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Kennicott. “Can you believe it?” she said into the phone. “I canceled our trip to Barcelona for this trial.”
    The file was labeled WYLER, TERRANCE . It was well organized, with different-colored folders for each section.
    “Normie’s ready to kill me.” Starr giggled. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t say that. A police officer just came in. Hope I’m not a suspect. Tell His Honor I’m bringing the motion into his court in about an hour. You’re a doll.”
    She hung up and came around the desk. Kennicott stood to greet her.
    “Anita Starr.” She stood near him and took his hand in both of hers. “Good of you to come, Officer Kennicott. Terrance was such a wonderful client. I still remember the first day he came into the office. All the girls swooned.”
    “We’re hoping you can help us with this investigation.”
    “Twenty-four years of practice,” Starr said, still holding Kennicott’s hand. “I’ve never had anything like this happen to me.” Her attention was drawn to a thin computer screen at the side of her desk. Every few seconds there was a faint ping. “My phone, e-mails—it hasn’t stopped. Everyone’s asking me how I am handling it.”
    Kennicott lifted the folder in his free hand. “This for us?”
    “Of course. I’ll do anything to help with this investigation.” She patted his hand. “I assume you know about Samantha’s false charges against Terrance last year. Her e-mails and phone messages, how the police warned her.”
    “We’ve pulled all the files,” Kennicott said.
    “Her lawyer, Feindel, is no fool. But he lost control of his client. I’m sure you’ve talked to him already.”
    Kennicott shook his head. “I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”
    “Sorry. My husband, Norman, calls me a backseat driver, even when I’m in the front seat. I feel so helpless.” She sighed and finally let go of his hand. Reaching for the other folder, she flipped through it with practiced ease. “I organize every file the same way. Financials are blue, child custody assessments green, family court pleadings and affidavits are red. Yellow is correspondence.” Starr bit her lower lip. “I was going to rip Samantha apart on the witness stand.”
    “When’s the last time you heard from Terrance?”
    “Last night. We e-mailed back and forth all weekend. Feindel knew his case was going down the tubes, so on Friday morning he hit us with a last-minute offer. Samantha had been fighting for joint custody, and she didn’t have a prayer. Now she wanted partial access, proposed a whole schedule. I told Terrance they were running scared and he shouldn’t respond. Sunday night he e-mailed me that his family had been over for dinner and everyone agreed. No deal. This morning I checked my messages.” She reached for the BlackBerry on her desk and scrolled through it—“‘Ms. Starr. I know you’ll be upset with me. I’ve accepted Sam’s offer. This will be best for Simon. Sam’s coming over in half an hour to talk through the details. Thanks for everything you’ve done.’” Starr was still standing close to Kennicott. “I was in shock.”
    “When was that written?”
    “I canceled my summer holidays for this.”
    “The time of the e-mail?”
    She shook her head. “Twelve thirty-seven a.m.” She walked back to her chair. Her computer screen was ping-pinging away more than ever. Kennicott sat down. He realized that by having only one chair facing her, she made clients feel they were getting her undivided attention.
    Her hands flew across the keyboard. “This is an emergency ex parte motion to prevent Samantha Wyler from having access to her son.”
    “On what grounds?” I sound like a lawyer, Kennicott thought.
    Starr turned to him. “That she’s a danger to the boy.”
    He expected her to turn back to her computer. Instead she looked right at him. “I know you’re a lawyer. And I know why you became acop. I went to university with your brother, the joint LLM–MBA