“No, you don’t look queer. But you can’t go by that.” His silent stare gauged me until he seemed to decide something after a long while. “You really don’t know, do you? He’s got you running like a rat in a maze, getting beat up and lying for him, and he hasn’t told you.”

“Who? Told me what?”

“Henry Cantwell.”

“What about him?”

Rayfield smiled slightly. “He’s a faggot, Shaw.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seven years ago,” he spoke over me, “the vice squad raided a gay motel. Your good friend Henry Cantwell was in bed with a sixteen-year-old boy. He likes them young, Shaw; he just doesn’t like getting caught. He was crying when they brought him in.”

I closed my eyes. “Who told you this?”

“I saw him. He was begging—it would ruin him, couldn’t they understand—weak, like a fairy.” His voice thickened. “It made me sick to watch him. He shivered while they read his rights and told him he had one phone call. He got up, pacing in a little circle like he couldn’t decide. When he reached for the telephone his hands were shaking.

“It was over in an hour. Someone called the captain who ran vice. The records were destroyed. Cade walked into the station, looked around like we were dirt, asked the captain for Cantwell, and dragged him off without speaking. Cantwell wouldn’t even look at him. But the boy was a stray and Cantwell had money. It never made the papers, never went to court. It never happened. Except it did.” His voice shook now. “I hate queers, Shaw. But even worse I hate Cade and Cantwell buying us like whores. It won’t happen twice. This isn’t some sweet little boy getting cornholed and some vice-squad politician. It’s a murder. It’s mine.”

There was thin sweat on his forehead. From my subconscious welled the reason I hadn’t turned in Jason. The room shimmered as I stood, said, “See you, Lieutenant,” and tried moving toward the door.

“Where were you?” he called out.

I didn’t turn. “Nowhere.”

His pen clicked behind me.

Twenty-four

TWENTY-FOUR

A slim, silent black man gave me a sideways glance as he walked past the house. I knocked again, resting my hand on the doorframe. The porch was cool, but the dirty, sweet honeysuckle smell made me sicker. I took the deep, rhythmic breaths I used while running. My ears echoed with their sound.

The door opened and then Etta Parsons’ mouth. “We need to talk,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve known about Jason Cantwell for twenty-seven years and told no one. Now it’s time.”

Her surprise became shock. I stepped in front of her. “Look, whoever killed Mrs. Cantwell threatened my wife. If anything happens to her …”