Breathless. Part 22

"You have soda and ice machines?" Tom asked.

"End of the south wing. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Bigger."

In his room, Tom took off his backpack, dropped it on the bed.

He stared out the window at the empty parking lot.

He watched the fast traffic on the coastal highway.

He shut the draperies.

He looked at the TV but didn't switch it on.

On the bed lay a complimentary copy of USA Today USA Today.

He didn't pick it up.

He stared at his big bony hands.

He went into the bathroom.

He looked at his face in the mirror.

The old man in the cardigan had been reading a book, so he couldn't be blind.

Forty-nine.

For a preliminary interview with his potential client, Liddon Wallace wore a dark-blue Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit, a shirt and tie from Costume National, shoes from Gucci, a Rolex watch-and just a touch of Black by Kenneth Cole, a fragrance for men.

Although his primary offices were in San Francisco and he lived in Marin County, across the Golden Gate Bridge from the city, Liddon was also a member of the bar in three other states, including the state of Washington. The amount of wealth in Seattle and environs, crossed with the tendency of the high-tech rich in particular to think they were wizards of the Web and above all laws, could from time to time lead to the kind of trouble that allowed a stylish lawyer to expand his closet s.p.a.ce to infinity.

The potential client lived in a 28,000-square-foot Georgian Revival-style house on six walled acres. The guard at the gatehouse admitted Liddon to the property. A doorkeeper came outside to wait for him while he parked in the two-lane driveway. Once inside, the doorkeeper took his Ralph Lauren topcoat and turned him over to a butler, who led him to a drawing room where the future defendant waited for him.

If Liddon accepted the case, he would be compensated for his services by the client's father, Bob Marlowe. The twenty-two-year-old son, Swithen, was still making his way through college at a measured pace that had brought him to his junior year, and of course he had no job. The young man waited alone in the drawing room because Liddon always conducted the initial interview one-on-one.

Swithen was entirely outfitted by Costume National, head to foot, which suggested that he lacked the imagination to have an eclectic taste or that he was supremely self-confident. He was a handsome lad with a slightly pouty face; his thick and naturally windswept hair would be the envy of any male model.

During their initial chitchat, it became clear that Swithen understood how exemplary manners could be useful for crafting a good first impression. Evident as well was that his careful deportment was based on no underlying philosophy, only on self-interest, and that in fact he had disdain for society's rules.

Getting down to business, Liddon said, "So the charge against you is a.s.sault with intent to kill. Tell me about this boy, Branden Jones."

"He's no boy, sir. We've been friends since we were both six. He's a man like me."

"Yes, of course. Why would anyone think you did this to him?"

"Do you want to know if I did it?"

"I believe you've told the police you didn't do it."

"But as my defense attorney, sir, don't you want to know?"

"It's immaterial to me whether you're innocent or guilty."

"Really?"

"The way I work, it would only complicate my job to know."

Swithen visibly relaxed, slumping in his chair. "How long is this interview going to take?"

"Usually an hour or two."

"Let's not dance. Let's be two guys here. It's all about a bit."

"Excuse me?"

"A bit, a piece."

"Elucidate."

"A piece, a bit, a b.i.t.c.h, this girl-Rain Fishman."

"Her name is Rain, like the weather?"

"Yes. So tight and right."

"Tight and right?"

"Rain. She's mine and everyone knows it."

"You're engaged to her?"

"Who does marriage anymore?"

"What does Branden have to do with Rain?"

"He's a notorious poacher."

"You mean he makes moves on other guys' women?"

"He's poached more than the egg cook at a country-club brunch."

"Do you think he poached Rain?"

"What do you think I think?" Swithen asked.

"If he's gone after a lot of women, a lot of men must hate him."

"Oh, he's well and widely hated."

"So someone a.s.saults him. Why did the police come to you?"

"Branden told them I did it."

"The victim says he saw your face?"

"You'll demolish him in court."

"How will I do that?"

"He's brain-damaged."

"The brain damage came from the a.s.sault?"

"Funny how a lug wrench can muddle your thinking."

"The weapon was a lug wrench?"

Swithen blinked slowly. "Or maybe a fireplace poker."

"What do the police say the weapon was?"

"They don't say. They don't have it."

"They'll have pictures and measurements of the victim's blunt trauma."

"The police are very professional here," Swithen agreed.

"They find the lug wrench, they'll match it to the wounds."

"And there's the blood on it, too," Swithen said.

"Lug wrenches aren't porous. The a.s.sailant would wash it clean."

"What if it didn't belong to the a.s.sailant?"

"Are we playing what-if now?" Liddon asked.

"Like on a TV mystery," said Swithen. "What if this would-be killer used some poor innocent b.a.s.t.a.r.d's lug wrench?"

"You mean, what if he took it from Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's car trunk and put it back with blood on it?"

"It could be like that. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d might be someone whose bit Branden poached and he even threatened Branden publicly."

"What-ifs are tricky to think through," Liddon cautioned.

"Yeah, like then how does the real real a.s.sailant get the police interested in Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" a.s.sailant get the police interested in Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"Especially if he's already a suspect himself."

"Right. They have to think he might've set up Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"The tip on Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d has to come to the cops from a third party who's paid a bundle to do it but has no connection whatsoever to the real a.s.sailant."

"What-ifs are are tricky, though," Swithen said. "If the real a.s.sailant tries to pay somebody to blow the whistle on Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he's asking to be blackmailed." tricky, though," Swithen said. "If the real a.s.sailant tries to pay somebody to blow the whistle on Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, he's asking to be blackmailed."

"There are safe ways to do it," Liddon said. "Several ways."

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then Liddon said, "In court, are you sure you'd never use a word like bit, piece bit, piece, or b.i.t.c.h?" b.i.t.c.h?"

"Sure I'm sure. This was two guys talking. Court is serious."

Liddon nodded. "You've hired yourself a defense attorney. You're pretty much my ideal client."

Sitting up straighter in his chair, grinning, Swithen said, "I can't wait to see justice done."

"Even as imperfect as justice often is."

Neither of them moved to shake the other's hand.

"My dad's waiting to see you. I'll take you to him."

They crossed the drawing room, but before Swithen could open the door, Liddon said, "Wait. I have a what-if of my own."

"I'm getting good at this."

Liddon said, "What if you experienced something so astounding that it could turn your concept of life upside down, blow apart your idea of how the world works."

"Astounding-how, what?"

"Doesn't matter. Just say there was something that happened, something so difficult to get your head around, you needed to think hard about it."

"You have a close encounter of the third kind or something?"

"No. Something more astounding. Just say it's something, once you experience it, you need to think hard about it. But suppose you saw that chances were, if you thought about it enough, you would have to change almost everything about yourself."

"What's everything?"

With a sweep of his hand, Liddon indicated the elegant room with its priceless antiques and by extension the house and the inheritance.