"My client will not answer any questions until you tell him why he's here," said a small, bespectacled man sitting right next to Murray.

Ira Dershowitz was the best lawyer money could buy. Some would call him an eminence in criminal law, while most would call him a complete and utter douchebag. When not busy giving lectures, he was the personal lawyer for the rich and wealthy that wanted to keep the long nose of the law from sniffing into their business. His nickname among the legal world was "Mr. Loophole" for his ability to find chinks in any process he could break apart.

This particular process, he thought, was so full of holes he could drain pasta on it.

"I assure you, your client is not accused of any crimes," said Graham, sitting across from him. "I only want to ask him some questions."

"You say that, yet we are in an interrogation room with a camera pointing at us."

"It's standard, and I must remind you that Mr. Prendergast came out of his own volition."

"Only because you forcefully detained Mr. Wolfe, who is also my client!"

"Ladies, ladies," Murray chimed in, making a calming gesture with his hands, "calm down. You're both pretty. Get over it.

"Murray, as your lawyer, I recommend-"

"As my employee," interrupted Murray, placing his left hand on Ira's shoulders, "I recommend you chill out. I got nothing to hide. If you see something funny, chime in. If not, zip it."

"Thank you," said Graham with a sigh. "Now, you're here because we have reasons to believe that Mr. Wolfe tried to assassinate Henry White on the night of the thirtieth of December-"

"A baseless accusation!" interrupted Ira. "I'll have you know that any and all conjecture towards any of my clients will-"

"... by cutting the brakes of Mr. White's Maybach 57 around eleven-thirty outside the Park Plaza hotel. Unfortunately, his plan backfired, killing Zinet Geber instead," said Graham, ignoring Ira.

Murray let out a dry laugh, mixed with some coughs. "This is golden. Skinny Willy, a murderer! What a criminal mastermind. He probably knows where they buried Jimmy Hoffa. Deviant."

"Please take this seriously, Mr. Prendergast."

"Can't take you seriously when you keep saying nonsense. This is, and pardon my french, bullshit."

"I have to agree," commented Ira. "These are huge accusations, one I assume you're backing up evidence, don't you?"

Graham pulled the notebook out of his pocket, ready to shut him off, but decided against it. "I don't have to discuss evidence with you."

"I must remind you that I represent Mr. Wolfe, so you very much have to discuss it with me."

"And I must remind you," countered Graham, punctuating that last word by jabbing his index on the table, "that you are representing Mr. Prendergast at this very moment. Don't mix your clients now, Mr. Loophole."

That shut him up.

"Nothing more to say? Good. Let's continue. Mr. Prendergast, the reason you're here is to corroborate an even that Mr. White said happened on...a Tuesday, as vague as it seems. Has there ever been a hostile encounter between Mr. Wolfe and Mr. White?"

Murray leaned back in the steel chair. The cold metal dug into his fat back. He smacked his lips in annoyance, sucking air between his teeth. "Define hostile."

"Mr. White declared that Mr. Wolfe tried to pitch him an idea for an advertisement. He also said he publicly humiliated Mr. Wolfe, and proceeded to demote him. Is that true?"

Murray intertwined his fingers, resting them on his belly. He made a lopsided grin, letting his neck get lost between the folds of fat on his chin. "That fuckface thinks he's hot shit, and that everything has to do according to his majesty's standards. Yes, he did 'humiliate' him, but nobody took it to heart. He does that all the time. Everyone was sorry for the kid."

"No other violent interactions between the two?"

"Not that I know."

"Thank you," said Graham, noting his testimony in his notebook.

"What's your relationship with Mr. Wolfe?" asked Graham.

"He's my political nephew, not much besides that. I mean, he's a good kid and all, but I ain't gonna sit down and talk about whatever the fuck a Timothée Chalamet is."

"I was informed that he was your personal assistant, and that said demotion was brought because of his interactions with Mr. White."

