"What?"

"The AIDS. It was on the news."

"When?" Was it the CEO of Furstmann? Was it possible? "How?"

"They're looking for the lady who done it. That's what I heard."

"What lady?" Eileen? The cops already had her address.

"A terrorist done it. Works right down here, right here in Center City. A lady lawyer. They're gonna arrest her."

My throat caught. Lady lawyer. Lives and works in Philly. It had to be me. What was going on? I felt stricken. I turned and hustled away from the police cars, my feet carrying me forward almost automatically. Where was I going? I didn't even know. Away. Out of the city, far from the cops.

I picked up the pace to a jog then accelerated to a nervous sprint. My heart thudded, my pulse raced. It wasn't exercise anymore, it was flight. I fled the city, away from the business district. Twilight descended as I ran, but I didn't stop until there were no more police cruisers and I was out of breath. I lurched into a graffitied phone booth with a busted light, panting hard. I slammed the door closed and punched in my credit card number with clumsy fingers.

"Wells," he said when he picked up.

"Grady, what is going on?" It would have been good to hear his voice, if I trusted him at all.

"Bennie! Bennie, where are you?" His tone was urgent. "The police are looking for you. They found a pair of scissors in your apartment, with blood on it. They tested it and it's Mark's. They say it's the murder weapon, Bennie. I have the arrest warrant in front of me."

"What?"

"Wait, it gets worse. They want to question you about another murder, the president of Furstmann Dunn."

"Oh, G.o.d. He was really killed?"

"A car bomb, in the driveway of his house. The cops know you met with the animal activists the other night. How do they know that?"

My mind clicked away. Azzic must've been following me, unless Grady was lying and he'd told them.

"Bennie, are you there? Are you all right? They think you're involved with his murder, too. Azzic picked up Eileen on your tip and she turned state's evidence. She told the cops you masterminded the bombing, then set her up to take the fall."

"That's ridiculous!"

"They have her confession, implicating you. Her boyfriend, Kleeb, is on the run. Azzic is downstairs right now. They want you to turn yourself in."

"But I didn't do it. I didn't do any of it!" It was crazy, and getting crazier.

"Then don't come in and don't say anything more. They're probably tracing the incoming calls, maybe even tapping the phones."

I thought fast. "Go to my office and get my briefcase. Meet me at midnight at my favorite place in the world. Make sure you're not followed. Got it?"

"Got it."

I hung up the phone, debating the wisdom of what I'd just done. I'd delivered myself to someone I had every reason to distrust, but I had no choice. Would Grady even be able to figure out what I meant? Could the cops trace the call? What was going on? Where was I, anyway? The streetlights were broken, it was dark on the street corner. Outside the phone booth was an abandoned store, with particle-board nailed over its windows and graffiti on top of that. I tried to find a street sign but they'd been harvested for sc.r.a.p metal.

I had no idea what to do. I slumped against the wall of the dark booth, next to a jagged crack that ran the length of the plastic pane. I felt heartsick, drained. The CEO was dead because I'd let Eileen con me. Now she was setting me up, and so was someone else. I wondered if the cops had enough to charge me with a double murder. I had no alibi for the CEO, I was running at the time. They'd ask for the death penalty, for sure.

I sank to the gritty floor of the booth and pulled my knees to my chest. I was half naked and chilled. I was the prime suspect in two murders I didn't commit, and somebody had planted a murder weapon in my apartment. My lawyer, my only link to the outside world, was a man I hardly trusted. Everything was falling apart, and I wasn't strong enough to keep it together. For the first time in my life, I felt helpless.

Stone, cold helpless.

Chapter 18.

I kept an anxious eye out for squad cars, but there were none except the one that ordinarily cruised Kelly Drive, the winding road along the east bank of the Schuylkill River. Maybe the cops hadn't gotten the phone tap, not enough evidence or time, or maybe they were too dumb to figure out my favorite place in the world. Or maybe they were waiting, watching me, hidden. I scanned the river-bank, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

It was a breezy night by the river and the wind off the water carried a misty chill. I shivered under a bush in the Azalea Garden, where I was masquerading as a runner at rest. It wasn't far from the truth and it was the perfect camouflage, since the asphalt paths on the river drives attracted in-line skaters and runners even at night.

