“How did he die?” If he changed the subject, Seeley thought, Leonard might give up and leave. “The lawyer who was trying the case.”

“Bob Pearsall was a fine lawyer. He was in your league, Mike. He orchestrated the case like Beethoven. A family man, too. Everyone loved him.”

What Seeley heard was, a beloved family man, unlike Michael Seeley.

Leonard waited, and when Seeley didn't speak, said, “He threw himself in front of a train.”

“How do you know that?”

“How else does a fifty-eight-year-old man end up dead on the railroad tracks?”

“Do you know why?”

“Who knows? His health was perfect-I know his doctor. He was an outdoors nut. Camping. Bird-watching.”

“What do the police say?”

“What I said. Suicide. One of life's mysteries. Who knows what's beneath the surface?”

When Leonard read in the legal newspapers about Michael Seeley's courtroom triumphs, could he have imagined the dark corners that his older brother was navigating on his own precipitous slide? Trying big cases back to back, winning trials that he had no right to win, all the time retreating deeper into shadows that were visible only to him. It was no mystery to Seeley that despair could so engulf someone riding the crest of his career that he would decide to end his life.

“What time of day did it happen?”

“Early in the morning. Before dawn. Why would it matter?”

Seeley said, “I was wondering if anyone saw him do it.” He could almost hear the wheels turn as Leonard calculated whether the lawyer's death might be the hook that would bring his brother to San Francisco. “Where did it happen?”

“A half hour south of San Francisco. He lived in the city. There weren't any witnesses.”

“Why would he go that far from home? Was it close to a station?”

“Somewhere between stations, I think. Would it make any difference for you taking the case?”