“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.”