TANDING OUTSIDE THE interrogation room and flanked by Lily Reardon and Jeff Cervantes, Gray Elliott watched MacNeil and his regular partner, Joe Torello, getting ready to begin interviewing Mitchell Wyatt.

“Who are they?” Cervantes asked.

“Pearson and Levinson,” Gray replied.

“The Pearson and Levinson? Together in the same room?” Lily said, looking reluctantly impressed. “I’m surprised they didn’t refer Wyatt to a criminal defense lawyer.”

“They will when the time comes.”

Lily reported directly to Gray and handled cases that he was particularly interested in; Jeff reported to her and would assist her at Wyatt’s trial. “Have we gotten any reports back yet on what the searches turned up?” she asked.

Gray shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Who brought Wyatt in this morning?” Cervantes asked.

“He came in on his own. Levinson called me at home last night when Wyatt was still en route. It seems someone tipped Wyatt off about our searches, and he figured out on his own that our alleged confession was bogus, and that he was our actual suspect.”

“And he landed at O’Hare anyway?”

“As you see.”

“The act of an innocent man?” Lily suggested.

“Or a moderately clever one who wants us to arrive at that conclusion,” Jeff stated.

“I think he’s more than moderately clever,” Gray said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an article he’d found on the Internet and had translated from Greek to English that morning. “Six years ago, a Greek reporter talked Stavros Konstantatos into giving him an interview about the key to his successes and how he managed to squeeze out his competition.”

Gray showed them the picture from the article, in which the Greek tycoon was proudly holding up his arms, fists clenched. The translated caption beneath the photograph read, “I have two fists with which I do battle. With my right fist, I wield the power and might to vanquish those who would oppose me. My left fist is subtle; it uses reason, shrewdness, and restrained force against my enemies. I strike with either fist.”

“What does this have to do with Wyatt?” Lily said, handing the page back to him.

“Mitchell Wyatt was his ‘left fist,’ ” Gray said. “He refers to him as that in the body of the article.”

Cervantes peered through the two-way glass. “Interesting, the way he’s sitting in there.” The table was oblong with two chairs on the long side facing the two-way mirror, and one chair at each end. Wyatt was sitting on the side facing the two-way mirror, but he’d angled his chair away from the table and was sitting with one foot propped on the opposite knee, his back to Pearson. A tablet and pen were on the table near his elbow, along with an untouched cup of coffee provided by MacNeil. “He’s turned his back on one lawyer, and he’s ignoring the other.”

“He doesn’t think he needs them,” Gray speculated. “I think he intends to handle this entirely by himself.”

“His lawyers undoubtedly warned him not to donate any of his DNA by drinking anything we give him,” Cervantes said. “He also knows this is a two-way mirror and that we’re probably standing out here.”

As if on cue, Wyatt turned his head to the right and looked straight toward them.

“Shit,” Lily said. “He’s even better looking in person. If there’s a heterosexual woman or a gay man on the jury, I’ll never get a conviction.”

Gray ignored that and tipped his head toward the glass. “Here we go,” he said. “MacNeil is going to start off with the photographs to give him the idea we may have been following him for months.”

MacNeil thumbed through the photographs he and Childress had taken, and selected a close-up of Wyatt and Donovan kissing on the balcony at the Enclave. “Let’s work backward toward the day of your brother’s murder, shall we?”

Wyatt quirked a brow at him and said nothing.

“Can you explain this for me?” MacNeil said, and casually tossed the photograph on the table.

Wyatt leaned slightly forward, looked at it, and then at MacNeil. “Aren’t you a little old to need an explanation?”

MacNeil slapped another, similar photograph on the table, but this one was taken the night before at the villa, and Wyatt’s hand was on Donovan’s breast. “Explain this.”

Wyatt barely flicked a glance at it. “What part of it don’t you understand?”

“That’s interesting,” Gray said. “I didn’t think it would be this easy to get a reaction out of him.”

“He looks completely unperturbed,” Lily argued.

“No, he clenched his jaw, but just for an instant there. He’s angry, and he’s also very adept at hiding it. Remember that at trial.”

MacNeil took his time putting the photos back into the right folder, letting Wyatt see that there were many folders of photographs in the stack of files. “Maybe we should start from the beginning, instead,” MacNeil announced. “Where were you on the day William Wyatt disappeared?”

“I don’t know what day that was,” Wyatt replied calmly. “He was gone for several days before his wife and son realized he wasn’t at the farm and reported him missing.”

“Have you ever been to the Wyatt farm?”

“No.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Detective Torello took over. Reaching into an envelope, he removed a clear plastic evidence bag containing a leather button with a pattern and insignia on the front. “Do you recognize this?” Torello asked.

