"I don't know," I told him. "Because you're different." I shrugged again, feeling the inadequacy of my words. "Because I believe you've never asked a person what he does for a living."

"And that's important to you?"

I thought about it. "I guess so."

He began to shake his head.

"I want to know because you're real."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I looked away from his face because there was a sudden nakedness there. "I've seen you, too, you know, here and there, walking. But I've never seen you with anybody else. I think there must be honesty in being that alone."

"And you value that?"

I looked back at him. "I envy it."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because you don't know me, I guess. Because for once I'd like to be honest, too-tell somebody that I'd just as soon shoot my wife as look at her again, and that I'd gladly run over her friends on the street just to hear the thump." I shrugged again. "Because I don't think you'd judge me."

Max Creason was not looking at me; he had turned away. "Ain't no priest," he told me.

"Sometimes things just need to be said."

He shrugged. "So do something different."

"That's it? That's your advice? Do something different?"

"Yes," the park walker said. "Stop being a pussy."

The word hung there between us, and on the other side was his face, his very serious face; and in the echo of that blunt honesty, I laughed. I laughed so hard, I almost split myself open; and long before I finished, Max Creason joined me.

Three hours later, I walked up my driveway wearing a blue T-shirt with black letters that read DIG MY ROOT DIG MY ROOT and holding the leash of a nine-week-old yellow Lab I'd decided to call Bone. The Johnsons told me he was the pick of the litter, and I believed them. He was very much like my old dog. and holding the leash of a nine-week-old yellow Lab I'd decided to call Bone. The Johnsons told me he was the pick of the litter, and I believed them. He was very much like my old dog.

I walked Bone to the backyard and saw my wife through the bathroom window. She wore Sunday church clothes and was practicing smiles in the mirror. I watched for a minute, then gave Bone some water and went inside. It was 9:45.

I found Barbara in the bedroom, clipping on her earrings as she bustled about, looking at the ground as if to find her shoes or the patience to deal with me. She didn't look up, but her voice was chipper.

"I'm going to church. Are you coming?"

This was an old trick. Barbara rarely went to church, and when she did, it was because she knew I'd never go. It was a guilt trip.

"Nope. I've got plans."

"What plans?" She finally looked at me. No other questions. No reference to our fight or to my infidelity.

"Guy stuff," I told her.

"That's nice, Work." She started from the room, then stopped. "That's just perfect." She stormed out.

I followed her through the house and watched her grab her pocketbook and her keys and slam the door behind her. I poured a cup of coffee and waited. It took about five seconds.

The door flew open and Barbara scrambled inside, locking the door behind her and turning, horrified, to me. I leaned against the sink and sipped my coffee.

"There's a bum in our garage!" she said.

"No," I replied in exaggerated disbelief. I replied in exaggerated disbelief.

She peered through the window blind. "He's just sitting there now, but I think he made a grab for me."

I straightened to my full height. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry." I strode across the kitchen and pulled Barbara away from the door. I stepped outside, my wife crowding behind me with the telephone in her hand. "Hey!" I said. The bum looked up from the old newspaper he'd pulled from our recycling bin. His squint pulled his lips over the dark, rotten teeth. "Come on in," I told him. Max stood. "The bathroom's down the hall."

"Okay," he said, and came inside. It took us five minutes to stop laughing after Barbara burned rubber out of the driveway.

CHAPTER 11.

An hour later, I was showered, changed, and clear in my head for the first time in what felt like years. It may have been years. What I knew was this: All you have in life is family. If you are lucky, that includes the kind you married. I was not so fortunate, but I had Jean. I'd take the fall for her if I had to.

I made two phone calls, the first to Clarence Hambly; after my father, he was considered the finest attorney in the county. He'd drawn up Ezra's will. He'd just returned from church but reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day. Next, I called Hank Robins, a private investigator in Charlotte whom I'd used on most of my murder cases. His machine picked up: "I can't take your call right now, probably because I'm out spying on somebody. Leave your number so I don't have to trace it." Hank was an irreverent bastard. He was thirty now, looked forty on a rough day, and was the most fearless man I'd ever met. Plus, I liked him. I told him to call me on my cell phone.

I left Barbara a note saying I might not be home that night and put Bone in the car. We went shopping. I bought him a new collar, leash, and dog bowls. I also picked up a thirty-pound bag of puppy food and a box of jerky treats. By the time I got back to the car, he'd chewed the leather off one of the headrests, which gave me an idea. I drove a BMW that Barbara had insisted would draw clients, which, in retrospect, was hilarious. I still owed a few grand on it and resented every payment. I took it to a shade-tree lot off Highway 150 and traded it for a five-year-old pickup. It smelled bad, but Bone seemed to like the taste of it.

We were having lunch in the park when Hank finally called. "Work, my man! Been reading about you in the papers. How's my favorite suit holding up?"

"I have to admit that I've been better."

"Yeah. Figured as much."

"How's your schedule these days, Hank?"

"Always busy. I even work sometimes. What've you got for me? Another Rowan County tragedy of love and deception? Rival dope dealers? Not another remote-control killer, I hope."

"It's complicated."

"The best ones always are."

"Are you alone?" I asked.

"I'm still in bed, if that answers your question."

"We need to talk in person."

"Salisbury, Charlotte, or in between. Just tell me when and where."

That was a no-brainer. I'd take any excuse to get out of town and get some breathing room. "How about six tonight at the Dunhill?" The Dunhill Hotel was on Tryon Street in downtown Charlotte. It had a great bar, full of deep and shadowed booths, and would be almost empty on a Sunday night.

"Should I bring you a date?" Hank asked, and I heard a giggle from his end of the phone, a woman.

