The Second Chair by John Lescroart

from one of her folders, held them up for him to see. “You want to read his statement to the police, or should I just give you the highlights?” But it wasn’t really a question and she didn’t wait for an answer. “He and his wife happened to hear the shots and right after they both saw you leave—”
    “They saw me leave? Right after the shots?”
    She nodded. “Both of ’em.”
    “Then they’re lying. They’ve got to be lying.”
    She had him running now, badly scared, and this served her purpose. Time to hit him again, make him begin to see how really bad it was. “Lying or not, the fact remains that Mr. Salarco did call nine one one from the phone at Mooney’s place”—she looked down at the pages—“exactly six minutes and forty seconds before you called from the same phone. And he later told Sergeant Taylor that while he was there making the emergency call, he saw a gun on the coffee table, which wasn’t there when the first police unit arrived.”
    Now she leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. “Do the math, Andrew. Only one person could have taken and hidden the gun, and that’s you. You took it to your car to get rid of it later, and that’s why you had to lie. And that’s not a small lie. It’s a whopper.”
    Ray Nelson escorted Andrew back to his cell, while Cottrell led Wu down the corridor in the other direction. At the door to the cabins, he held the door open for her.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    “That turn out all right?”
    She stopped in mild surprise.
    “You weren’t in there too long before you wanted out,” he said. “Sometimes that’s a bad sign.”
    “We just had to establish a few ground rules,” she said. “After that it went fine.”
    He was walking next to her on the short path that led down to the razor-wire gate. “He doesn’t want to admit, does he?”
    They’d come to the gate and she stopped and turned to face him. The walkway wasn’t very wide. She looked up into his face. “I can’t really discuss that, you know. I’m sorry.”
    “Sure. I understand.” He unlocked the gate, pulled it open for her. “That’s the hardest part, realizing you’re really in. You’re not getting out and going home with Mom and Dad.”
    “Yes, well . . .”
    He held up a hand, perhaps an apology, if one was needed, that he’d made her uncomfortable. “Just making conversation,” he said. “Have a nice day, Ms. . . . ?”
    Wu realized that she didn’t need to be such a hard-ass. She extended a hand, offered a smile. “I’m sorry, my mind’s still back in there. Amy Wu.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “You, too. Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
    “I’ll watch out for your boy.”
    She briefly met his eyes. “I’d appreciate that,” she said. “He might need it. Thank you.”

6
    A m I interrupting?” Wu asked.
    Hardy looked up from the billing and utilization numbers report, one of several similar management tools that Norma gave him every week for his review and comments—good enough numbers, but numbers nevertheless. He jumped at the opportunity to leave them, closing the folder, motioning with his hand. “I was hoping you’d make it back today.”
    “Actually, I’ve been back awhile, hunkered down in my office.” Wu motioned behind her. “I waited until Attila abandoned her post out there.”
    “Probably a good idea.” He pushed his chair back from his desk, stood up and stretched, moved toward the bar counter. “You want some coffee, a beer, water, a rare old Bordeaux?”
    “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
    “Just as well,” Hardy said. “I don’t have any rare old Bordeaux. David did, though. About this time of day, I’d often come down and he’d be halfway through a bottle of something outrageous.”
    “You miss him a lot, don’t you?”
    Hardy opened the refrigerator, then straightened up. He turned to her and nodded. “Yeah, I do.” Then, shrugging with some awkwardness, he reached down and grabbed