When she’d first seen it, she’d harbored faint dreams of L.A. Law and spectacular cases, fame and fortune and all the rest of it. Now she just wanted to get through the day without falling on her face. The real hotshots were in Beverly Hills or Century City or someplace else on the Westside. This was just… a job, and not the world’s best.

Gary Ogarkov, one of the other lawyers with the firm, stood outside the doorway puffing one of the big, smelly cigars he made such a production of. He had to come outside to do that; the building, thank God, was smoke-free. “Nicole!” he called out in what he probably thought was a fine courtroom basso. To Nicole, it sounded like a schoolboy imitation – Perry Mason on helium. “Mr. Rosenthal’s been looking for you since nine o’clock.”

Jesus. The founding partner. How couldn’t he be looking for Nicole? That was the kind of day this was. Even knowing she’d had it coming, she still wanted to sink through the sidewalk. “God,” she said. “Of all the days for traffic to be godawful – Gary, do you know what it’s about?” She pressed him, hoping to hell he’d give her a straight answer.

Naturally, he didn’t. “I shouldn’t tell you.” He tried to look sly. With his bland, boyish face, it didn’t come off well. He was within a year of Nicole’s age but, in spite of a blond mustache, still got asked for ID whenever he ordered a drink.

Nicole was no more afraid of him than the local bartenders. “Gary,” she said dangerously.

He backed down in a hurry, flinging up his hands as if he thought she might bite. “Okay, okay. You look like you could use some good news. You know the Butler Ranch report we turned in a couple of weeks ago?”