Rayfield’s head twisted, eyes slowly moving from me to Henry and back again, almost contemptuous. Then he turned to Cade.

“You want to take Mr. Cantwell home?”

“Henry?” Cade asked.

Henry was staring up at Rayfield, his mouth half-open, eyes glittering. The veins of his hands were purple welts. “Call it off,” I urged Cade.

“No, Adam.” Henry’s voice was hoarse. “It’s all right.”

Quickly Rayfield asked, “Was there trouble with your wife?”

Henry shook his head and looked away.

Rayfield wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The sun ribbons on the floor had faded. Outside, voices called back and forth—it was quitting time for someone, they would go to a party or watch television, they couldn’t decide. “Y’all have servants?” Rayfield asked.

“Etta, our maid. Etta Parsons.”

“How long you had Etta?”

“Over twenty years.”

“When is she there?”

Rayfield’s questions were again rapid. The stenographer shook her wrist and caught Henry’s answer: “Weekdays. Saturdays if we entertain. She was off today.”

“Any other servants?”

Henry leaned on his elbows, hands clasped in front of him. “We have a new yardman—a Negro.” He sounded embarrassed. “I never spoke to him, don’t know his name.”

“Know anything about him?” Rayfield asked.

Henry shook his head.

“Know anyone who hated your wife?”

“No.”

“Anyone who’d want to kill her, or molest her?”

“No. No.”

“Or mutilate her picture?”

Henry’s face was mottled. Without waiting for his answer, Rayfield asked, “You tell Jason what happened, Mr. Cantwell?”

Henry hesitated. “Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He yelled, about police.” Henry’s forehead bent to his hands. “We’ve had—”

“Trouble?”

Henry nodded almost indetectably. I moved between him and Rayfield. Cade touched Henry’s shoulder and raised his free hand toward Rayfield in a restraining gesture. “Just two more questions,” Rayfield said.

Cade looked at Henry, then Rayfield, nodded, and said tersely, “Two.”

I turned angrily to Cade. Rayfield asked Henry, “You know your wife wanted to cut Jason off?”

“No.” The answer came with seeming effort.

“Know why she would?”

“They fought—last week. I wasn’t home.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t say.”

Rayfield stared at the pen. Musingly, he asked, “Would Jason do this, Mr. Cantwell—all of it?”

Henry’s face collapsed in his hands and he began crying.

“That’s it, Lieutenant.” Cade’s tone was final. “Ask the boy yourself.”

I was certain they already had. But Rayfield merely shrugged. “There’s more questions,” he said. “We’ll want Mr. Cantwell again.”

Cade stood. “He came here voluntarily, sooner than was healthy. You’ve asked your questions and gotten your answers. Now get out and go to work, because if you want him again you’d better have a warrant.”

Rayfield stared at Cade as if calibrating his power. “We’re working on it,” he said mildly. There was irony in his voice, and clear dislike.