"Let me speak to the police officer," Myron told Duane.

Another voice came on the line. "This is homicide detective Roland Dimonte," the voice barked with pure cop impatience. "Who the hell is this?"

"I'm Myron Bolitar. Mr. Richwood's attorney."

"Attorney, huh? I thought you were his agent."

"I'm both," Myron said.

"That a fact?"

"Yes."

"You got a law degree?"

"It's hanging on my wall. But I can bring it if you'd like."

Dimonte made a noise. Might have been a snicker. "Ex-jock. Ex-fed. And now you tell me you're a goddamn lawyer?"

"I'm what you might call a Renaissance man," Myron said.

"Yeah? Tell me, Bolitar, what law school would let in someone like you?"

"Harvard," Myron said.

"Whoa, aren't we a big shot."

"You asked."

"Well, you got half an hour to get here. Then I drag your boy to the precinct. Got me?"

"I've really enjoyed this little chat, Rolly."

"You got twenty-nine minutes. And don't call me Rolly."

"I don't want my client questioned until I'm present. Understood?"

Roland Dimonte didn't answer.

"Understood?" Myron repeated.

Pause. Then: "Must be a bad connection, Bolitar." Dimonte hung up.

Pleasant guy.

Myron handed the phone back to Esperanza. "Mind getting rid of Ned for me?"

"Done."

Myron took the elevator to the ground floor and sprinted toward the Kinney lot. Someone shouted, "Go, O.J!" at him. In New York everyone's a comedian. Mario tossed Myron the keys without glancing up from his newspaper.