“Tabarnouche.” Ryan slumped back in disgust.

I could think of nothing to say.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Corcoran broke the silence.

“Edward Allen is now eighty-one years old and in failing health. Perhaps he feels like a schmuck for having driven Rose from his life. Perhaps he’s still the same controlling sonovabitch he always was. Perhaps he’s nuts. What I do know is that Jurmain called his lawyer. The lawyer called Walczak. And here we are.”

“Jurmain thinks the case was mishandled?” I asked.

Corcoran nodded, gaze locked on the tabletop.

“Walczak shares that belief?”

“Yes.”

“Mishandled by whom?” It came out sharper than I meant.

Corcoran’s eyes came up and met mine. In them I saw genuine distress.

“Look, Tempe, this is not my doing.”

I took a calming breath. Repeated my question.

“Mishandled by whom, Chris?”

“By you.”

3

I GLANCED AT RYAN. HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD.

“You can’t let on that I shared any of this.” Corcoran looked more anxious than I’d ever seen him.

“Of course not.” My tone was surprisingly calm. “I appreciate-”

The door opened. Corcoran and I sat back, casual as hell.

Two men entered, both wearing suits fitted by Armani himself, one blue, one gray.

I recognized Blue Suit as Stanley Walczak, peacock and legend in his own mind. Especially concerning his impact on women.

I had met Walczak at American Academy of Forensic Sciences meetings over the years, been favored by his attention on at least one occasion. For a full five minutes.

Why’d I bomb? Easy. I’m forty-plus. Though well past fifty, Walczak prefers ladies just out of training bras. Big ones.