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when two gang bangers from opposite sides of town were brought in the same night. What she didn’t know was that the one she was treating had shot the other one. She saved the one on her operating table, but the other doctor lost his. After that, the dead man’s homeys couldn’t get at the guy who killed their brother, because by then he was in jail – in solitary. So they held a counsel of war and decided that Melody had to pay.
    By that stage, she probably knew she was in danger, but she refused to take it seriously. She even rejected an escort to her car, saying she was too old for a nanny.
    Call it arrogance, call it self-confidence – either way, she paid with her life.
    And Alex still blamed himself in some way.
    “I just wish I could…”
    He trailed off. But she knew what he was going to say. He wished he could turn the clock back. Just like everybody does.
    But as his son – the physicist – had once told him: time doesn’t run backwards.
    He tried to take his mind off it.
    “Tell me how you made that trick shot?”
    “You should get David to explain it. You see it’s all about Newtonian mechanics. If you hit the object ball quarter ball with pace, the cue ball moves off at an oblique angle, while –”
    Martine’s cell phone went off. She whipped it out and answered it with polished, professional speed.
    “Martine Yin.” For the next half minute, she appeared to be listening intently. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”
    She turned to Alex, looking acutely embarrassed.
    “I know,” he said. “Duty calls.”
    She thanked him for his understanding and left briskly. Seconds later, the roar of a car engine outside brought a wry smile to his lips as he realized that the predator in her might lay dormant but was far from extinct. She was still a news woman, poised to pursue a good story at a moment’s notice, just as he was a lawyer 24/7, even if he didn’t quite resort to ambulance chasing.
    He managed one more mouthful of food, before his own cell phone blared out the familiar musical phrase from the Allegro of Dvorak’s New World Symphony .
    “Hallo Mr. Sedaka?” said an almost desperate sounding male voice at the other end of the line.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m the producer of the Elias Claymore show. We’ve got a situation here and I was wondering if there’s any possibility of you coming to LA – ”
    “I’m in San Gabriel.”
    “Oh thank God for that! Mr. Claymore asked me to call you. He’s been arrested.”
    “Arrested? What’s the charge?”
    “It’s some kind of phony rape charge.”
    Alex knew in that moment why Martine had been obliged to leave in such a hurry.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 16:50
    “Okay, there we are,” said the evidence technician, as they took the third buccal swab.
    Like Bethel, a few hours earlier, Claymore was giving a DNA sample from the lining of his mouth. They hadn’t told him that the rapist had worn a condom or that the victim had scratched the rapist’s arm. The less they told him, the better their chances of being able to get him to incriminate himself by making a statement revealing first-hand knowledge of the crime, now that he had waived the right to remain silent. But they did subject him to a full surface examination in which they had looked for signs of scratches and found several.
    Nevertheless this was not conclusive. The real test would be the DNA. They had several good samples from Bethel and now all they needed was a good match.
    After the samples had been taken, Alex sat with Claymore for twenty minutes, going through where Claymore had been at the time of the alleged rape. Claymore had been very clear about the fact that he had nothing to hide and wanted to answer police questions. Alex, as an experienced lawyer, was wary of this. Firstly he knew that even guilty people sometimes think they can get away with it by talking to the police. Secondly, no matter how idealistic and dedicated a cop may be, he still wants to close a case and get