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  “So what? It's still a stupid way to make a living. And believe me, Kevin is a loser. He started out just stupid when I first represented him, at fourteen or so. But now he's worse than stupid. He's a real hard case. And still a loser.”

  “Losers are supposed to be my specialty. That was Uncle Harold's whole idea.”

  “Your Uncle Harold had bags of money,” said Calvin, his voice rising a little. “It was a hobby.” He leaned over for some more pizza.

  “No, I think it was more than that to him,” she said. She thought about the letter he'd left for her to read after his death. She had it memorized. After all, it was sort of a plan for her life, delivered posthumously by Uncle Harold. In an uncertain world, a plan for one's life, especially one with built-in financing, was something to be carefully considered.

  It said:

  Since childhood, you have displayed a natural altruism with a native cleverness, and these qualities can be brought together to good purpose if you carry on the work of the Foundation for Righting Wrongs.

  My instructions to the trustees are very specific. The tasks you undertake must be difficult ones, for there is no real satisfaction, I have discovered, in anything that is too easy.

  I have chosen to indulge your love of luxury, another of your traits, Jane, and perhaps a less commendable one, in order that you will choose to take on the work; so that you will not be distracted from it by the need to earn a living; and because of my affection for you.

  I have no doubt that you will earn every cent of it, and, that if you discharge your duties faithfully, someday we may both be reunited in a world in which there is no Wrong, only Right.

  Love, Uncle Harold.

  If Kevin was a real hard case, so be it. She knew what Calvin meant, but she felt there might be a double meaning there. Hadn't Uncle Harold said there was no satisfaction in whatever was too easy?

  “I want to meet your juror,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  Juror number ten turned out to be a retired librarian in her late sixties or early seventies named Caroline Marquardt. Jane liked her immediately. She had fine, light brown hair, which looked too monochromatic to be real. It was arranged in a wreath of tight curls around her face, a sort of serviceable perm intended not to flatter but to keep the hair looking neat. Her rather snubby round face had a kind expression, and was made up neatly with lipstick, rouge and too much orangey powder.

  She looked like a sweet, utterly conventional woman, except for a kind of bristly energy and a shrewdness in her blue-green eyes. And her voice. Miss Marquardt's voice was a surprisingly tough, gravelly voice. Jane could see her in her youth. A wisecracking career gal, the female lead's best friend. Maybe played by Eve Arden or Ann Sothern.

  Miss Marquardt was now installed on the sofa in Calvin Mason's living-room-turned-office, in her powder blue polyester pants and tunic, sitting with her legs crossed, bouncing the top leg a little, a large handbag on her lap.

  For this morning's meeting, the pizza boxes had been cleared away, the Venetian blinds adjusted to cast businesslike bars of shadow and light across everything. The pillows were plumped up and the cat had been put out.

  Calvin himself, sitting behind his desk in a tweed coat and tie, was listening to her with a little frown of concentration. Jane sat to one side.

  Miss Marquardt hadn't registered surprise at Jane's presence. (“Mrs. da Silva, who sometimes assists us,” Calvin had said vaguely. Jane had assumed a businesslike Della Street air.) The juror had also taken the unconventional-looking office in stride, and was launched well into her tale.

  “I couldn't really put my finger on it,” she was saying. “Something just kept nagging at me. I tried to stall with the jury. I said, 'Well, just to be sure, let's go over all the evidence, bit by bit.' I was hoping it would come to me. I wanted to know what it was that got me thinking there was something wrong.” Miss Marquardt laughed a gravelly laugh. “I bet they all thought I was senile. Finally, they hammered me down. After all, the evidence was pretty bad for that young fellow.”

  She paused expectantly, as if wanting Calvin to confirm her last remark, but he just cleared his throat.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “last week I was over at my niece's house. She has a baby, an adorable little girl. That baby, who, by the way, is named after me—isn't that sweet?—is just at that grabby stage. Pulls herself up and grabs things, from coffee tables and so forth, then gives you a real defiant look. It's so cute, it's hard not to laugh.”

  She fiddled with the clasp of her purse. Calvin watched the gesture with alarm. Jane figured he was afraid he'd be expected to admire baby pictures, but Miss Marquardt continued.

  “Well, little Caroline, she tottered over to the magazine rack and pulled out all the magazines and pitched 'em all over the floor. And when I was picking them all back up, it occurred to me. That's what the thing was that was bothering me so much.” She stopped triumphantly.

  Jane glanced over at Calvin. He looked politely attentive, but slightly glazed over. Jane felt confident that Caroline Marquardt would come to the point eventually. She just had a rambling style of conversation. Probably because she lived alone and didn't talk to other people as much as she would like. Jane could relate to that. Lately, she'd had to check her own tendency to strike up pointless conversations with sales clerks.