"That's speculation!" croaked Ira, "Mr. Prendergast placed Mr. Wolfe under his care by his own free will."

"Is this true, Mr. Prendergast?"

"Yep. His pitch sucked. He wasn't ready at all. Maybe if he stuck around me more he would learn a thing or two about the business."

"Was he made aware of that fact?"

"Yeah. He bitched about it to my wife, that little snitch."

"Okay. Let's move on. What can you tell me about the victim?"

Ira coughed so hard, one of his lungs might have popped. "Please refrain from calling her 'the victim' when murder has not been proved."

Graham was getting fed up with Ira. He didn't know what bothered him the most: that he was bald, that his head was overly polished, or that his head was full of bumps. Whatever it was, he was pissed at it.

"Noted. Tell me about Mrs. Geber. What was your relationship with her?"

Murray leaned over the table, resting on his elbows. His smirk transformed into a scowl, darkened by the dim lights above him. Graham could see doubt and wonder in his eyes, finding the best words to explain his feelings.

"She was... A friend," he finally said, seemingly content with his choice.

"Just a friend?"

"A good friend. The best of friends."

"Can you elaborate? When did you meet?"

Murray smiled softly, wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand. "She was my best friend back in the day. I was a military kid, fresh out of college, with a degree in Public Relations, and not a penny to my name. I got this sweet gig in Geber Laboratories, back when Jabin Geber was CEO. It was my first day, and I was nervous as hell. This kid, couldn't have been more than sixteen, ran towards me with a can of paint. She's not looking at where she is going, and of course, she runs into me. You can guess what happened next. Ruined the only suit I had. To say I was pissed would've been an understatement. Kid only apologized and ran off to get a new can."

"I'm gonna take a wild guess and say that it was Mrs. Geber?"

"Bingo!" yelled Murray while clapping. "So, next day, I see the girl in the lobby, up on a ladder, painting some flowers or something on the wall. The day after that, same girl, same wall, but now she was painting bees. This went on for a few weeks until there was a whole forest up there. It was beautiful. And the way she looked while painting, so focused and driven, I had to know who she was! I just went up to talk to her, and the rest was history."

"Excellent. Did you know if she had any enemies?"

Murray chuckled under his breath, almost with sadness. "She didn't have friends beside me and my wife. Who the hell would wanna kill her?"

"Thank you very much. One last question: how would you characterize Mr. White's relationship with Ms. Geber?"

"Like hot shit on a griddle," blurted Murray without skipping a beat.

"Can you elaborate?"

"I'll be happy to."

Murray stretched out, popping his joints one at a time. "She was furniture to him, something pretty to have around. She was sick of it. She even filed for divorce!"

"She was getting a divorce?"

"That's enough," said Ira, standing up from his seat. "I will not have my clients discussed here."

"We are talking about Mrs. Geber here," responded Graham, standing up to face Ira.

"She is also my client. I happen to be handling her divorce as well."

"Was. Was your client. How many clients do you have in this case anyway?"

"I happen to be the personal lawyer to the Prendergast family, and helped Mrs. Gener at their request."

"This is stupid," cut Murray. "I'm leaving. We done here?"

Graham really had no reason to keep him around; he had gotten all he needed from him. With a nod, Murray was dismissed, followed by Ira, who gave a hateful glare to Graham on the way out.

Outside the interrogation room, Captain Lynch was lounging against a wall with a coffee cup on her hand. "A lawyer, an fat man, and a detective enter a bar. Finish the rest for me, Dunne."

"I got some good info, if that's what you're asking."

"Good. The lanky one is waitin' for ya in the other interrogation room. Nail this, and we are talkin' a promotion. A big one. An' my eternal love."

"Will I get my own cruiser?" said Graham, who was tired of having to take the subway everywhere he went.

"You betcha."

Graham ran towards the second interrogation room with a spring in his step. From then on, it was gonna be easy.

Maybe too easy.

9 HOURS BEFORE THE NEXT DISASTER