CHAPTER TWELVE
MAX BERENSON’S RECEPTIONIST had a bad cold. She reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and gestured at me to wait.
“He’s on the phone. He’ll be out in a minute.”
I nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. A few uncomfortable upright chairs, a coffee table with a stack of out-of-date magazines. All waiting rooms looked alike, I thought; I could just as easily have been waiting to see a doctor or funeral director as a lawyer.
The door across the hallway opened. Max Berenson appeared and beckoned me over. He disappeared back into his office. I got up and followed him inside.
I expected the worst, given his gruff manner on the phone. But to my surprise, he began with an apology.
“I’m sorry if I was abrupt when we spoke. It’s been a long week and I’m a bit under the weathe
