Three Classic Thrillers by John Grisham Page A

explosion on a boat, and we think they drowned. Lamar said details were sketchy. There was a firm meeting a few hours ago, and they were all told about it. Lamar barely made it home.”
    “Where is he?”
    “By the pool. He’s waiting for you.”
    He sat in a white metal lawn chair next to a small table with a small umbrella, a few feet from the edge of the pool. Near a flower bed, a circular lawn sprinkler rattled and hissed and spewed forth water in a perfect arc which included the table, umbrella, chair and Lamar Quin. He was soaked. Water dripped from his nose, ears and hair. The blue cotton shirt and wool pants were saturated. He wore no socks or shoes.
    He sat motionless, never flinching with eachadditional dousing. He had lost touch. Some distant object on the side fence attracted and held his attention. An unopened bottle of Heineken sat in a puddle on the concrete beside his chair.
    Mitch surveyed the back lawn, in part to make sure the neighbors could not see. They could not. An eight-foot cypress fence ensured complete privacy. He walked around the pool and stopped at the edge of the dry area. Lamar noticed him, nodded, attempted a weak smile and motioned to a wet chair. Mitch pulled it a few feet away and sat down, just as the next barrage of water landed.
    His stare returned to the fence, or whatever it was in the distance. For an eternity they sat and listened to the thrashing sound of the sprinkler. Lamar would sometimes shake his head and attempt to mumble. Mitch smiled awkwardly, unsure of what, if anything, needed to be said.
    “Lamar, I’m very sorry,” he finally offered.
    He acknowledged this and looked at Mitch. “Me too.”
    “I wish I could say something.”
    His eyes left the fence, and he cocked his head sideways in Mitch’s direction. His dark hair was soaked and hung in his eyes. The eyes were red and pained. He stared, and waited until the next round of water passed over.
    “I know. But there’s nothing to say. I’m sorry it had to happen now, today. We didn’t feel like cooking.”
    “That should be the least of your concerns. I lost my appetite a moment ago.”
    “Do you remember them?” he asked, blowing water from his lips.
    “I remember Kozinski, but not Hodge.”
    “Marty Kozinski was one of my best friends. FromChicago. He joined the firm three years ahead of me and was next in line for a partnership. A great lawyer, one we all admired and turned to. Probably the best negotiator in the firm. Very cool and dry under pressure.”
    He wiped his eyebrows and stared at the ground. When he talked the water dripped from his nose and interfered with his enunciation. “Three kids. His twin girls are a month older than our son, and they’ve always played together.” He closed his eyes, bit his lip and started crying.
    Mitch wanted to leave. He tried not to look at his friend. “I’m very sorry, Lamar. Very sorry.”
    After a few minutes, the crying stopped, but the water continued. Mitch surveyed the spacious lawn in search of the outside faucet. Twice he summoned the courage to ask if he could turn off the sprinkler, and twice he decided he could last if Lamar could. Maybe it helped. He checked his watch. Darkness was an hour and a half away.
    “What about the accident?” Mitch finally asked.
    “We weren’t told much. They were scuba diving and there was an explosion on the boat. The dive captain was also killed. A native of the islands. They’re trying to get the bodies home now.”
    “Where were their wives?”
    “At home, thankfully. It was a business trip.”
    “I can’t picture Hodge.”
    “Joe was a tall blond-headed guy who didn’t say much. The kind you meet but don’t remember. He was a Harvard man like yourself.”
    “How old was he?”
    “He and Marty were both thirty-four. He would’ve made partner after Marty. They were very close. I guess we’re all close, especially now.”
    With all ten fingernails he combed his hair straight back. He stood and