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?”