I checked my watch: 11:30. Time to go. I picked up my small paper bag and rose slowly, my knees weak and stiff. I looked around for the cruiser, but the coast was clear.

I jogged lightly over crushed paper cups littering the path along Boathouse Row, the messy aftermath of a three-mile race. Brightly colored boathouses lined the row, and Penn's was in the middle. I reached its red door, made sure no one was watching, and punched in the combination that opened the door. I slipped in and shut the door behind me.

The entrance hall of the boathouse was roomy, unlit, and empty. There were two large windows to the street, so I didn't risk turning on a light. I didn't need to anyway, I knew the place by heart. Rowing photos covered the walls and an old green leather couch sat next to the door. To the left of the entrance hall was the huge room where the men's boats were housed; to the right was the women's annex, built later.

I plopped onto the couch and breathed in the familiar odors of axle grease, polished wood, and human sweat. I was safe, temporarily. It was my favorite place in the world. I rested my head back. On the wall behind me was a picture of myself in college in one of the first womens' crews; a young, strong, sunny blonde, standing next to an oar with a red-and-blue painted paddle. I knew without looking at the photo that I looked a lot better then than I did now. My eyes scanned the other photos in the faint light from the windows. Faded pictures of the men's and women's eights at various regattas, the crew holding trophies aloft or throwing their pint-sized c.o.xswains into the water. It was a rowing tradition, like losing your T-shirt to the winners, a graphic lesson in public humiliation. Having lost not only my shirt but everything else by now, I was feeling it rather acutely.

I was wanted for two counts of murder. It would be all over the news. What would Hattie be thinking, and what about my mother? What would happen to them if I went to prison, or worse? I allowed myself ten more seconds of self-pity, then went upstairs with my paper bag to save my life.

"Bennie, is that you?" Grady whispered.

I grabbed him by the jacket sleeve and yanked him into the boathouse, closing the door behind him. "Of course it's me."

"But your hair, it's short."

"It's chin-length." I'd hacked it off with a scissors from the workshop in the boathouse.

"What happened to the color? I can't see, it's so dark in here. Is it black?"

"No, red. Bright Coppery Disguise Red." I ran a hand through my damp, newly colored locks. Between my dye job, hot shower, and clean clothes, I felt better, more in control. "It's L'Oreal, eight bucks at your local drugstore. Because I'm worth it."

"Isn't red kind of obvious for a disguise?"

"I'm six feet tall, Grady. I was born obvious. Besides, it would've taken two boxes to go from blond to black, and I'm not worth it. Now, did you bring the briefcase?"

"Here." He handed it to me. "Where'd you get the suit? Is it yellow? Isn't that kind of bright?"

"What are you, the fashion police? It's the only one I had in my locker." I unzipped my briefcase and squinted inside. Mark's computer calendars, Bill Kleeb's file, and a cell phone. I zipped it shut, too wary to feel grateful. Someone was framing me for Mark's murder, maybe it was him. "You should go now, counselor. Thanks for your help."

"What? I just got here. What are you going to do?"

"Don't know yet, I'll think of something." The way I figured it, I had to get out of town and find Bill Kleeb, but I wasn't going to tell Grady more than I had to. "You have to go, please."

"I want to help."

"I don't need help."

"Why are you acting so strange? Did you know about that CEO's death?"

I stepped back at the accusation. "Of course not. Did you tell the cops I met with my clients that night?"

"No. Azzic questioned me, but I claimed attorney-client privilege and they let me go."

Hmmm. "I don't like it. I would think they'd hold your feet to the fire."

"Me, too. I thought they let me go to see if I would lead them to you."

I froze. "And did you?"

