I shook my head angrily. “I won’t play God. You passed that buck to Henry and he’s dead. I won’t decide for you what kind of a man you are.”

He shrank back. “Please …” The word died on his lips.

“God help him,” I mumbled.

His shoulders sagged. “I loved him.”

I turned away. “Go home,” I finally said. “I’ll do what I can. Just go home.”

He was crying now, his “thank you” close to a whisper. He paused as if searching for other words, found none, and shuffled to the door. He turned there with a last silent look of pity and thanks and then disappeared into the long corridor. I listened until his footsteps made no sound.

The firm was almost empty now. The receptionist had left and the phones had stopped ringing. Two silent janitors drifted by like ghosts with dustmops. I sat motionless.

After a long time I reached in the drawer for my father’s darts. I threw them mechanically, retrieving and throwing again until my mind was washed blank. Then I sat back and reviewed everything I knew about Lydia’s murder, and everyone involved, from the beginning. When I finished my hands were shaking.

I held them in front of me until they stopped. Then I picked up the telephone and called Clayton Kell.

Thirty-two

THIRTY-TWO

At eight the next morning I met Clayton at his office. The papers I’d asked for were stacked on the desk in front of him. “Maybe,” he said carefully, “you can sort of explain this, so I can pretend to know what I’m doing.”

“Pretend to who? You’re a bank officer, we’re your counsel.”

He frowned. “Roland’s our counsel.” “Then you’d better tell me straight out.”

“All right.” Clayton paused to rub the bridge of his nose. “Roland called after Henry shot himself. He said that until reports were made to the feds, we should say nothing to anyone except him or people he sent. He specifically mentioned you.” He looked embarrassed. “Somehow he managed to float across the notion that you were on the way out.”

“Then I need your help.”

He looked down at the stack of papers. “What do these have to do with Henry’s suicide?”

“I won’t know until I see them. Please, it’s important to me.”

Clayton grimaced. “You’re buying trouble, Adam.”

“No,” I said flatly. “It’s a favor I’m asking. Really.”

Clayton hesitated, searching my face. Then he pushed the papers across the desk.

The top packet was headed “Loan File: Rue Napoleon Center.” I began reading hurriedly through its pages. “At the cocktail party you said this got the bank into trouble. How?”