“He seems to get on with his dogs.”
Renata laughed. “I'm ready to go. How about you?”
“Where's Leonard?”
“He'll be the last one to leave. I have to be in the OR at seven-thirty.”
Seeley remembered that she'd also been in surgery early today. “How many days a week do you do that?”
“Four, five. Leonard says I went into orthopedics as an excuse for not having kids.”
“Did you?”
“I never wanted children and, whatever he says, Leonard doesn't either. He wants only one child in the house, and it has to be him.”
“Why'd you pick surgery?”
“When I was a nurse, I knew that if I got through med school, it's what I'd do. All the parties I went to, the surgeons were always the ones having a good time.”
“Are you having a good time?” Out on the street, the fragrance of grasses and lavender mixed with the familiar eucalyptus, like a magician's potion.
Renata said, “Even the best jobs get tedious. Doesn't yours?”
Seeley laughed. “I relieve the boredom by taking on cases that I shouldn't.”
“For me it's being an on-field doc for the Stanford football team. I only work home games, but it's something to look forward to. Leonard said you played in college.”
“It was a small Jesuit college in Buffalo. Strictly division three.”
“Why don't you come to the Washington game next week? I'll get you a field pass.”
“I'll be in the middle of trial.”
He had said the same to Lily, but then agreed to dinner with her. At odd moments, driving back to the office from their lunch in Princeton-by-the-Sea and again driving down to Atherton this evening, fragments of his conversation with Lily drifted pleasantly through his thoughts. What had changed his mind about dinner-the need to discover what Lily was hiding, or the simple desire to see her again?
“It's just three hours on a Saturday afternoon. You'll need a break.”
Seeley said he'd think about it.
They turned into Renata's street, where the sidewalks disappeared and the canopy of treetops became so dense that it obscured the night sky.
“Do you remember, at your wedding, when I was leaving, you whispered something to me?”
Renata gave him a blank look, then shook her head. “What did I say?”
“I don't know,” Seeley said. “That's why I asked. But I had the feeling it was important to you.”
Renata smiled and slid her arm through his. “I was probably just flirting with you.”
“Did you do that a lot?”
They were at the front door. When Seeley turned to her, she was looking directly at him. “I still do.”
Renata opened the door. “Do you want to come in?”
“You have surgery tomorrow,” he said. “And I have an early meeting with my trial team.” Until that moment, he had forgotten the meeting that Tina had scheduled for him.
She frowned. “You're afraid Leonard will come back.”
“Maybe I'm afraid he won't.” Seeley meant it to be light, but she didn't smile.
Renata said, “Let me know what you decide about the Washington game.”
Before Seeley could answer, her lips brushed his cheek, leaving a scent of wine, and then she was gone, the door closed behind her.
EIGHT
At 7:30 in the morning when Seeley came into the office, Steinhardt's lab notebooks were in a neat pile centered on his desk. The two on top, marked “University of California,” were clothbound, and the four volumes beneath them were unmarked and bound in black leather. Next to the notebooks was a message from Tina that Nicolas Cordier, Seeley's expert witness from South Africa, had arrived in New York and wanted to speak to him.
Seeley took the UC notebook from the top of the pile. The pages, lined horizontally and vertically like graph paper, were consecutively numbered and sewn into the binding to prevent an unscrupulous researcher from removing any that later turned out to be embarrassing. Paragraph after handwritten paragraph filled the pages, interrupted only by charts with numbers, symbols, and crisscrossing curves. At the end of each entry was the dated signature of the writer and, beneath that, of a witness. Most of the entries were in Steinhardt's small, meticulous hand, but some, in a loose, elegant script, were signed by Lily. The leather-bound books farther down in the pile were from Steinhardt's time at Vaxtek and, as Palmieri had said, were perfect, without an erasure or a cross out. All of the entries were signed by Steinhardt.
Remembering his promise to Judy to look into the police work on her husband's death, Seeley dialed the number for the San Mateo police headquarters, with little hope of learning anything that hadn't already been in the news. The receptionist told him that Lieutenant Herbert Phan was handling the investigation, but wasn't in yet. Why, she wanted to know, was he calling? Seeley hesitated. Palmieri's pro hac motion would cover Seeley's appearance in federal district court for this one case; however, not being a member of the California bar, he had no right to represent any other client. He bit his lip and told the receptionist that the Pearsall family had retained him to inquire into Robert Pearsall's death. She didn't sound impressed. Lieutenant Phan was busy, she said. Everyone in the department was busy, but she'd take his number and the lieutenant would call if he got the chance.
“What do you think about the notebooks?” Palmieri came into the office and took the chair facing the desk.
Seeley said, “When St. Gall served their discovery request, did they ask for Steinhardt's notes along with his notebooks?”
“Steinhardt told us there weren't any notes. Just the notebooks.”
Palmieri was looking him in the eye today, and that relieved Seeley.
Palmieri said, “Do you think they went through Vaxtek's trash cans?”
“If Steinhardt had notes, I'm sure he shredded them-”
“They could still find someone who worked with him to testify that he kept a second set of books.”
“Lily Warren,” Seeley said. How far would she go to keep her visa?
“She only worked with him at UC.” Then Palmieri remembered. “You mean the night she met him at Vaxtek.”
There was a knock at the open door. It was Boyd McKee.
Palmieri turned and, seeing the patent lawyer, rose. To Seeley, he said, “Remember, we have a ten o'clock meeting with the judge.”
Seeley put up a hand. “Let's see what Boyd has.”
McKee ran a hand over his shaved head. “I have the prior art analysis you wanted.” He remained in the doorway.
“Come on in,” Seeley said. “Chris is as interested in this as I am.”
Seeley had an instant's impression that, when McKee passed him, Palmieri tensed.
Palmieri said, “Is this the complete version, or is it still Prior Art Lite? I can't believe you let the client strong-arm you into hiding references-”
Seeley cut Palmieri short with a gesture. “Let's see what you have, Boyd.”
McKee opened the manila folder and placed it on the desk. As Seeley read through the few typed pages, McKee said, “There really aren't that many discoveries that are close to AV/AS. Your brother was right about this being a pioneer invention.”
Alexander Graham Bell's telephone patent was a pioneer patent. So was the patent on barbed wire. Courts regularly strike down broad patents like Vaxtek's, but they will sometimes make an exception for landmark inventions, because they open up a whole new field, and so deserve a wider range of protection than run-of-the-mill discoveries. If McKee was right, this could save Steinhardt's patent.
Palmieri said, “Did you check for foreign patents?”
“This is what I do, Chris. I checked all the prior art.”
“Foreign publications? Unpublished papers?”
McKee's jaw clenched, and he massaged an earlobe. When he took his hand away, Seeley noticed three pinprick indentations, as if for earrings, and for a moment wondered about the young lawyer's nightlife.
The telephone intercom buzzed. It was Tina telling him that the trial team had been waiting in the workroom since 8:30. “Tell them I'll be right there.”