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message on his pager screen. “I don’t believe this.”
    “What’s going on?” asked David again.
    “A client—a big client. His kid has just been murdered.”
    “Murdered? Who?” asked David.
    “John Nagoshi’s kid.”
    “Of Nagoshi Incorporated?” asked Jay.
    “Yeah. His daughter’s a student at Deane, a real looker too . . . I mean, she was a good-looking kid before . . . Shit! I gotta go.”
    “Now hold on, dude,” said Negley. “I’m sorry for the girl and all, but since when do the victims need lawyers? Isn’t that the DA’s job?”
    “Not when the dead girl’s father is CEO and majority share-holder of a multibillion-dollar corporation. When this gets out, the share price could plummet, and believe me this is not one client you want to . . .” Tony was obviously thinking out loud.
    “So where are you going?” asked David, watching Bishop collect his things.
    “Home to shower and change, and then to the office—the partners want to brainstorm.”
    “On the girl’s murder, or its financial repercussions?” asked David, unable to help himself. The debate of dollars versus morality in their chosen profession was an ongoing one between him and his fellow law school alumni.
    Tony said nothing, just rolled his eyes. “Either way, you guys are gonna have to manage without me.”
    “Jesus, Bishop,” said Negley. “You’re gonna pay for this.”
    “Nah,” said Bishop. “Sad but true fact, my man, as of now I am billing Mr. Nagoshi his usual rate. Sorry, guys,” he said again. “But them’s the breaks in the big bad world of corporate reality.”
    And then he slapped David on the back and punched Negley in the arm before racing across the field, jumping into his 911 convertible and taking off like his life depended on it.

5
    “Lieutenant Mannix, Detective McKay,” said the middle-aged butler with the Japanese-British accent. “My name is Harold Sumi. Please come in. Mr. Nagoshi is expecting you. I shall tell him you are here.”
    The first thing Joe noted was that the man knew exactly who they were. The second was that he greeted them more like at tendees at an executive conference than homicide detectives about to partake in the details of a young girl’s murder. And the third was that Mr. Sumi was focusing on their shoes, his head making a slight sideways gesture toward the front sandstone steps beside them. It was true, their shoes were a little muddied from their walk in the garden and this discreet gesture was obviously an “invitation” to remove their footwear before proceeding into the house.
    Joe stepped back outside and looked down to see a number of other pairs placed neatly by the doorway—two pairs of worn, black Boston PD uniform issue (the shoeless officers would be doing a routine check of the house to look for any signs of breaking and entering, theft and so forth), and a shiny dark brown pair made from expensive Italian leather. Mannix and McKay discarded their footwear, Frank carefully placing his in symmetry with the other shoes that were lined up like sentries just to the side of the enormous double front doors, and they moved into the entryway, which was a large, limestone floored area with a double-vaulted ceiling.
    The furnishings were a mixture of Asian and Western—cool-colored antique vases sitting on expensive classical European side tables, intricate Japanese artwork hanging over authentic handwoven Middle Eastern rugs, subtle modern downlights complemented by more traditional lantern-style wall illuminations. The effect was rich but not cluttered, ordered but not austere, cultured but not alienating. In other words, it screamed of good taste, international sophistication and an interior designer’s budget from heaven.
    Mr. Sumi bowed again before leading them across the entrance hall to the two hand-carved double doors, which he gently pushed aside to reveal an extensive living area, larger than the entire bottom floor of Joe Mannix’s heavily