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 space 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 assault 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 bitch, 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 assaults 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 assault?”

“Funny how a lug wrench can muddle your thinking.”

“The weapon was a lug wrench?”