  “It was those photographs,” continued Miss Marquardt. “The ones of the crime scene. And that awful gun on the floor and all that? Well, there was one detail that didn't make sense. There was the prescription counter, and a few feet in front of it, the gun. But in the corner of the picture there was a chair—well just the legs of it, actually, and a magazine, Elle magazine, facedown on the floor next to it.”

  “Yes?” said Calvin, looking puzzled. “What's your point, exactly?”

  “Who was reading that magazine?” said Miss Marquardt. “There was no sign of any struggle or anything. What was the magazine doing there next to the chair?”

  She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “After the trial I went by that pharmacy. Someone else runs it now, of course. Poor Mr. Cox didn't have the heart, I guess, to keep on. Can't say I blame him.”

  She sat back again. “Anyway, I saw the chair. It's there for people to sit in while their prescriptions are being filled. And it's a tiny little place. There's a stand with magazines on it against the wall. I imagine that someone was sitting there, waiting for a prescription, reading a magazine. Mr. Mason, I think that there might have been a witness. A witness who dropped that magazine and fled. It seemed like a loose end. Something that should be accounted for.”

  “I'll have to take a look at the pictures of the scene again,” said Calvin. “But even if there were a witness, I'm not sure just what difference—”

  “It would be very easy to find out who the witness was,” continued Miss Marquardt.

  “Of course it would,” said Jane, smiling happily at juror number ten. “Because the victim was typing a prescription label at the time.”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Marquardt. She looked over at Jane with the satisfaction of having found an ally.

  “Yes,” said Calvin Mason thoughtfully. “Well, I'll look into it.” He rose. “I really appreciate your coming by. I'm sure my client will as well. But I'm afraid it doesn't look too hopeful for him. He seems resigned to his situation.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I understand he's become quite religious up there at Monroe.”

  Miss Marquardt waved her hand. “They all do, don't they? You always read about serial killers and Savings and Loan crooks getting Christ once they've been stopped. Maybe they're sincere, but you've got to wonder. Your client didn't strike me as a particularly savory young man. But don't you think you should try to find that woman? I'm assuming it's a woman because of the magazine.”

  “Well actually, as I recall, um, I'm pretty sure we did get in touch with the party whose name was being typed on that prescription label,” said Calvin. “Seems to me she'd phoned in that pres
cription and she was planning to come by for it later.” He shrugged. “I'll have to review that.”

  “I don't believe it,” said Miss Marquardt firmly. “That little pharmacy looked quite orderly. And it was very small. A magazine lying on the floor like that, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And Mrs. Cox would have put it back in the magazine stand.” Jane noted that Miss Marquardt assumed the female half of the team would do the straightening up. Probably not a bad guess.

  “Hmm,” said Calvin noncommittally.

  “We'll let you know what we find out,” added Jane. It was clear to her the juror wouldn't soon forget her discovery. Miss Marquardt looked grateful and a little excited.

  After Calvin had seen her out, adding that he would be glad to help her if she ever needed a lawyer herself someday, he flung himself into his easy chair and loosened his tie.

  “Well,” said Jane. “What do you think?”

  “Kevin can't afford an investigator to check this out. It should have been done before the trial, in any case. If I had the slightest suspicion he wasn't guilty as sin of blowing away a perfectly innocent citizen—”

  “What did the woman on the prescription label say, exactly?” said Jane. She got up, feeling restless and a little excited, just like Miss Marquardt. She discharged her energy pacing along the velvety blue border of Calvin's faded Chinese carpet.

  “Nothing,” said Calvin. “I never talked to her.”

  “Did anybody?” Jane reached a file cabinet and turned around, retracing her steps. The carpet had smudgy beige pagodas in the corners.

  “Maybe the police. I can't remember.”

  Jane stopped and stared at him instead of the carpet. “You mean you lied to poor Miss Marquardt?”

  Calvin sighed heavily. “First of all, if I'd said I hadn't done anything, she would have thought I was a sloppy lawyer. You never know, maybe the old girl needs a will or something.”

  “That's terrible,” said Jane, who felt that you should only lie when you really had to. And certainly not to prevent people from thinking you were incompetent.

  “Secondly,” said Calvin, “it's clear to me that she thinks this is real exciting. Like a detective story or something. She probably read a lot of Nancy Drew when she was a kid. The last thing we need is her rummaging around investigating it herself.”

  “I read a lot of Nancy Drew when I was a kid,” said Jane firmly, just in case he was sneering at Miss Marquardt's juvenile taste in literature.

  “Why doesn't that surprise me?” said Calvin with a superior little smirk.

  She ignored the smirk. “I want to check this out,” said Jane. “Can I be working for you? Can I tell people that?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. I did pitch this to you as a potentially hopeless case. And our old deal still stands, right? A finder's fee if it works out?”

  “Deal,” said Jane, who'd paced to the other end of the carpet and sat back down.

  “But listen,” he said. “Try not to use my name if you talk to the cops or anybody official, okay?”

  “Are you afraid I'll embarrass you by my amateur investigatory techniques?” said Jane with a little smile.

