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got a call from the state police and drove out right away.”
    “I’ll be right there.” Nick was already in the bedroom, pulling clothes from the walk-in closet.
    “It’s not necessary. The place is crawling with cops—state, local, crime lab people, the media—even CNN. The whole fucking world. You won’t get through. Stay home, Nick. I’ll call you in a little while.”
    “Like hell I will,” Nick fired back. “Listen, Harry, I want to be there.” He gulped as his throat tightened. “Joe was like my father. I have to be there. I’m leaving now.”
    Levin tried to speak, but Nick cut him off.
    “I said now! Don’t let them move him.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I want to see him.”
    “OK, OK. Just get a hold of yourself and drive carefully. You hear? It’s still bad on the roads.”
    “Yeah.” Nick disconnected and let the sobs come.
    Levin was right. The media and the cops were crawling around Woodmere like ants. Nick arrived to barricades, yellow tape, TV trucks, lights, ambulances, and hordes of people in and out of uniform. Neighbors, dogs, and yes, the miniskirted anchorwoman in a red suit with perfect makeup, looking wide-eyed into the camera. Her brightly painted mouth moved nonstop.
    Nick tried to duck under the tape but was immediately stopped by a beefy, baton carrying, gun toting cop—one of Montgomery County’s finest. The cop said nothing. He just blocked Nick with his body—legs apart, arms folded over his chest, and a scowl on his face.
    Nick hated most cops, especially ones like this. He had run into this type before in his past. He would have liked to curse him out—hit him in the kneecap with a bat. Maybe in the balls. But his sense of reason overtook his temper. He had been taught well.
    Joe always said, “With cops you talk real nice first. Then if they try to fuck with you, you get nasty. Use your mouth. Remember you’re a lawyer now—not a punk. And always smile. It confuses them. They’re not too smart.”
    “Officer, my name is Nick Cerrato. I’m one of the decedent’s partners,” he lied. “I may be able to assist the detectives inside.”
    The cop didn’t move or change expression.
    Nick started to lose it. He felt the blood mounting to his face. Control, control, control , he mentally commanded himself.
    “Officer, is Mike Rosa inside? Or one of his assistants?” Nick knew the Montgomery County district attorney casually, but Rosa had been a good friend of Joe’s. They had been classmates at Penn Law School. Rosa was a frequent guest at Maglio dinner parties, where Nick had met him. Nick and Rosa had instantly hit it off, both having been raised in South Philadelphia’s Italian neighborhoods and both having risen above their blue collar roots.
    “He called me and wanted me to come right away. Can you find him? Tell him I’m here?” Nick asked earnestly. You motherfucker , he thought.
    At that moment Harry Levin walked out of the house with Rosa. As the two paused to talk in the doorway, the DA spotted Nick and gave him a nod and a wave to come on over.
    The cop stepped aside and Nick ducked under the tape. The cameras started clicking away at what appeared a new development.
    An anchorwoman chased after Nick. “Sir, sir—did you know the Maglios? Are you one of the attorneys in the firm? Do you have any information on the murder-suicide?” She pushed a mike close to his stubbled face.
    “Murder-suicide?” Nick stopped short. He turned to the breathless woman in the red suit.
    “That’s what they’re saying, sir. Do you have anything to add?”
    “Yeah. Fuck you.” He gave her the finger with both hands as he walked toward the front door. Sometimes your roots caught up with you.
    The house looked as undisturbed and as elegant as ever—except for the bodies. The floral arrangements were fresh. Pink and yellow roses, Dutch iris, and baby’s breath peeked out from cut crystal vases. Poinsettias lined the bottom of the stairs. A gigantic