May I?" He took the photo and examined it.

"Do you watch old movies? He could've played a thug in a Forties gangster flick."

One corner of Derry's mouth upturned in a half smile. Shaking his head, he said, "Somewhere else." He looked at me. "I can pass this along to Willard."

I had hoped to deliver the photo to Willard myself. In the spirit of détente, I let him have it. "I'll let you, on one condition. When you figure it out, you agree to tell me who it is and where you've seen him."

His mouth pursed and his mustache curled over his bottom lip. "You know I can't promise that. It's not even my case."

Trying not to appear desperate, I looked him in the eye. "Please." Groveling to a cop. Jesus!

Sighing, he said, "I'll see what I can do."

On the way back to the office, I resolved to set up a time to see Tina. We were overdue for a talk about Rochelle's gang and the kid who'd been at her house around the time of the murder. No doubt, she felt abandoned and scared in detention. I wanted to tell her I was doing everything I could to get her sprung, without raising her hopes.

On the phone, I was bounced around to various people, until being handed off to the superintendent.

"Ms. McRae, I understand you wish to visit your client, Tina Jackson?"

"That's right." Something was wrong. They wouldn't route me to the woman in charge to arrange a simple visit. I remembered Tina's description of girls with toothbrush shivs. Fear gripped me. "Is she all right?"

"This is . . . difficult for me . . . ."

"What's happened?" I said, my voice rising with my anxiety.

"Tina . . .has escaped."