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lunch.”
    “No, why are we going to Jerry Vincent’s office?”
    “Because we’re back in business.”

Six
    I was in my Lincoln driving toward Jerry Vincent’s office, when I thought of something and called Lorna Taylor back. When she didn’t answer I called her cell and caught her in her car.
    “I’m going to need an investigator. How would you feel if I called Cisco?”
    There was a hesitation before she answered. Cisco was Dennis Wojciechowski, her significant other as of the past year. I was the one who had introduced them when I used him on a case. Last I heard, they were now living together.
    “Well, I have no problem working with Cisco. But I wish you would tell me what this is all about.”
    Lorna knew Jerry Vincent as a voice on the phone. It was she who would take his calls when he was checking to see if I could stand in on a sentence or babysit a client through an arraignment. I couldn’t remember if they had ever met in person. I had wanted to tell her the news in person but things were moving too quickly for that.
    “Jerry Vincent is dead.”
    “What?”
    “He was murdered last night and I’m getting first shot at all of his cases. Including Walter Elliot.”
    She was silent for a long moment before responding.
    “My God… How? He was such a nice man.”
    “I couldn’t remember if you had ever met him.”
    Lorna worked out of her condo in West Hollywood. All my calls and billing went through her. If there was a brick-and-mortar office for the law firm of Michael Haller and Associates, then her place was it. But there weren’t any associates and when I worked, my office was the backseat of my car. This left few occasions for Lorna to meet face-to-face with any of the people I represented or associated with.
    “He came to our wedding, don’t you remember?”
    “That’s right. I forgot.”
    “I can’t believe this. What happened?”
    “I don’t know. Holder said he was shot in the garage at his office. Maybe I’ll find out something when I get there.”
    “Did he have a family?”
    “I think he was divorced but I don’t know if there were kids or what. I don’t think so.”
    Lorna didn’t say anything. We both had our own thoughts occupying us.
    “Let me go so I can call Cisco,” I finally said. “Do you know what he’s doing today?”
    “No, he didn’t say.”
    “All right, I’ll see.”
    “What kind of sandwich do you want?”
    “Which way you coming?”
    “Sunset.”
    “Stop at Dusty’s and get me one of those turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had one of those.”
    “You got it.”
    “And get something for Cisco in case he’s hungry.”
    “All right.”
    I hung up and looked up the number for Dennis Wojciechowski in the address book I keep in the center console compartment. I had his cell phone. When he answered I heard a mixture of wind and exhaust blast in the phone. He was on his bike and even though I knew his helmet was set up with an earpiece and mike attached to his cell, I had to yell.
    “It’s Mickey Haller. Pull over.”
    I waited and heard him cut the engine on his ’sixty-three panhead.
    “What’s up, Mick?” he asked when it finally got quiet. “Haven’t heard from you in a long time.”
    “You gotta put the baffles back in your pipes, man. Or you’ll be deaf before you’re forty and then you won’t be hearing from anybody.”
    “I’m already past forty and I hear you just fine. What’s going on?”
    Wojciechowski was a freelance defense investigator I had used on a few cases. That was how he had met Lorna, collecting his pay. But I had known him for more than ten years before that because of his association with the Road Saints Motorcycle Club, a group for which I served as a de facto house counsel for several years. Dennis never flew RSMC colors but was considered an associate member. The group even bestowed a nickname on him, largely because there was already a Dennis in the membership