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her. At the ATM, he might have even told her he would, for lunch some time. But he kept putting it off. Then, a long wire-fraud trial swamped his evenings, and recurring dreams of his beloved wife, Faye, and the endless gray linoleum in the hospital where she’d died left him lost and empty. Soon it was too late. The lady, he decided, probably wouldn’t even remember him.
    Now, after all these contortions, here he was, standing on Dixwell’s porch, feeling as though it were high school again, and he was on a first date with the captain of the cheerleading squad, going to see Ghostbusters . It was ridiculous.
    Dixwell’s welcome as he threw open the door was like a blow between the eyes.
    “Here he is! Here’s His Royal Highness!” he hooted. “Here’s His Excellency!”
    This was the usual guff. It still surprised him, with noodles like Dix and sometimes with fairly intelligent people, too, how uncomfortably his job trailed along with him, causing people to wriggle around and make stupid jokes. It was as bad as being a bishop. Fortunately, after a couple of ducks and bobs, if he stayed good humored, things usually settled down.
    Another guest, who had already arrived, looked as though he might be a problem of a different sort. As Dixwell introduced them over the coffee table, the guy gave Norcross a curt nod, like a boxer touching gloves with his opponent in the middle of the ring.
    “Professor Gerald Novotny,” Dixwell said. “Gerry’s at UMass, in their legal studies department. Likes to peep up under judges’ robes and suss out their secrets. Better watch out. I think he’s brought his kryptonite!” Dixwell beamed at the two men with his hands on their shoulders, like a referee looking forward to a bout that, with any luck, would include a couple of hard shots below the belt.
    Novotny, looked to be around forty—roughly Norcross’s age—but his ponytail and a copper ear stud gave him a more youthful air.
    “Nice to meet you,” Novotny said without smiling. “Interested in this supposed death penalty case we keep hearing about.”
    “Wait until you hear what Professor Lindemann’s been working on,” Dixwell said. “An article for the MLA journal entitled, I believe, ‘Lesbian Subtexts in Zane Grey.’ ”
    “Don’t listen to him, David,” came the voice of Dixwell’s wife, Anne. “That’s just another very dog-eared English department joke.”
    Anne entered the room now with a striking blonde girl, whom Norcross at first took to be the Pratts’ daughter. Anne was laughing, but the young woman looked as though she thought a smile might crack her cool. As they sorted through the introductions, it became clear that the girl, an undergraduate named Brittany, was with Professor Novotny.
    The doorbell rang, and Norcross’s stomach gave a schoolboy lurch when he heard Claire chatting with Anne in the hall. Their happy, confidential voices confirmed that the two were close friends, and it struck him with a wave of anxious pleasure that they must have spent some time plotting this evening.
    After a few seconds, Claire stepped into the archway leading from the entry hall into the living room, hands clasped in front of her. Lord, she was pretty.
    “I believe you two have already met,” Anne said.
    “Uh, yes,” Norcross faltered. “Professor Lindemann rescued me from my own, uh, frontal lobe implosion.”
    Claire tilted her head to one side, taking him in.
    “Which was not all that easy,” he added.
    The professor was dressed simply, in a three-quarter length black skirt and green silk tunic. Her hair was brushed back, revealing small gold earrings with green stones. Her face bore the same appraising half-smile he’d seen back at the ATM.
    “Well,” she said, “you did answer all my questions. Every good knight deserves favor.”
    Norcross opened his mouth, but no words came out.
    At this point, Anne jabbed Dixwell, who quickly asked what everyone wanted to drink, and the evening unfolded