Henry was slumped in his chair. I touched his elbow. “You okay?”

The stenographer left. Henry raised himself and mumbled, “Yes,” his face ivory, expressionless.

“All right, Henry,” Cade said. I helped Henry to his feet. Cade took his arm from me and steered him through the partition and toward the door.

“Get them an escort,” Rayfield told Bast, who followed. Rayfield watched them leave. His hair was damp and flat on his head and one shirtsleeve had unrolled until it was longer than the other.

“You didn’t need to tell him like that,” I said.

Rayfield turned and looked me up and down with the same expression of curious contempt.

“Why did it bother you so much?”

“Because I’ve started wondering what you’ve got in for Henry Cantwell.”

For an instant he looked surprised. Then, in exact, icy mockery of Cade, he said, “I take it we’re through here,” and left.

I walked from the partitioned room through a larger surrounding one jammed with metal desks and plainclothesmen writing reports and answering telephones, then opened the door marked “Robbery and Homicide,” which led to the corridor. It was jammed with reporters, their shouts echoing off tile floors and walls in a babel of sound. Two bulky police convoyed Cade and Henry amidst the whine of flashbulbs and newsmen jostling with TV cameras. Someone kicked my shin as I shoved to catch up. A voice barked, “You fucked up my picture.” Near the glass doors in front I saw Henry’s head bobbing in the crowd. I elbowed through until I reached the doors and got outside, trying to reach him.

Another crowd of reporters waited in the dusk. “Mr. Shaw,” someone shouted. It was a green-eyed woman, standing at the top of the steps with a bearded man holding a TV camera that blocked my way. “What did they want to know?”

I stopped, trapped in the crush. Her voice was quick and intense. “Do they suspect Henry Cantwell?”

The cameras closed in, as they had when we buried my father, twenty years ago. A chill, misting rain had wet my neck. The grave smelled of dirt and wet grass. My mother’s face was closed and harsh. She dropped the clump of dirt as Brian clutched at her. The priest chanted. Photographers moved among the black cars, taking pictures.

A flashbulb exploded in my face. “Will Mr. Cantwell be charged?” she was demanding.

“Why don’t you rob some graves,” I spat out. “Maybe take pictures.”

She shrank from me. I grabbed her cameraman by the collar. “Get out of my way, you sonofabitch.” His mouth fell open. I threw him to the cement and pushed down the steps through the parting crowd.

On the sidewalk police moved Henry toward Cade’s blue Audi. They opened the passenger door as I reached his side. He turned to me, voice trembling. “Adam, you must believe I would never do this.”