Cade cut in hastily. “We’re his lawyers, Lieutenant. That’s all it is.”

I spun on Cade, angry. He was watching Rayfield intently, hand half-raised between them. Rayfield stared back as if choosing his next words. He was interrupted by the whir of a motor. We turned, and then a black Mercedes loomed amidst the dogwood and drove into our silence.

The car stopped and a slight, gray-haired man got out, blinking as if he had stumbled from a darkroom. I hesitated, frozen by pity and relief. But Cade went quickly to him. “It’s Lydia,” he said.

Henry Cantwell’s face turned tight and queer. Cade braced his shoulders. “She’s been murdered, Henry.”

Henry’s features crumbled, slowly and completely, like ruined putty. He sagged in Cade’s hands. “Henry,” Cade urged.

His tone mixed sympathy and command. Henry stiffened upright as Cade backed him against the hood. He stared emptily ahead. Then he curled and his face dropped into his hands. His shoulders trembled, and then hurt-animal sounds came from between his fingers. I wanted to go to him. But he didn’t need my face to remember when he thought of breaking down. So I watched him: a banker in a three-piece suit, sobbing against the hood of his black Mercedes. Rayfield watched next to me, unnaturally still.

After a time Henry cried himself out. Haltingly, Cade walked him to the house, one arm draping Henry’s shoulders as he limped beside him. Rayfield followed.

Two cops called to each other as they paced the rear grounds, finding nothing. I leaned against a magnolia tree, smoked one cigarette to the nub, and walked back to the house.

Rayfield was alone in the sitting room, staring at the closed door to Henry’s library.

“Where are they?” I asked.

He butted his head toward the library. “In there.”

“What happened?”

“I asked where he’d been. Cade pulled him into the library.”

“What did you expect?”

Rayfield gave me a long cobalt look. Then he began watching the door again.

It slid open minutes later. Cade came first, and then Henry, following with a glazed expression.

“I’d like to be alone,” he said to no one. Without waiting, he began to shuffle toward the stairway with the steps of an old man. Rayfield reached out toward him, mouth open as if to speak, and then his hand fell to his side and he watched Henry move away.

Henry stopped when he reached me. Without speaking he put his hand on my shoulder and looked toward the dining room. For a moment I felt his weight and Rayfield’s silent look. Then Henry dropped his arm and started up the stairs.