  Calvin smiled back. “Yes,” he said. “If you need anything like that, let me know. I have the contacts.”

  “Okay,” said Jane, with some relief. The only Seattle police officer she knew was Detective John Cameron, who, as far as she knew, was working hard at reconciling with the wife who'd left him for her kid's softball coach. She and John had told each other their problems and indulged in a little erotic grappling on the sofa in Uncle Harold's living room. It didn't seem fair to bug him when he was trying to do the noble thing. Not that he would still be tempted. That, she realized, was the irksome part.

  “Maybe I should get an investigator's license,” said Jane. “To flash at people. There isn't a test or anything, is there?”

  “Forget it. The legislature just made it real complicated. A pretty hard test. Lots of red tape. Just say you're working for me, I guess. If it comes up.”

  Jane smiled. “You're very helpful,” she said.

  “I just hope we're not opening up some kind of can of worms here,” said Calvin.

  Jane, of course, hoped that was just what they were doing. “And,” she added, “can you arrange for me to meet your client?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Kevin? I could probably get you into Monroe with me to see him. I can't say I'd look forward to a little reunion.”

  “Please?” said Jane.

  “Oh, okay,” he said, sounding reluctant but resigned.

  * * *

  She began that afternoon by visiting the pharmacy on First Hill where Mrs. Cox had been killed.

  It was a small cubbyhole of a place on the first floor of a big medical building on Madison Street. She could see that it would make a good place to knock over. The entrance, which logically should have been from the building lobby, was on the outside of the building, off a courtyard. Leaving meant you could be out on the street instantly. There were no storefronts on either side—just smooth marble facade forming the base of the building.

  You couldn't see inside very easily either. There were two small windows and they were filled with stuff—crutches and hot water bottles and stacks of Ace bandage boxes—all very utilitarian. The kind of thing you'd want to buy after a visit to the doctor's office.

  Jane checked the address. It was no longer called the Cox Pharmacy. Now it was the Nguyen Pharmacy.

  Inside, there was an Indochinese man in his mid-twenties in a white coat behind the register, which was set just at the end of the prescription counter. He was handing over a paper bag to an elderly man. “Don't forget to take it on an empty stomach,” he said in unaccented English. He had the slightly beefed-up look, the direct eye contact and the American social smile of the assimilated Asian.

  Jane glanced over to the magazine stand on the opposite wall, and to the plastic chair whose spiky metal feet had alerted Miss Marquardt to the possibility of a witness. The layout seemed to indicate that someone waiting for a prescription had been reading that magazine. If you were just browsing, you'd stand over by the rack. Not that this was the kind of place you'd spend much time browsing. Jane figured that the odds and ends on display here—a few stuffed animals, chocolate bars and, always a mover in Seattle, small fold-up umbrellas—were primarily there as impulse items for the people who were waiting. There was only a small rack of patent medicines—Alka-Seltzer, Kaopectate, Tylenol, aspirin.

  “Mr. Nguyen?” said Jane, who noticed the man wore a name badge that said MIKE.

  “Yes?”

  “I'm an investigator for the lawyer for Kevin Shea. The man who was convicted of murdering Mrs. Cox.”

  “Yeah?” He looked slightly wary.

  “We're checking out the possibility that there was a witness to the crime. I don't know how much you know about it.”

  “The little creep came in and shot the poor lady in cold blood,” said Mike. “Look, no offense, but I'm not real sympathetic, okay?”

  “I understand,” said Jane, sighing. “It was a terrible thing.”

  “She was a real hardworking lady,” said Mike. “Never bothered anybody.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Yeah. I did an internship here when I was at the University of Washington a couple of years ago. And then I helped out the Coxes part-time during the school year on and off. They were glad to have the help. They didn't have any kids or anything.” Despite his Americanization, Mike still seemed to think an ideal business was a family affair.

  Jane looked around the small area, wondering why they needed any help. The place seemed tiny. “It gets pretty busy sometimes,” he said, understanding her gesture. “They had a couple of good nursing home accounts. And even though Mrs. Cox was a workaholic, George liked to go fishing once in a while.”

  He shook his head. “They should have taken more time off. They could have afforded it. It wasn't like they were just starting out. But th
ey never knew what would happen. Who would have guessed it?”

  Jane nodded. She had to get him off the tragedy.

  “So you bought the business then?” she said.

  “That's right.” Jane thought he looked a little uncomfortable. As if he were ashamed to have profited by the Coxes' bad fortune.

  “Kevin Shea's lawyer had recently considered the possibility that there might have been a witness here. I wonder if you remember, or if you ever knew, what prescription label she was typing the day she was shot.”

  “I couldn't tell you that,” said Mike. “That is, I could, I suppose. It might be in the records. But I'd have to have Mr. Cox's permission, and to tell you the truth, I'd hate to bother him. He'd just like to forget. Is this punk planning an appeal?” He frowned. Jane figured he wouldn't ask Mr. Cox. She'd have to do it herself.