"No, no. If they were following me, I lost them. I worked out a plan with my cousin. He came over, picked up my bike, and rode it to New Jersey. You can't tell us apart with a motorcycle helmet on. If they followed him, they're in Marlton by now."

Smart, if it was true. "Good. Thanks. Now would you go?"

"Why are you trying to get rid of me? I'm your lawyer. Let me lawyer."

"This isn't lawyering, this is aiding and abetting. You shouldn't be any more involved than you are."

He looked over my shoulder. "What's in here, anyway?"

"Boats, Harvard."

He walked past me and disappeared into the men's half of the boathouse. It was a huge room, long enough to accommodate two lengths of eights, on racks. Moonlight shone pale through the windows in the garage doors and glistened on the sh.e.l.lacked finish of the fibergla.s.s sculls. Grady's white shirt picked up the light as he moved, but I couldn't make out what he was doing.

I stood rooted to the threshold, too nervous to follow. No one knew we were here. He could kill me and no one would know. I'd slipped a screwdriver from the shop into my waistband in the back, but didn't relish having to protect myself with it. "I want you to go, Grady," I called out, hoping my voice didn't betray how jittery I felt. "You're an accomplice after the fact."

"This is amazing," he said, his voice coming from the shadows. "The boats have names." My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I made out his tall outline next to the eights. He was running his fingertips on the stenciling on one of the sleek boats.

"Yes, this is America. Now, show's over. Time to go."

"Stop being so jumpy, will you? There's no cops outside, I checked. Look at this. This one says, 'Paul Madeira,' and here's another, 'Ernest Bollard IV.' Who are they?"

"Rich white guys. Shouldn't you be leaving?"

"I've never been in a boathouse before. Why don't you show me around? Rowing is a big part of your life. I'd like to know more about it."

"There's nothing to see but boats, Grady. They're brown, they float in water. Boats galore. Nothing to see. Time to go."

"Show me or I won't tell you the surprise I brought you." He walked toward me, but I edged back into the entrance hall, keeping my distance.

"Surprise? I don't want any more surprises. I hate surprises."

"Then I'll show myself around. Lord." He brushed by me and crossed the entrance hall into the women's annex on the other side. "What's in here?" he called out. "More boats?"

"Girl boats."

"They pink?"

"They're lighter. Bye, now."

"You can be so rude. Do girl boats go as fast as boy boats?"

"If the right girl's rowing."

"Are you the right girl?"

"Aren't you leaving?" I felt for the screwdriver, but he turned quickly and almost caught me.

"Guess your surprise, then I'll leave. Here's a clue." He was grinning with an antic.i.p.ation that looked genuine, at least in the dark.

"Grady, I don't feel like playing games. It's that murder suspect thing. No fun at all."

"Come on, take one guess. It's bigger than a bread box."

"Your ego?"

"Hardly. It's parked down the street, full of high octane."

"A car? You brought me a car?" My heart leapt up, then I doubted him again. "How did you know I'd need a car?"

"I knew you had to get out of town." He produced a silver key from his pocket and dangled it in the moonlight. "It's a brand new car."

"How'd you manage that?"

"It's my cousin's. I swapped it for the motorcycle. He's wanted to borrow it for a long time."

"Way to go." Despite my wariness, I s.n.a.t.c.hed the key from his hand. "Now out with you." I pushed him toward the door, but he wouldn't budge.

"I want to go with you, Bennie."

"Out of the question."

"Why? Why should you go alone?"

"I like being alone."

"That's not it," he said firmly. "Something's bothering you. You're cold to me now, it's obvious. You don't trust me, do you?"

s.h.i.t. "What makes you say that?"

"It's because I lied to you about meeting Mark, isn't it? You don't have to say so, I know that's what it is. You found out I met with Mark from his calendar. I looked in the briefcase, Bennie, I know. I can tell you why I lied. Let me explain."

"I want you to go, Grady. I can't be any clearer about it." I stepped around him and headed for the door, but he caught my arm, startling me.