The Mourning Sexton by Michael Baron Page B

I'd forgotten all about your lawsuit.”
    “I assumed you were busy.”
    “You can say that again.” A grim chuckle. “I've been on a killer pace, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you and poor Judith. How's the case going?”
    Hirsch held Rosenbloom's gaze. “It's still early.”
    “I caught Jack Bellows's circus act on the tube last week. Off the record, David, he was way out of line. He ever tries a stunt like that in one of my cases, I'll wring his neck. Anyway, I'm calling because I should finally have a break in my schedule the week after this one. How 'bout we get together that Friday afternoon and talk about your case?”
    Hirsch took out his pocket calendar and checked the date. “Okay.”
    “Say about two?”
    “That works.”
    “I'll see you then.”

CHAPTER 10

    H irsch didn't need a psychic to figure out the cause of the professor's attitude. When he'd phoned her that morning, she'd been pleasant enough until he told her his name, at which point her voice turned cold. He had soldiered on, explaining that he had filed a wrongful death claim on behalf of Judith Shifrin and needed to talk to her about the case. She'd been reluctant to meet but finally agreed, telling him that she had office hours that afternoon between two and four. He told her those times didn't work, pretending to have a conflicting appointment, not wanting to explain the real reason. He'd suggested they could meet somewhere on her way home. Anywhere. Perhaps for a cup of coffee. He told her it was important. He promised it wouldn't take long. Eventually, she relented. Kaldi's at five, she told him. He told her thanks. She hung up.
    He arrived there ten minutes early, wanting to be sure they would have a table with some privacy. He ordered a cup of coffee and carried the steaming mug over to the table. He took a chair facing the door. The coffeehouse was half empty, its late-afternoon patrons consisting mostly of college students hunched over textbooks, one per table.
    After the telephone conversation that morning, he'd gone to the law school's Web site to look up Professor Adelaide Lorenz—partly so he'd recognize her when she came through the door, partly to find out who she was, and partly to figure out why her name sounded familiar. She'd certainly reacted to him as if they had a history, and not a pleasant one at that. Maybe she'd been in private practice before going into academia. If so, perhaps they'd had a professional confrontation years ago, maybe a skirmish in some lawsuit. She'd hardly be the only adversary he'd pissed off back then. Then again, the chill in her voice might not be tied to a particular lawsuit. It could be general disdain for the conduct that put him in jail. She'd hardly be the only member of the profession to shun him.
    Or perhaps her frostiness was truly personal. That was his real fear. He didn't remember any conquest named Adelaide Lorenz, but the names and faces blurred together. During those final years, coked up or boozed up, he'd been the king of the one-night stands, a serial seducer of dozens and dozens of young women. Paralegal, junior associates, secretaries. Quickies on his office couch at night, stand-ups in bathroom stalls at bars, trysts in their little studio apartments as he pretended to admire their taste in art or books or music while maneuvering them toward the fold-out couch. Pumped 'em and dumped 'em—that was his modus operandi. If there was a Hell, that part of his life guaranteed him a miserable spot several levels down.
    But the photograph on the Web site hadn't rung a bell. He would have thought that he'd remember someone that attractive.
    Her biography didn't ring any bells either. Professor Adelaide Lorenz had earned her bachelor of arts magna cum laude from Wellesley College and her juris doctor with honors from Stanford University, where she'd been an editor of the law review. She'd clerked for a federal circuit court judge for two years and then gone into private