"Six o'clock, Hank. And that crack will cost you the first round." I hung up, feeling better. Hank was a good man to have on your side.

Ezra's attorney had made it plain that I should not arrive before two. I had half an hour. I put the dog bowls and trash into the truck and whistled for Bone. He was wet from the lake, but I let him ride up front. Halfway there and he was in my lap, head out the window. So, stinking of wet dog and used truck, I walked up the wide steps of the Hambly mansion on its sprawling acres just outside of town. The house was huge, with marble fountains, twelve-foot doors, and a four-room guest house. A plaque beside the door announced that Hambly House had been built circa 1788. I thought maybe I should genuflect.

Judging from Clarence Hambly's face, I did not measure up to the learned colleague he'd expected to appear on this day of holy worship. Hambly was old, lined, and strait-laced, but he stood tall in a dark suit and paisley tie. He had thick white hair and matching eyebrows, which probably added an extra fifty dollars to his hourly rate.

He was genteel, whereas my father had been aggressive, as mannered as Ezra had been bullish, but he was still full of it; I'd seen him in court enough times to know that his Holy Roller attitude never interfered with his shameless quest for high-dollar jury awards. His witnesses were well prepped and slick. The Ten Commandments did not hang on his office wall.

He was old Salisbury money, and I know that my father had hated that about him, but he was good, and my father had insisted on the best, especially where money was concerned.

"I would prefer to do this tomorrow," he said without preamble, his eyes moving up from my scuffed hiking boots to my grass-stained blue jeans and the frayed collar of the shirt I refused to let die.

"It's important, Clarence. I need to do this now. I'm sorry."

He nodded. "Consider it a professional courtesy, then," he said, and ushered me inside. I stepped into his marble foyer, hoping that there was no dog shit on my shoes. "Let's go into my study."

I followed him down a long hall, catching a glimpse through large French doors of the pool outside and the manicured gardens beyond. The place smelled of cigars, oiled leather, and old people; I was willing to bet that his maids wore uniforms.

His study was narrow but deep, with tall windows, more French doors, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Apparently, he was into antique guns, fresh-cut flowers, and the color blue. An eight-foot gold-filigree mirror hung behind his desk; in it I looked rumpled and small, which was probably intentional.

"I'm putting your father's estate into probate tomorrow," he told me as he closed double doors and pointed to a leather chair. I sat. He moved behind his desk but remained standing. He looked down at me from this position of assumed authority, reminding me of how much I hated lawyer bullshit. "So there's no reason we can't discuss the details now. For the record, however, I was going to call you this week to schedule a meeting."

"Thank you for that," I said, because I was expected to. Never mind the enormous fee he would collect as executor of Ezra's estate. I steepled my fingers and concentrated on looking deferential, when what I wanted to do was put my feet on his desk.

"Also for the record, accept my condolences on your loss. I know that Barbara must be a great comfort. She comes from a fine family. A beautiful woman."

For the record, I wished there was shit on my shoes. "Thank you," I said.

"Although your father and I were often on opposite sides of the table, I had tremendous respect for his accomplishments. He was a fine attorney." He eyed me from his great height. "Something to aspire to," he concluded meaningfully.

"I don't want to take any more of your time than necessary," I reminded him.

"Yes, of course. To business, then. Your father's estate was sizable."

"How sizable?" I interrupted. Ezra had been secretive about his finances. I knew very little about it.

"Sizable," Hambly reiterated. I looked blank and waited. Once wills are put into probate, they become public record. There was no reason for reticence.

Hambly grudgingly conceded. "Roughly forty million dollars," he said.

I almost fell out of my chair-literally. I would have guessed six or seven million at the most.

"In addition to his skills as a lawyer," Hambly continued, "he was an adept investor. Other than the house and the building on lawyers' row, it's all in liquid securities."

"Forty million dollars," I said.

"A little over, actually." Hambly met my eyes and, to his credit, kept his face neutral. He'd been born rich, yet would never see forty million dollars. It had to gall him, and I suddenly realized that this was another reason my father had gone to Clarence Hambly. I almost smiled, but then I thought of Jean and the miserable house she lived in. I smelled stale pizza and pictured her face in the window of her beaten-down car, the way she'd heaved herself up the steps of Glena Werster's stone monument to greed and ego. At least that will change, I thought.

"And?" I asked.

"The house and the building go to you outright. Ten million dollars will fund the Ezra Pickens Charitable Foundation. You will have a seat on the board. Fifteen million dollars goes into trust for you. Taxes take the rest."

I was stunned. "What about Jean?" I asked.

"Jean gets nothing," Hambly stated, then sniffed loudly.

I came out of my chair. "Nothing?" I repeated.

"Sit down, please."

I complied because I lacked the strength to stand.

"You know how your father felt. Women have no business dealing with money or finances. It might be imprudent to tell you this, but your father changed the will after Alex Shiften came on the scene. Originally, he planned for two million to go into trust for Jean, to be managed by this firm or by her husband, should she marry. But with Alex in the picture . . . You know how your father felt."

"Did he know that they were sleeping together?" I asked.

"He suspected."

"And so he cut her out of the will."

"Basically."

"Was Jean aware of this?"

Hambly shrugged but didn't answer the question. "People do funny things with their money, Work. They use it for their own reasons."

I felt an electric tingle as I realized Hambly wasn't talking about Jean anymore. "There's more, isn't there?"

"The trust for you," Hambly began, finally taking his seat.

"What about it?"

"You will have full, unfettered use of the income it generates until age sixty. Conservatively invested, it should provide at least a million dollars a year. At sixty, you get it all."

"But?" I sensed a catch.

"There are certain requirements."

"Such as?"

"You are required to be actively engaged in the practice of law until such time."

"What?"