<div style="text-align: justify;">New York, 1922<br/>April 15th<br/>2:00 p.m.<br/><br/>As it always happened with any big story, the press couldn't wait to get their hands on the new scandal in town. A murder was always juicy material. And the murder of a renowned lawyer, with the additional spice of the young and pretty wife having discovered the body, was as juicy as it could get. The special afternoon editions had printed whatever could be known about the story.<br/><br/>In strong brushes, the picture had been painted - the opened safe, the ransacked study, the paper weight. Apparently a robbery gone wrong. And the sympathy for the widow. The poor woman had to be sedated after talking to police.<br/><br/>The stories noted that out of respect, they had left her alone. Maybe it was more because they couldn't reach her, of course. But the press liked to look good as well. Who didn't, right? And even the press had some human decency, at times. How long that would last, it had yet to be seen.<br/><br/>And on the trail of that new case in town, Harvey would get a new client, without even having to make a phone call. Or receive one. No, the new person would be dropped on his doorstep by a nice black car. The expressionless chauffeur stood by the vehicle, waiting to see whether or not he would have some time to wait in the car. On the door, stood the same woman whose pictures - taken a few months ago during a charity gala - were plastered on every afternoon newspaper. Mrs. Angus Sinclair - or, more properly,  his widow.<br/><br/>She looked tired, scared and a little out of what could be expected as normal behavior. But then again, what exactly is normal behavior for a woman who had lost her husband in a brutal fashion less than twelve hours ago? Her behavior, or lack thereof, consisted of simply standing there, even as the door eventually opened, as though she had forgotten what had brought her there.</div>