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O’Doul steps slowly forward. A flush rises from his neck to his face. Against the starched white of his shirt collar, his skin is the color of a boiled beet. He says, “There’s this fun thing called ‘obstruction of justice.’ I’m sure you’ve heard of it?” Tabby tosses her hair over her shoulder and looks at him down her nose. “There are also these other fun things called ‘coercion,’ ‘undue influence,’ ‘duress,’ ‘illegal compulsion,’ ‘oppressive exaction,’ ‘extortion’—” “What do you want?” he interrupts, exasperated. “I want,” she replies with the air of a duchess, “my computer, all my equipment, and a written statement from you that whatever happens from this point forward, I’ll be immune from prosecution for any and all assistance I may give on this case.” She bats her lashes. “Since I o
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