"Yes, sir, it did."

Jennifer explained, "The computer has no reasoning power, Your Honor. It can only respond to the information it is given. You and my client happen to be the same weight, height and age. You both drive green sedans, and you both come from the same state. That's really as much evidence as the prosecuting attorney has. The only other factor is the way in which the crime was done. When Paul Richards committed that bank robbery ten years ago, millions of people read about it. Any one of them could have imitated his modus operandi. modus operandi. Someone did." Jennifer indicated the piece of paper in Judge Stevens' hand. "That shows you how flimsy the State's case really is." Someone did." Jennifer indicated the piece of paper in Judge Stevens' hand. "That shows you how flimsy the State's case really is."

Carter Gifford sputtered, "Your Honor-" and stopped. He did not know what to say.

Judge Stevens looked again at the computer readout in his hand and then at Jennifer.

"What would you have done," he asked, "if the court had been a younger man, thinner than I, who drove a blue blue car?" car?"

"The computer gave me ten other possible suspects," Jennifer said. "My next choice would have been New York District Attorney Robert Di Silva."

Jennifer was sitting in her office, reading the headlines, when Cynthia announced, "Mr. Paul Richards is here."

"Send him in, Cynthia."

He came into the office wearing a black raincoat and carrying a candy box tied with a red ribbon.

"I just wanted to tell you thanks."

"You see? Sometimes justice does does triumph." triumph."

"I'm leaving town. I decided I need a little vacation." He handed Jennifer the candy box. "A little token of my appreciation."

"Thank you, Paul."

He looked at her admiringly. "I think you're terrific."

And he was gone.

Jennifer looked at the box of candy on her desk and smiled. She had received less for handling most of Father Ryan's friends. If she got fat, it would be Father Ryan's fault.

Jennifer untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was ten thousand dollars in used currency.

One afternoon as Jennifer was leaving the courthouse, she noticed a large, black, chauffeured Cadillac limousine at the curb. As she started to walk past it, Michael Moretti stepped out. "I've been waiting for you."

Close up, there was an electric vitality to the man that was almost overpowering.

"Get out of my way," Jennifer said. Her face was flushed and angry, and she was even more beautiful than Michael Moretti had remembered.

"Hey," he laughed, "cool down. All I want to do is talk to you. All you have to do is listen. I'll pay you for your time."

"You'll never have enough money."

She started to move past him. Michael Moretti put a conciliatory hand on her arm. Just touching her increased his excitement.

He turned on all of his charm. "Be reasonable. You won't know what you're turning down until you hear what I have to say. Ten minutes. That's all I want. I'll drop you off at your office. We can talk on the way."

Jennifer studied him a moment and said, "I'll go with you on one condition. I want the answer to a question."

Michael nodded. "Sure. Go ahead."

"Whose idea was it to frame me with the dead canary?"

He answered without hesitation. "Mine."

So now she knew. And she could have killed him. Grimly she stepped into the limousine and Michael Moretti moved in beside her. Jennifer noted that he gave the driver the address of her office building without asking.

As the limousine drove off, Michael Moretti said, "I'm glad about all the great things that are happening to you."

Jennifer did not bother to reply.

"I really mean that."

"You haven't told me what it is you want."

"I want to make you rich."

"Thanks. I'm rich enough." Her voice was filled with the contempt she felt toward him.

Michael Moretti's face flushed. "I'm trying to do you a favor and you keep fighting me."

Jennifer turned to look at him. "I don't want any favors from you."

He made his voice conciliatory. "Okay. Maybe I'm trying to make up a little for what I did to you. Look, I can send you a lot of clients. Important clients. Big money. You have no idea-"

Jennifer interrupted. "Mr. Moretti, do us both a favor. Don't say another word."

"But I can-"

"I don't want to represent you or any of your friends."

"Why not?"

"Because if I represented one of you, from then on you'd own me."

"You've got it all wrong," Michael protested. "My friends are in legitimate businesses. I mean banks, insurance companies-"

"Save your breath. My services aren't available to the Mafia."

"Who said anything about the Mafia?"

"Call it whatever you like. No one owns me but me. I intend to keep it that way."

