'Whoops is right, Professor.'

Book pondered a moment. Sitting in the Travis County Jail for six months to a year with hardened criminals wouldn't do the young Welch any good. He needed to be in rehab.

'Professor?'

'I'll do it. I'll talk to your lawyer and write your brief.'

'Thank you. What do I owe you?'

'Nothing.'

'You're going to work for free?'

As if Book had said a recount had made Romney the winner.

'No. In return, I want two promises from you. And these are non-negotiable, Mr. Welch.'

'Shoot.'

'First, your son goes into residential rehab, not some one-hour-a-week outpatient therapy. Six months minimum.'

'Six months? He'll fall behind in school.'

'Better than falling behind in life.'

'All right. Six months. I'm taking him out there myself. Professor, I love my son. I will take care of him.' He hesitated a moment then said, 'When I was at UT, we got drunk on Lone Star beer. Now it's cocaine. Why do kids use drugs?'

'I don't know, Mr. Welch.'

The line was silent for a long moment then Welch's voice came across.

'What's the second promise?'

Chapter 6.

His intern didn't answer her door when Book rang the bell-the Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor suites had doorbells-so he went downstairs. He checked the phone book at the front desk for Nathan Jones's home address and jotted it down in the small notebook he always carried in his back pocket. He asked the desk clerk for the local paper, but it was a weekly and the last edition had come out the day before Nathan died; the new edition would come out the next day. He asked the clerk for the location of the newspaper office. He then searched for his intern.

He found her in the Giant museum.

In a small s.p.a.ce off the lobby, Giant memorabilia, movie posters, photographs, coffee mugs, T-shirts, caps, and shot gla.s.ses were offered for sale, and on a small television the film ran in a loop. Nadine Honeywell sat in a leather chair in front of the screen with her feet kicked up on an ottoman and her eyes focused through her black gla.s.ses on the movie. Book had watched Giant several times, as had every Texan of age; it was the national movie of Texas. On the screen, Jett Rink, the ranch hand turned oil tyc.o.o.n played by James Dean, had just struck oil on the small tract of land he had inherited from Luz Benedict. He drove straight to the Reata ranch house and sucker-punched his former employer, Bick Benedict, the cattle baron played by Rock Hudson.

'He's gorgeous,' Nadine said. 'And gay.'

'Jett Rink?'

'James Dean.'

'He died a few weeks after they finished shooting the movie here. He was driving fast, heading to a road race in southern California in his Porsche, truck pulled out in front of him, he couldn't stop in time. He was only twenty-four. Lived fast and died young. Never saw the movie, but he was nominated for an Oscar. He made only three films: Giant, East of Eden, and Rebel Without a Cause.'

Nadine's eyes turned up from the screen to Book. 'So, what, you're trying to be another James Dean?'

'I'm not gay.'

'A rebel without a cause ... except you're a rebel with too many causes.'

Jett's Grill fronts the courtyard just off the hotel lobby. It's a civilized place with cloth tablecloths, a pink-and-green tile floor, and a wait staff dressed in black. Book ordered tilapia tacos and iced tea. Nadine ordered the Giant cheeseburger-one-half pound of Black Angus beef-Parmesan fries, a root beer, and coffee and a chocolate brownie for dessert.

'Ms. Honeywell, would you like a stick of b.u.t.ter with that?'

'No.'

She looked up at the waitress, a young woman with a rose tattoo on her ample bosom. She was an artist; waiting tables was her day job.

'I want ice cream. Vanilla.'

'You know what you're putting inside yourself?'

'Better than a man.'

'Amen,' the waitress said. She winked at Nadine then left with their orders.

His intern had cleaned up and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Her face was innocent and unadorned. She dug in her canvas bag and pulled out a sanitary wipe packet; she tore open the packet, removed the wipe, and proceeded to rub down the salt and pepper shakers, the silverware-she reached for his, but he moved them away-and her water gla.s.s.

'You can't be too careful,' she said.

'I don't know. Maybe you can.'

She again reached into her bag and came out with the Purell hand sanitizer. She squirted the gel into her palm and rubbed her hands as if she were a doctor prepping for surgery. Their table now smelled like a hospital.

'You like that stuff?' Book said.

'Purell is pretty good. Sixty-two percent ethyl alcohol content. Germ-X has sixty-five percent. My favorite is Outlast. It has seventy percent ethyl alcohol, it kills ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent of germs, and it lasts six hours. But it's kind of hard on my skin.'

'You don't get out much, do you?'

'The world is full of dangerous germs.'

'Life is dangerous.'

'It was for Nathan.'

Nathan Jones was dead at twenty-nine. He had been Book's intern at twenty-five. For one month. Until that first letter had arrived in the mail. And they had gone to South Texas.

'Was it dangerous for Renee?'

'I guess she thought it was. But I always protected her.'

She sat silent for a moment then said, 'You're right.'

'About what?'

'I don't get out much.'

'You will as my intern.'

Nadine contemplated her sanitized hands.

'Professor ...'

She turned to him; she was that thirteen-year-old kid again.

'... can you protect me?'

'Yes, Ms. Honeywell, I can. And I will.'

'Nothing personal, but you're a law professor. And it's a harsh world.'

'I have skills.'

She regarded him a moment then finished rubbing her hands. She offered the sanitizer to Book.

'I washed upstairs.'

The waitress returned. She placed their drinks on the table then handed a card to Nadine.

'Text me.'

She winked again then walked away.

'I attract lesbians,' Nadine said. 'And no, I'm not.'

Book emptied a sweetener into his iced tea, stirred, and took a long drink. Nadine sucked her root beer through a long straw.

'You ever write a brief?' Book asked.

'In law school?'

'Time you learned.'

'What's the issue?'

'Search and seizure. Fourth Amendment.'

'Who's the client?'

'Bobby Welch.'

'That regent's son.'

'You don't know who Elizabeth Taylor was, but you know who Bobby Welch is?'

'Someone tweeted me that he got arrested for drug possession.'

'That's how you get your news? On Twitter?'

'That's how everyone my age gets the news.' She shrugged. 'No commercials.'

'If I owned CBS stock, I'd sell.'

'What's CBS?'

Book sat back and reread Nathan Jones's letter.

'He said his client was contaminating the groundwater, but didn't say who his client was. Said someone followed him home. Said his wife was scared. Said he had proof. Said he needed my help.'

Book blew out a breath.

'How do I help a dead person?'

'So what are we going to do?'

'If you die from unnatural causes in a small town, there'll usually be an article in the local paper. And an obituary. So, Ms. Honeywell, we're going to find the newspaper office, see what we can learn there. Then we'll ask around town, try to learn the ident.i.ty of Nathan's mystery client. And we'll visit his wife tonight, see if she has his proof.'

'And go home tomorrow?'

'Probably.'

'Probably?'

Book folded and replaced the letter inside the envelope then checked the postmark again.

'He mailed this letter on the fifth, died that night.'

'Coincidence.'

Chapter 7.