NINETEEN

That night I refused calls from reporters until Kris Ann left the phone off the hook. I had several drinks and no dinner. I felt drained. When I called him, Henry sounded the same. “Do you really believe it’s the black man?” he asked.

“It has a certain demented symmetry. But right now all you should think of is that you’re free.”

“I suppose I am.” For a free man he sounded oddly dispirited. “You sound tired, Adam.”

“I’m okay. We’ll both be better when it hits this is over.”

“Over.” The word fell emptily. “Yes, I suppose so. I should thank you.”

“Just get some sleep. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“In the morning. Surely.”

I said goodnight and put the phone back on the kitchen table.

Kris Ann was stretched out on the couch in blue jeans, staring up. I sat on the floor with another drink. She said, “It’s this man Lee that’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “He could have killed me, Krissy. Why lie about Lydia’s murder and then just watch me go to the police?”

“I don’t know.” She propped on her elbow to look at me. “I don’t know why you were there at all.”

“I was afraid for you.”

“The police could have found him.” She sat up, her gaze long and penetrating. “What you did was almost suicidal, like you have a death wish or something to prove—and I’m not even sure to whom. It scares me.”

I slid next to the couch. “I’m here now.”

“You don’t understand.” She looked away. “I’m scared of you.”

I reached out. She whirled in sudden anger. “Who are you, Adam? Are you a lawyer, a policeman, my husband, what? This afternoon I could have lost you to something I don’t understand. I look at you now and I don’t know you. What do you want for us? Can you tell me that? Can you even tell me what you want for yourself?”

My hand froze in midair. “I want you.”

“Oh God, Adam, that’s not an answer. That’s just something you say.”

“But it’s the only answer I’ve got. I can’t sit here and tell you ‘What I Want from Life’ like it’s some sophomore exercise. I don’t know anymore and even if I did it might not be true five years or even five days from now. All I know is that I want you. That’s true no matter what.”

“But why do you want me?” She held up her hand as if to prevent an answer. Then she ran it across her face, murmuring, “I need time to think things out.”

She rose and walked to the stairwell, paused, and turned to watch me, head angled and still. “What happened to Lee is terrible, Adam. But once you found him there wasn’t any choice. You can’t feel guilty now.”

I glanced down at my drink. “Guilt’s out, anyhow. Now they’re selling books like Kicking Ass for Number One and How to Be a Shit to Your Friends and Like It. It’s just that sometimes I think that guilt is the only thing that keeps us human.”

She shook her head. “That’s conscience, Adam. Guilt just keeps you looking back.” She hesitated, then added softly, “But I’m grateful he let you go,” and went up the stairs.

I stared after her. Then I finished my drink and turned on the eleven o’clock news.

The screen crackled and then the white dot at its center widened to become Nora Culhane, standing in front of the police station. “It’s quiet here now,” she was saying, “and police spokesmen have not yet released the information leading to Lee’s arrest. But it follows by less than twenty-four hours an apparent threat against Kris Ann Shaw, wife of attorney Adam Shaw, who discovered Mrs. Cantwell’s body five days ago. There is no word yet on whether Lee has confessed to the murder. But this first break means that the intense police efforts to find the killer may be drawing to a close. For TV Seven, this is—”

“Nora Culhane, girl reporter,” I said aloud, and switched her off.

I went to the kitchen for the fifth of Bushmills and stayed up killing it. It was like going through a wall. The last three drinks didn’t touch me. I walked into the kitchen and tossed the bottle in the garbage with a heavy thud.

I leaned against the kitchen door and smoked two cigarettes. Then I picked up the telephone.

“Hello?” It had taken Culhane five rings to answer and she sounded sleepy.

“Laid it on pretty thick tonight, I thought.”

“Who is this?”

“Adam Shaw.”

“Adam. God, I tried to reach you all night.”

“I had the phone off the hook. Listen, I think you missed something. They should have run a test. Clipped some of Lee’s pubic hairs to match with those they found on Lydia Cantwell.”

“I didn’t miss it.” She sounded annoyed. “They just didn’t have results by airtime. There’s a problem with that. The hair they found on Mrs. Cantwell isn’t Lee’s. He may have strangled her but he didn’t rape her.”

All at once I felt drunk. “Oh, Christ,” I blurted and hung up.

At seven-thirty the next morning, five minutes after I put the phone on its hook again, Culhane called back. “Were you really that surprised?” she asked.

“Just tired.” I leaned against the kitchen wall, rubbing my eyes. “When I’m tired I like things to make sense.”

“And this doesn’t.”

“Maybe it will when I’ve thought awhile. It’s just that rape-murder was logical. Anyhow, Rayfield owns the problem now.”

“Unless you turned in an innocent man.”

“In which case it’s still his problem. That’s what cops are for, and juries.”

“You’re very tough this morning,” she said tartly. “When it was Henry Cantwell’s ass Rayfield couldn’t be trusted.”

“Henry’s my client. Lee isn’t.”

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it? You thought you’d wrapped this up and now it still might be Cantwell.”

“It’s not Henry. Lee still looks good.”

“So does whoever raped Lydia Cantwell.”

