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quieted. “You’re the best. You just don’t know it yet.”
    “Christina, I don’t think this is wise.”
    “Are you saying you won’t do this one little thing for me?”
    “Christina, these accusations—this case could be really…important.”
    “If that’s your articulate way of reminding me that the death penalty is a possibility, believe me, Ben, I know.” She looked him square in the eyes. “I think it’s essential that my attorney believe I’m innocent. You know I didn’t kill Tony! I want you , Ben.”
    “There are any number of experienced trial attorneys who would realize you’re innocent.”
    Christina leaned forward and placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I want more than that, Ben. I want to find out who really killed Tony. I want the SOB who set me up.”
    Ben scrutinized her face. “All right,” he said finally. He stood up. “But I reserve the right to affiliate co-counsel if I get in over my head.”
    “Fine.” She placed her hands behind her head and stretched out on the bed.
    “I’ll try to get you out of this rathole as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’ll go by your apartment and pick up a change of clothes. Have you got a key?”
    She looked at him pointedly. “I haven’t changed my locks, Ben.”
    “Oh. Well. Fine then. I’ll also talk to Mike and see what he knows.”
    “Good plan.”
    “If you need anything, just send word through Lester. I’ll stay in touch.”
    “Ben?”
    “Yes?”
    Christina sat up. She opened her mouth, started to say something, then said something else. “Merci beaucoup.”

6
    B EN FELT LIKE A laboratory rat trying to find the path to the cheese in a gigantic maze. The plaza was easy enough. Wind your way through the roller bladers, the street preachers, and the panhandlers—and you find Tulsa’s municipal offices. But how long had they been renovating the interior—six, maybe eight months? At least that long. And every day, the barricades and ropes changed, and Ben had to rediscover his way around. Usually, of course, he was only trying to get to traffic court. Today he had an even more difficult chore—plowing through the jumbled, poorly marked offices of the Law Enforcement Division.
    Eventually, Ben spotted the glass door marked TULSA POLICE DEPARTMENT-CENTRAL. He walked inside. It was still early; no one was at the reception desk. In the most remote corner of the department HQ, Ben located the cubicle labeled LT. M. MORELLI. Ben and Mike Morelli had been friends since college days, when they were roommates and fellow Liberal Arts majors, reading Faulkner by day and making music in pizza parlors by night. Then Mike married Ben’s younger sister, Julia. Everybody knew it was a bad match—everybody but Mike and Julia. Mike worked his butt off for three years, but still the result was an intensely nasty divorce, which strained Ben and Mike’s friendship to the breaking point. Since Ben moved to Tulsa last year, he’d been trying to revive their friendship. But the effort was slow work—like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle that came together one piece at a time.
    Mike’s cubicle was as bland as they come. The only feature Ben could call a decoration was a coat rack bearing a stained overcoat and a loaded gun holster. Mike was on the phone, but as soon as he saw Ben, he said, “I’ll have to get back to you later, Ellie.”
    He swiveled his chair around. “It’s Benjamin Kincaid, counselor-at-law.”
    “And Lieutenant Michelangelo Morelli, homicide investigator,” Ben replied. “Why do I feel we should now execute the secret handshake?”
    “Must be a throwback to our wicked college days.”
    “Yeah. So give me the straight scoop, Mike. What are the charges against Christina?”
    Mike looked at him gravely. “Murder one, I’m afraid.”
    “Why murder one?”
    “Well…it doesn’t look very accidental.”
    “Maybe it was self-defense.”
    “No signs of a struggle.”
    “Maybe Lombardi shot himself.”
    “Four times?