Free The Legacy by D. W. Buffa

irritation with Sanders's smug self-assurance. “In answer to your question,”I went on, pushing back from the table, “I don't know if it had anything to do with history; it certainly had a lot to do with chance, at least with respect to the involvement of my client, a remarkable young man by the name of Jamaal Washington.”
    “He just happened to be in Fullerton's car?”Sanders asked sarcastically.
    “No, he didn't just happen to be in the car,”I replied, letting more of my annoyance show than I should have. “He happened to be in the car because, after working late into the night, he was walking down the street, heard what he thought was a shot, heard a car door slam and the footsteps of someone running away. He happened to be in the car because he thought someone might be hurt and that he might be able to help.”
    “You seem to forget,”said Sanders, “your client had a gun— the gun that killed Fullerton. Not only that, he tried to shoot a police officer with it.”
    I could feel myself growing angry. I waved my hand impatiently and shook my head.
    “First, he didn't try to shoot anyone. Second, he picked up the gun—if he picked it up—”I added darkly, “out of panic when he heard what he thought might be the murderer coming back to the car.”
    An investment banker, Sanders made money by understanding the way numbers worked; he had little capacity, and even less tolerance, for facts that were subject to more than a single interpretation. With a sense of triumph he reminded me of what I had obviously forgotten:
    “He also had the senator's wallet.”
    I stared back at him. “He goes to the car to help. He checks for a pulse: The man is dead. He sees the gun on the floor. He picks up the car phone to call for help, but then decides he better find out the identity of the man who has just been killed. He takes the dead man's wallet out of his coat, and just at that moment a light shines through the window. He crouches down, still clutching the wallet in his hand. He thinks the murderer may have come back; he thinks the murderer may have heard him open the car door; he thinks the murderer may have thought he was a witness; he decides to make a run for it.”
    Sanders was not impressed. He lifted his eyebrows and flared his nostrils, a picture of condescension.
    “Yes, well, I suppose you have to come up with some kind of theory. That's your job, isn't it?”He bent over his coffee and began to stir.
    Bogdonovitch had watched closely, an amused expression on his mouth, the detached spectator who enjoys the game even when played by amateurs.
    “Tell us, then, Mr. Antonelli: If your client didn't do it, who did? Was that also a matter of chance, or did it have something to do with history?”
    With both thumbs under my chin, I tapped my fingers together, searching Bogdonovitch's narrow eyes. What was it about him that made me want to trust him at the same time some other, perhaps deeper, instinct kept telling me I should not? I put my hands down and shifted position until I was nearly sideways to the table.
    “I don't know who killed him,”I admitted. “One possibility is that it was just what the newspapers have said it was: a robbery gone bad, only instead of Jamaal Washington it was someone else.”
    I glanced up at Marissa Kane and felt that same strange magnetism I had felt before. I shifted my gaze to Robert Sanders, expecting to see some reaction to what I had said. He was just putting down his cup. I watched him push back his sleeve, trying surreptitiously to check the time.
    “Fullerton got into his car,”I went on, turning back to Bog-donovitch.
    There was, I thought, a glimmer of recognition, a shared understanding, an instantaneous acknowledgment that Robert Sanders was not a very interesting man. I paused just long enough to smile.
    “Fullerton gets into his car. Somebody slips in the passenger side with a gun. Fullerton resists—or refuses—or does something—and the robber shoots