Pearson and Levinson tensed. “You don’t have to answer that,” Levinson said quickly.

Wyatt ignored the warning. “It looks like the missing button from one of my overcoats.”

“Do you know where we found this button, Mr. Wyatt?” When Wyatt didn’t reply, Torello said, “We found it wedged under the cover on the well where your brother’s body was found. That well is located a few feet from the property line of the Wyatt farm, which you say you’ve never been near. Do you want to rethink that answer?”

“No, it was right the first time.”

“Can you explain, then, how this button from your coat turned up at that farm?”

“I can’t explain it.”

Torello perched a hip on the corner of the table. “How do you suppose a button that you admit came from a coat of yours got snagged on a well cover on a farm you’ve never been to?”

“I repeat—” Wyatt said patiently, “I can’t explain it.”

Lily shot a pleased look at Gray and was surprised to see that he was frowning, his hands shoved into his pockets. “He’s not our man,” Gray said in answer to her puzzled stare. “And he’s sure he can prove it.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“I don’t know, but I have a hunch he’s getting ready to tell us. He’s glanced at his watch twice and he’s getting fed up.”

In the interrogation room, Torello regarded Wyatt steadily, and when he said nothing more, Torello put pressure on him. “Let me tell you how we think your coat button got snagged on that well cover—”

“I’m sure it would be a very entertaining, imaginative story, but I’m a little short of time. Do you have anything else you want to discuss other than this button?” When Torello frowned at him and said nothing, Wyatt said, “I’ll take that to mean you don’t. In that case, here’s what you need to know: William disappeared in November. The coat that button came off of was made for me in London and delivered to me in Chicago at the end of December.”

MacNeil stepped forward and said in a conciliatory “good cop” tone, “Where was the coat purchased and can anyone there verify the date it was delivered?”

“I’ll give you my London tailor’s name. He can also tell you where the buttons came from, and verify that I have no other clothing with identical buttons.”

“Where is the coat now?”

“I sent it back to him so that he could order a new button and mend the hole left by the last one. Is there anything else, or are we finished?”

“Not quite,” MacNeil said. “When did you first discover the button was missing from your coat?”

“In mid-January. I took the coat out of the closet and realized the button was gone. I don’t know where I lost it.”

Gray Elliott stared through the window. “Either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to believe it.” Without shifting his gaze, he said, “Tell MacNeil to come out here.”

Cervantes knocked on the door and poked his head into the interrogation room. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Detective MacNeil, could I have a word with you?”

MacNeil strolled out, closed the door, and looked at Gray. “Are you buying Wyatt’s story?”

Gray nodded. “For now, yes. Get Wyatt’s passport, and tell him not to leave Chicago until we’ve checked with the tailor and had a look at that coat ourselves.”

Wyatt took one look at MacNeil’s face when he walked back into the interrogation room and stood up. Wordlessly, he pulled his passport out of his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table; then he picked up the coffee, took a swallow, and put the cup down. “There’s your DNA, voluntarily given. Try not to mix it up with anyone else’s while you’re finishing your investigation. Anything else?” he clipped, while his attorneys rose to their feet and picked up their briefcases.

“Yes, don’t leave Chicago until you hear from us.”

“I’ll heed that warning,” he said shortly. “And now you’d better heed mine: If I ever see any of those photographs anywhere, I will bury Gray Elliott—and you—under a mountain of lawsuits filed against both of you personally, along with the City of Chicago and the State of Illinois. And while I’m at it, I’ll make sure the media learns about your voyeuristic ‘hobby,’ and your expensive trips to Caribbean islands in pursuit of that hobby—all at government expense. In short, I will smear your names all over the press.”

“Are you threatening me?” MacNeil said stiffly.

“Didn’t I just make that clear?” Wyatt snapped. “Nice tan, by the way,” he added. He started for the door, followed by his smirking attorneys; then he turned back and aimed his next threat toward the two-way mirror. “I’ll give you the rest of the afternoon to get in touch with Caroline Wyatt and explain I had nothing to do with William’s death. If you fail to convince her, I’ll bring her to your office in the morning and you can do it in front of me.”

After Wyatt left, Elliott opened the door and walked into the interrogation room. “That’s the second time in one day I’ve been called a voyeur,” he remarked idly, gazing at the open door. Transferring his gaze to MacNeil, he said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow at ten and bring all the files with you. I know who murdered William, but we’re going to have to go slowly and build our case very carefully.”

“I’ll be there,” MacNeil said. When he glanced up, Elliott was studying MacNeil’s thinning hair.

“Your hair looks different.”

“Different how?” MacNeil asked, then quickly looked away.

“I don’t know exactly. It’s... fluffy.”

“New shampoo,” MacNeil mumbled.