“Good morning, sir,” he said, setting his book aside and rising. “What may I do for you this glorious morning?”
“Need a room,” Tom said.
“Used to be bustling this time of the day, folks checking out, all in a hurry to settle up and hit the road. As you see, I’m not at risk of breaking a sweat this morning.”
“Walked all night,” Tom explained.
“That’s the smart way. When it’s cool. And when traffic’s light, so you aren’t breathing exhaust fumes every step of the way.”
The old man put a pen and a registration form on the counter.
“Don’t have a credit card, don’t have ID,” Tom said. “Cash in advance is how I do it.”
“Saves us both some bother. I’ve been hearing for forty years how cash money will soon be obsolete. There’s not much of it floating around these days, but it’s sure not obsolete. Just go ahead and print your name on the top line, sign at the bottom.”
Tom did as instructed. Then he counted out the cash.
Presenting a key, the old man said, “Number twenty-four. Out the door here, turn left, and go to the end. Twenty-four is the last room in the north wing, so your sleep won’t be interrupted this afternoon when all the big movie stars are checking in with their entourages.”
“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.
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 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.”