I stared out the window. It was sunny and the world had a mean, clear-edged, hungover brightness. “Last night I celebrated,” I told her. “This morning I haven’t shaved yet and even my hair hurts. Catch me later at the office. I’ll be charming. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll even have brushed my teeth.”

“Two-thirty, then. And quit smoking. It makes the morning worse.” This time it was she who hung up.

I took three aspirin and arranged some orange juice and black coffee on the kitchen table in front of me, downing the coffee in stiff gulps. Then I got up and called Rayfield.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Lee keeps saying he didn’t kill Mrs. Cantwell.”

“What can I do about that?”

“Give me a statement: say how you found him, what he said to you.” His voice turned edgy and aggressive. “You might even figure out who Lee’s gray-haired man is—the one he says visited her. That man’s gone important on him since he landed in jail.”

“Then you’re not sure Lee’s the one who killed her.”

“For sure not the one who had her. Tell Cantwell not to go on vacation.”

“Why? You going to charge him with rape?”

Rayfield laughed for the first time I could remember. It was short and unpleasant. “Maybe he sent someone.” I didn’t understand that, and didn’t answer. “Maybe the black man killed her,” he went on, “and then maybe Cantwell didn’t want to lose her money.”

“He has enough to live on.”

“She had more. Rich people have strange ideas of enough.”

“Some do. Henry doesn’t.”

“We’re wasting time. I want you to come down.”

“In the afternoon,” I parried. “I need time to think on your question, try and come up with a name. And I still want Kris Ann looked after until you’re sure that Lee killed Mrs. Cantwell, or find someone better.”

I heard him inhale. Finally he said, “We’ll do that—for now. You’d just damned well better be here at four. And think about that man.”

“Fair enough. There’s one thing more, though. When you arrested Lee, was he carrying a knife?”

“Big one. Why?”

“Just that he could have used it on me.”

“Could have,” Rayfield said, and rang off.

I leaned back against the wall. Then I called Nate Taylor and told him about Lee. “I don’t know if he’s got a lawyer,” I finished, “but you might want to ask.”

“Thanks. I’ll go down there.”

I said goodbye without telling him Mooring’s name.

My coffee was cold. The cigarette I took one puff of tasted bad and smelled worse stubbed in the ashtray. I poured fresh coffee, letting its aroma rise to my nostrils as I rubbed the back of my neck.

When the phone rang I let Kris Ann answer in the bedroom. After two or three minutes she called down the stairs. “Pick up the phone, Adam. It’s Daddy.”

I went to the stairs. She was in a silk peignoir, long hair falling over her shoulders. “I’ll see him at the office,” I said.

“He’s upset and worried about me. Please talk to him.”

I went reluctantly to the kitchen phone. “What the hell are you doing?” Cade demanded.

My ears rang. “Talking to you.”

“With my daughter, damn you.”

“Trying to keep her safe. Trying to find the man who killed Lydia. Trying to handle the police. Trying to get off the fucking telephone, frankly, and get some time to think.”

“As if you were capable. I’m through with you, Adam.”

“Not through with me. Stuck with me. We’re stuck with each other.”

“Only as long as Kris Ann wants.”

I paused. “No, Roland. Only as long as you live.”

There was a long silence. Almost whispering, he said, “By the time I die, Adam, you’ll be past fifty and your balls the size of raisins. I promise you that.”

I lit another cigarette. “You called. There must be a reason.”

“All right. I want it clear that you’re no longer on the Cantwell case. Your sole job is to protect Kris Ann.”

“I mean to. And Henry. I assume he’s talked to you.”

“That changes nothing. I won’t be undercut by a junior partner, particularly you. If Henry doesn’t wish my advice the firm will drop him as a client.”

“But he’s your oldest and dearest friend, remember? Besides, the partners won’t let even you do that. The Cantwells pay those whopping fees that line our various pockets. The trips to Europe, the beachhouses, the new Mercedes—”

“Don’t talk to me of greed.” He bit off the words. “Not you. Not ever.”

There was a click, like someone hanging up. Cade said, “I’m coming over.” His phone slammed down.

I went to the stairs. Kris Ann stood above me on the landing, face streaked with tears.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. I stood looking up. It seemed a long way. “He’s coming,” I said finally. “At least there’ll be someone here. I have to go.”

“Where?” She said it absently, indifferently.

I shook my head. “He’ll ask you, sure. Better to keep out of it.”

“You’re so selfless.” Her voice was drained of feeling. “From moving here, to this—all for me. I never have to ask.”

I climbed the stairs to grasp her shoulders. “What he said, Krissy—that’s not right. You know it isn’t.”

She turned her face, squirmed free, and ran to the bedroom. I started after her, then stopped myself. There was no way to reach her, now. I had to finish it. I went slowly to the kitchen and stood over the phone, thinking. Then I dialed.

A singsong voice answered, “Maddox Coal and Steel.”

“Mr. Mooring, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Mooring is on another call now. Can you hold?”

I was already heading out the alley for Mooring’s place when Cade’s dark-blue Audi turned in from the street. His mouth opened to shout. I passed him without stopping.