One

If there's a maniac or an ax murderer within a hundred-mile radius, he—or she—will come straight to me, Clare Westbrook, hapless attorney at law, like steel filings to a magnet.

Guaranteed.

Take Peter Bailey. Please—take Peter Bailey.

The very day I opened my new storefront office, in one of Phoenix's less sought-after neighborhoods, he wandered over from the mental health clinic next door and peered at me through the glass door, hands cupped around his face. It was a childlike stance, reminiscent of a little boy yearning after puppies gamboling in a pet store window.

Of course I didn't know his name yet. Nor did I know he was under psychiatric care, though it wouldn't have taken a nuclear physicist to figure it out. He had that look—eyeballs spiraling in two directions, lean body seeming to hum with that frenetic energy peculiar to those whose brain chemistries are seriously out of whack.

I remember that I sighed philosophically and reminded myself that I'd chosen my office because it was smack in the middle of Dysfunction Junction. I'd recently inherited twenty-odd million from the father I never knew, and after weighing my suddenly expanded options, I'd taken the high road. Since bringing in a paycheck was no longer a matter of desperate compunction, I had decided to use my law degree and my hard-ass reputation to strike a few blows for the underprivileged. The ones who needed my expertise but were unable to write a retainer check—at least, one that would clear the bank.

The man staring through my door probably qualified.

I crossed the mostly unfurnished room, turned the lock, and let in a rush of hot desert air. October, and the temperature was still high enough to roast a lizard on a rock.

"May I help you?" I asked.

He recoiled as though I'd thrust something sharp at him, and for a moment I thought he was going to bolt.

"You're Clare Westbrook," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "I've seen you on TV. Lots of times."

Thanks to my recent involvement in some very high profile cases, just about everybody had seen me on TV, or in the newspapers. He looked me over, and his mouth quivered a little. Drool gathered at one corner, and he wiped it away with a feverish motion of one hand.

"You're prettier in person," he added earnestly.

I'm used to comments about my looks—shoulder-length dark hair, fairly good body, brown eyes, and high cheekbones. When I look in a mirror, I don't see those things. I just see me, a complicated bundle of faults, foibles, and contradictions. I'm smart as hell, for instance, but common sense often eludes me.

"Thanks," I said. "Was there something you wanted?"

"My friend, Angela—I think she's in trouble. A lot of trouble."

Now we were getting somewhere. I stepped back so he could pass. "Come in."

He hesitated, wringing his hands a little, then ducked back to the middle of the sidewalk to look both ways and then up. That, like his eyes, should have been a clue to his mental state, but I was trying to set up a pro bono practice, and for that, I needed clients. Just then, I wasn't too picky.

"This isn't a good place, you know," he observed, edging nervously over the threshold, sweeping the room with his gaze. "The bad people know you're here. They might try to hurt you."

A spark of uneasiness flashed in the pit of my stomach.

"Tell me about Angela," I said carefully, indicating the client chair facing my newly purchased desk. I hurried to move a box of file folders so he could sit down. "What kind of trouble is she in?"

He didn't sit. He seemed too agitated for that. "I shouldn't have come here," he said. "I'm supposed to be next door. I have an appointment with Dr. Thomlinson. Do you know Dr. Thomlinson?"

Ah, I thought. Yes. The doctor had introduced himself earlier that morning, warned me that one or two of his patients might stray my way. Many of them were paranoid schizophrenics, he'd said. No need to be alarmed—they were mostly harmless. Pick up the phone, and he'd send someone to round them up.

"I know him," I affirmed pleasantly, edging a little closer to the telephone on my cluttered desk. "If you're late for your appointment, I'll certainly understand if you have to rush."

He shook a finger at me, already backing toward the door. "You need to be very careful. The dolls. You have to look out for the dolls."

"Right," I said. "I'll be careful."

With that, he was gone.

I sagged into my chair, hoping that interview wasn't going to set the tone for the rest of my career.

After a few minutes I was over it. I got back to work, and since nothing out of the ordinary happened that day, or the next, I figured I was home free. I was destined to save the downtrodden.

Three nights later, feeling industrious and—okay—avoiding some things that were going on in my personal life, I decided to paint my office.

My on-again, off-again lover, Detective Anthony Sonterra, and I were in the "off" phase again, leaving a serious gap in my social calendar. So there I was, at ten-thirty, with only my niece Emma's dog for company. Perched on the top rung of a folding ladder, I glanced with pride at the legend newly scripted on the barred window. My name, my degree.

It still did something for me, seeing them so prominently displayed. I'd earned my sheepskin the hard way, waiting tables at a Tucson bar by the ridiculous name of Nipples, hitting the books on every break, sleeping a maximum of four hours a night. After graduation, I put in five years of indentured servitude with Harvey Kredd—a.k.a. "Krudd," in police circles. Harvey specialized in setting the guilty free, and he was the shyster's shyster.

Believe me, I paid my dues.

Beneath my name, in smaller letters, was the proviso: Qualified Clients Defended at No Charge.

By "qualified," I meant innocent—as I defined the word. Much to Sonterra's annoyance, not to mention that of the prosecutor's office, I see shades of gray, and I make allowances for extenuating circumstances. In the three days since I'd signed the lease on the storefront—a former lawnmower-repair shop—wedged between Dr. Thomlinson's clinic and a thrift store, I'd already turned away half a dozen prospective clients, and I wasn't even open for business yet. I'd accepted two others: Barbara Jenkins, a woman accused of conking her abusive husband over the head and rolling him into the fishpond in their backyard, where he subsequently drowned, and a slightly nerdy and very overweight young man named David Valardi. David was a computer whiz, allegedly the creator of the insidious Barabbas virus.

Now, paint-smudged, tired, and ravenously hungry, I was ready to call it a night. I stepped down a rung, and in one seemingly eternal moment, my front window splintered with a horrendous crash. A barrage of bullets slammed into the wall, inches above my head.

I dived for the floor and scrambled under the desk, where the dog, a Yorkshire terrier called Bernice, had pressed herself into a corner, whimpering and shivering. I groped for her, checked her for wounds, then gave myself a hasty once-over. Fortunately, neither of us had sprung a leak.

It's the neighborhood, I thought, with that odd detachment that comes of abject fear, remembering Sonterra's admonition. "Counselor," he'd said, just before our last big fight, "in Phoenix, nobody in their right mind sets up shop on a street named after a president."

I waited, braced for another round of artillery fire. My heart was beating so hard that for a few moments I couldn't hear anything but the blood roaring in my ears, and I was definitely hyper-ventilating. Clutching the dog to my chest with one arm, I used my free hand to ferret through the bottom drawer of the desk for my purse, and the .38 and cell phone inside.

I had barely connected with the 911 operator when I heard the sound of sirens and screeching tires in the near distance.

I gave the dispatcher my location.

"Officers are en route," she told me calmly. "Are you injured? Is the assailant on the premises?"

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply and slowly, trying to regain my equilibrium. "I have no idea where the assailant is," I answered after a few more desperate slurps of oxygen. "I don't think I'm hurt, but I'm scared." Shitless, clarified the voice in my mind, which always wants to put in its two cents.

Copyright © 2004 by Linda Lael Miller