LITMIR.BIZ

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had told him that day, “then I’ll just have to ask God.”

      Sam had been happy to pass the buck to whoever would take it, but he hadn’t meant to send her on some quixotic quest nor expected her to strike up a one-sided correspondence.

      Or to offer God pictures she’d colored.

      This evening she’d sketched an angel who looked a lot like the drawings she made of herself. The blue-eyed cherub—a boy—had glittery wings and wore a gold halo perched on blond, spiky hair. She’d even named him Erik.

      Again, concern niggled at him. For a man who’d prided himself on his ability to solve any problem, he wasn’t used to feelings of inadequacy, even when he was clearly out of his league with this sort of thing.

      The angel was just artwork, he told himself. An innocent childish creation. That’s all. But he would talk to Hilda about it in the morning.

      That’s why he’d hired the woman, although he had to admit being a bit apprehensive about her age. She had to be nearly as old as God himself, and, quite frankly, a good sitter ought to be able to keep up with the kid she was watching.

      Jake had sworn up and down that Hilda was the best nanny in California. Not that she wasn’t, but Sam hadn’t seen anything to impress him to the point of singing her praises yet. Still he knew he ought to be thankful she’d come out of retirement and taken the job. His law practice was busier than ever, and even if it hadn’t been, Sam didn’t know squat about parenting, about what was normal for kids to do and what wasn’t.

      Struggling with the urge to shake it all off and retire for the night, his compulsion to step inside Analisa’s room and study the artwork on the table won out.

      He peered again at the drawing of the angel, then turned the picture over. On the back side she’d written God a note:

      Thank you for Erik. Can you give unkel Sam a angel to? He needs one to help him get his work all done so he can be home more.

      A knot the size of a fist formed in Sam’s chest, but before he could ponder what was going on in the little girl’s mind or whether he ought to find a child psychologist for her, the telephone rang.

      Who could be calling him at this time of night?

      In an effort not to let the noise wake Analisa, he hurried into the hall and quickly answered.

      It was Jake Goldstein.

      “Hey,” Sam said. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you a couple of minutes ago.”

      “Oh, yeah? I hope you were also thinking about golf. I called to ask you to play in the member-guest tournament we’re having at Costa Serena.”

      Sam hadn’t played golf in months, and Jake belonged to a prestigious club that boasted a challenging course that overlooked the ocean. There wouldn’t be much arm-twisting going on. “I’d love to.”

      “Great.”

      That knot in his chest throbbed.

      No, Sam realized, it wasn’t great. He had a niece who was writing notes to God and asking for more of Sam’s time and attention.

      What kind of guardian would ignore that?

      Only one who had a big LOSER sign pasted on his forehead.

      Sam cleared his throat. “Wait a second, Jake. When is the tournament?”

      “Next weekend. I would have called sooner, but I’ve been busy working on an appeal for a new client of mine, Russell Meredith.”

      “I’m aware of the case,” Sam said.

      A couple of years ago, the software exec’s vehicle had struck a child on a bicycle. For more than twenty-four hours, while little Erik Harper had been on life support, the police had scoured the community looking for the driver who’d left the scene of the accident. Finally, Meredith had turned himself in, saying he hadn’t realized his car had even hit the kid.

      “Oh, that’s right,” Jake said. “You handled the civil suit the boy’s parents filed.”

      Sam had managed to get the Harpers nearly five million dollars, which he’d hoped had helped them get on with their lives.

      “The jury must have been putty in your hands,” Jake said. “It’s hard not to sympathize when the victim is a kid and the parents are grieving.”

      “The Harpers lost their only child. Plus they were at the scene and watched the accident happen. The jury would have needed cast-iron hearts not to be moved by that.”

      “Yeah, I know. And I’m afraid the parole board is going to see it the same way. But it was a tragic accident that could have happened to anyone.”

      “Accidents happen all the time. But this was a case of hit-and-run.”

      “There were mitigating circumstances.”

      “Meredith might have been intoxicated,” Sam countered. “Drunk drivers are prone to flee the scene of accidents. And by the time he turned himself in, it was too late to prove one way or the other. Besides, he had a prior DUI causing bodily injury.”

      “That prior had been on his twenty-first birthday, and the injury was minor. He hasn’t been in any trouble since, and I have witnesses who say Meredith was as sober as a nun and as law-abiding as an Eagle Scout.”

      “You probably should have defended him in the criminal trial.”

      “I wish I had.”

      A wry grin pulled at the corner of Sam’s mouth. He and Jake were both practicing attorneys who could take either side in a case and present strong opposing arguments. In fact, they often did, even cases they discussed between shots on the golf course. “So what are Meredith’s chances for parole?”

      “It’s hard to say. He’s been a model prisoner, and I’ve never seen anyone more remorseful.”

      “Well, he ought to be sorry,” Sam said. Meredith had slammed into Erik, knocking him and his bicycle into the shrubbery that grew along the road, then continued on his way.

      The line grew silent.

      Normally Sam made a point of distancing himself from his cases, yet this one had been particularly tragic and unsettling for everyone involved.

      “Anyway,” Jake said, “About the tournament—”

      Sam cleared his throat. “You know, as much as I’d love to play, I can’t take the time off right now.”

      “Work keeping you too busy, huh?”

      “I’m afraid so.” Sam glanced over his shoulder at the open door to Analisa’s room. He also had an unexpected problem on the home front. “But I’ll make time soon. Maybe next month.”

      After they ended the call, Sam started down the hall toward his own room, but paused momentarily by Analisa’s open doorway. He took one last look at the picture she’d drawn, the angel named Erik. For a moment, a goose-bumpy shiver ran up and down his arms.

      How weird was that?

      He shook his head, quickly disregarding the coincidence. Even if he were foolish enough to believe in fairy tales or some spiritual Twilight Zone, Erik Harper had curly dark hair, not spiky blond.

      And a bright-eyed smile that Sam suspected would haunt the boy’s grieving parents forever.

      Claire took the elevator upstairs to the sixth floor, strode to the solid double doors of Vandyke, Delacourt, West, and now Dawson, then entered a spacious lobby that boasted black marble, polished wood panels, and leather furniture—a validation of the firm’s success and prestige.

      She took a seat that allowed her to peer out one of several floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Mulberry Park and the city beyond. The office didn’t seem too familiar, but she’d only been here once to sign papers. It had been Ron who’d

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