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to the phone. “That was Ms. Wyler.”
    “Where is she?”
    DiPaulo shrugged. “I’d rather not tell you right now. Trust me, she’s not going anywhere. As I said, I need to talk to her first.”
    Greene thought of Parish’s closed office door. He was pretty sure Wyler was in there.
    “We both know she has no legal obligation to speak to you,” DiPaulo said. The smile was gone.
    DiPaulo always played hardball. The guy loved to win. But to his credit, he played by the rules, and what he’d said was true. Greene had no power to force Samantha Wyler to talk to the police. If she didn’t, his only option would be to arrest her. And then she’d probably shut up entirely.
    “There’s a knife and a red-and-white towel missing from the murder scene.” Greene lifted up the bag. “I want to know where she was last night.”
    A fragile trust develops between a good lawyer and a detective on a tough case like this. DiPaulo had moved quickly to get the bloody knife returned. It showed good faith. Sometimes it was better to leave a suspect’s lawyer alone with his client. He might talk the client into being realistic, entering a quick guilty plea for the best possible deal.
    “How much time do you need?” Greene asked.
    “We have quite a bit of ground to cover.”
    This was defense-lawyer code for “Let me work on her. She’s still in denial.”
    “If I’m going to arrest her, I’ll call you first,” Greene said.
    “That’s fair.”
    “The longer it takes, the weaker her alibi becomes. Like fish, it starts to stink in a few days.”
    “Don’t I know it,” DiPaulo said.
    He looked at the plastic bag in Greene’s hand. He fidgeted again with his wedding ring. DiPaulo looked like a gambler who’d drawn a bad hand but was in too deep to pull out of the game. With nothing left to smile about.

9
    “Forty-nine, please,” Daniel Kennicott said to the woman standing next to the number display in the crowded elevator. He’d squeezed into the last available space among all the people in business suits. Most carried dark briefcases or expensive bags, and at least half of them were tapping away on BlackBerrys. The others were watching the elevator news.
    This was me four years ago, he thought, remembering his days as a junior lawyer working his way up the big-firm ladder. Back then he would have fit in. Stylish suit. Handmade shoes. But now, in full cop uniform, he felt totally out of place.
    The elevator accelerated upward and in moments he was deposited into the reception area of Anita Starr and Associates, Barristers & Solicitors, Specialists in Family Law. Across a shining marble floor, behind a rosewood desk accented by a bouquet of yellow roses, a young female receptionist wore a thin headset.
    Kennicott took out his police business card. The woman put her hand over the microphone and smiled. There was a tiny diamond stud under her bottom lip.
    “Daniel Kennicott, Toronto Police. I’m here to see Ms. Starr.”
    “She’s expecting you,” the woman said. “Would you like a cappuccino, herbal tea, bottled water?”
    “I’m fine,” Kennicott said.
    “Ms. Starr’s office is at the end of the hall. You can go straight in.”
    Kennicott walked past a raft of modern paintings and photo prints. Starr’s office was a huge affair featuring an enormous glass desk heldup by four pillars made of the same marble as the front hall floor. More yellow roses rested on a side table. There was only one client chair in the room. It was covered in lush black leather.
    Starr was a thin woman, dressed in a fine linen jacket and skirt. A jade necklace matched her earrings. Her hair, heavily streaked, was perfectly in place.
    “It’s been an unbelievable morning,” Starr was saying into the phone. She waved Kennicott in, motioning to the chair. “No one can believe that this has happened to me.”
    Cradling the phone on her shoulder, Starr pointed to two legal file folders on her desk. She lifted one and passed it to