The limousine stopped for a red light.

Jennifer said, "This is close enough. Thank you for the lift." She opened the door and stepped out.

Michael said, "When can I see you again?"

"Not ever, Mr. Moretti."

Michael watched her walk away.

My G.o.d, he thought, he thought, that's a woman! that's a woman! He suddenly became aware that he had an erection and smiled, because he knew that one way or another, he was going to have her. He suddenly became aware that he had an erection and smiled, because he knew that one way or another, he was going to have her.

23.

It was the end of October, two weeks before the election, and the senatorial race was in full swing. Adam was running against the inc.u.mbent Senator John Trowbridge, a veteran politician, and the experts agreed it was going to be a close battle.

Jennifer sat at home one night, watching Adam and his opponent in a television debate. Mary Beth had been right. A divorce now could easily have wrecked Adam's growing chances for victory.

When Jennifer walked into the office after a long business lunch, there was an urgent message for her to call Rick Arlen.

"He's called three times in the last half-hour," Cynthia said.

Rick Arlen was a rock star who had, almost overnight, become the hottest singer in the world. Jennifer had heard about the enormous incomes of rock stars, but until she got involved with Rick Arlen's affairs, she had had no idea what that really meant. From records, personal appearances, merchandising and now motion pictures, Rick Arlen's income was more than fifteen million dollars a year. Rick was twenty-five years old, an Alabama farm boy who had been born with a gold mine in his throat.

"Get him for me," Jennifer said.

Five minutes later he was on the line. "Hey, man, I've been tryin' to reach you for hours."

"Sorry, Rick. I was in a meeting."

"Problem. Gotta see you."

"Can you come in to the office this afternoon?"

"I don't think so. I'm in Monte Carlo, doin' a benefit for Grace and the Prince. How soon can you get here?"

"I couldn't possibly get away now," Jennifer protested. "I have a desk piled up-"

"Baby, I need need you. You've got to get on a bird this afternoon." you. You've got to get on a bird this afternoon."

And he hung up.

Jennifer thought about the phone call. Rick Arlen had not wanted to discuss his problem over the telephone. It could be anything from drugs to girls to boys. She thought about sending Ted Harris or Dan Martin to solve whatever the problem was, but she liked Rick Arlen. In the end, Jennifer decided to go herself.

She tried to reach Adam before she left, but he was out of the office.

She said to Cynthia, "Get me reservations on an Air France flight to Nice. I'll want a car to meet me and drive me to Monte Carlo."

Twenty minutes later she had a reservation on a seven o'clock flight that evening.

"There's a helicopter service from Nice directly to Monte Carlo," Cynthia said. "I've booked you on that."

"Wonderful. Thank you."

When Ken Bailey heard why Jennifer was leaving, he said, "Who does that punk think he is?"

"He knows knows who he is, Ken. He's one of our biggest clients." who he is, Ken. He's one of our biggest clients."

"When will you be back?"

"I shouldn't be gone more than three or four days."

"Things aren't the same when you're not here. I'll miss you."

Jennifer wondered whether he was still seeing the young blond man.

"Hold down the fort until I get back."

As a rule, Jennifer enjoyed flying. She regarded her time in the air as freedom from pressures, a temporary escape from all the problems that beset her on the ground, a quiet oasis in s.p.a.ce away from her endlessly demanding clients. This flight across the Atlantic, however, was unpleasant. It seemed unusually b.u.mpy, and Jennifer's stomach became queasy and upset.

She was feeling a bit better by the time the plane landed in Nice the next morning. There was a helicopter waiting to fly her to Monte Carlo. Jennifer had never ridden in a helicopter before and she had looked forward to it. But the sudden lift and the swooping motions made her ill again, and she was unable to enjoy the majestic sights of the Alps below and the Grande Corniche, with miniature automobiles winding up the steep mountainside.

The buildings of Monte Carlo appeared, and a few minutes later the helicopter was landing in front of the modern white summer casino on the beach.

Cynthia had telephoned ahead and Rick Arlen was there to meet Jennifer.

He gave her a big hug. "How was the trip?"

"A little rough."