first gift from Charles. She had not taken off the necklace since he died.
"Dinner tonight?" Peggy said brightly. "My treat for letting me tap into that big brain of yours."
"Love to. I've got karate class, so I'll meet you afterward."
They decided on a restaurant, and Eva went to her workstation. She sat and pulled the arm of her stereo-binocular microscope toward her. She liked the familiarity of the motion and the comfort of her desk with its slide kits, gooseneck lamp, and ultraviolet light stand. Her project was an adventure manuscript about the knights of King Arthur completed in 1422 in London.
She stared through the microscope's eyepiece and used a scalpel to lift a flaking piece of green pigment from the gown of a princess. The quiet of the work and the meticulous focus it required soothed her. She carefully applied adhesive beneath the paint flake.
"Hello, Eva."
So deep was her concentration, the voice sent a dull shock through her. She looked up. It was her attorney, Brian Collum.
Of medium height, he was in his late forties, with eyebrows and hair the gray color of a magnet and the strong-jawed face of a man who knew what he wanted from life. Impeccably turned out in a charcoal suit with thin pinstripes, he was the name partner in the international law firm of Collum & Associates. Because of their friendship, he was representing her in the trial for Charles's death.
"How nice to see you, Brian."
He lowered his voice. "We need to talk." Usually his long face radiated optimism. But not now. His expression was grim.
"Not good news?" She glanced at her colleagues, noting they were studiously attending to their projects.
"It's good--or bad, depending on what you think."
Eva led him outdoors to a courtyard of lawns and flowers. A water fountain flowed serenely over perfectly arranged boulders. This was all part of the Getty Center, a complex of striking architecture sheathed in glass and Italian travertine stone crowning a hill in the Santa Monica Mountains.
Silently they passed museum visitors and sat together on a bench where no one could overhear.
"What's happened?" she asked.
He was blunt. "I have an offer from the D.A.'s office. If you plead guilty, they'll give you a reduced sentence. Four years. But with good behavior you'll be out in three. They're willing to make a deal because you have a clean driving record and you're a respected member of the community."
"Absolutely not." She forced herself to stay calm. "I wasn't driving."
"Then who was?"
The question hung like a scythe in the sparkling California air.
"You really don't recall Charles getting behind the wheel?" she asked. "You were standing in your doorway when we drove away. I saw you. You had to have seen us." They had been at a dinner party at Brian's house that night, the last guests to leave.
"We've been over this before. I went inside as soon as I said good night--before either of you got close to your car. Alcohol plays tricks with the mind."
"Which is why I'd never drive. Never." Working to keep the horror from her voice, she related the story again: "It was after one A.M., and Charles was driving us home. We were laughing. There wasn't any traffic on Mulholland, so Charles wove the car back and forth. That threw us against our seat belts and just made us laugh harder. He drove with one hand, then with the other . . ." She frowned to herself. There was something else, but it escaped her. "Suddenly a car shot out from a driveway ahead of us. Charles slammed the brakes. Our car spun out of control. I must've lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was strapped down to a gurney." She swallowed. "And Charles was dead."
She smoothed the fabric of her skirt and stared off as grief raged through her.
Brian's silence was so long that the distant roar of traffic on the San Diego Freeway seemed to grow louder.
At last he said kindly, "I'm sure that's what you remember, but we have no evidence to support it. And I've spent enough of your money hiring investigators to look for witnesses that I have to believe we're not going to find any." His voice toughened. "How's a jury going to react when they learn you were found lying unconscious just ten feet from the driver's door--and it was hanging open, showing you were behind the wheel? And Charles was in the front passenger seat, with the seat belt melted into what was