“This isn’t ethics class,” he said sharply. “When Henry told me he’d been with a man we were in the library, with Rayfield waiting outside. He swore he’d perjure himself before giving his friend to Rayfield. What was I supposed to do, come out and tell him Henry was going to lie? I couldn’t abandon him, not then, and knowing what I knew I couldn’t turn him over to someone else. It was a dilemma. My one hope was to get the questioning done with and then keep Rayfield away until he found another suspect. Besides”—Cade paused, speaking slowly now—“you’re not sure this man even exists, are you?”

It hadn’t been irrelevant at all. “No,” I answered. “But Henry told you about his lover that morning, not later. That argues he didn’t make it up.”

Cade smiled without humor. “You assume that Henry was too shocked to lie. That’s your flaw, Adam. It’s fatal in a lawyer to be so tangled in his own emotions that he can’t think like someone else. Think like Rayfield. His Henry Cantwell is a clever man who killed Lydia and then reappeared the next morning ready to play a part. His Henry spins sympathetic lies about loyalty to a friend to make his failure to confide in you sound noble. Rayfield’s Henry Cantwell ruined the lives of both Lydia and Jason to conceal his own sexual transgressions. Rayfield’s Henry is a virtual schizophrenic.”

I felt sick. “And yours, Roland?”

He slumped for a moment, trapped-looking and for once intensely human, worry eroding the hard angles of his face. “I don’t know anymore. I think about Kris Ann …”

I was almost sorry for him. Reluctantly, I said, “There’s something worse.”

“What could be worse?”

I told him about Joanne Mooring.

As he listened, Cade’s fingers stopped drumming. His eyes became intent, expressionless. When I finished, he drew himself up, took an audible breath, and asked, “She saw him?”

“No. His black Mercedes.”

Cade stared at me. Then he murmured, “That’s enough for Rayfield,” paused with his hand over his forehead, and added, “So you think Mooring’s the father.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you tell all this to Henry?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Cade began rubbing his temple. “It’s too much,” he protested. “Do you appreciate in all of your busyness that I’ve known Henry Cantwell for over forty years?”

“I appreciate that, yes.”

“Do you?” he lashed out. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve trapped your own client so that Rayfield can break him like an egg. By now Henry’s a desperate man.”

I felt too weak to argue. “Clayton’s waiting,” I said tiredly, “and we’re getting nowhere.”