“Jason slammed the door in my face.”

“I wouldn’t fool with him. His problem may be worse than bad manners.”

She nodded. “He’s pretty frightening. But Rayfield doesn’t seem to be looking his way.”

“So I gather. And you?”

She took a cigarette from her purse and snapped a lighter at it. “I think the Cantwells’ problems were bigger than just Jason.”

“Based on—?”

“Several things. To start, there’s something I got from a friend of Mrs. Cantwell’s who’s just been divorced. They last spoke just two weeks ago. Lydia steered the conversation around to the divorce: how long it took, whether the woman had to appear in court, that kind of thing. Her friend recalls that she was very curious.”

“From which you surmise what?”

Culhane raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d tell me.”

“I couldn’t begin to.” She gave me a look of cool disbelief. “Seriously,” I added, “if Lydia Cantwell had wanted a divorce she’d have come to the firm.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t?”

“I’d know if she had. Just who is this woman?”

New arrivals were drifting past us to be matched with namecards on empty tables. Next to us a plump-armed blonde squealed, “Marilyn, you look so thin,” to a newcomer who didn’t at all. Culhane shook her head. “I told her she’d be anonymous.”

“Anonymous, or nonexistent?”

Her voice cooled. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean maybe you fed me a line to see if we were handling a divorce.”

“My source exists,” she snapped. “You know, you must really hate news people.”

“I prefer ‘dislike,’ or maybe ‘distrust.’ Whatever made you pick this business?”

“Whatever makes you care?”

“I was cleverly searching for a change of subject.”

She stabbed her half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray. “Basically because I’d divorced my husband and needed work, if that’s any of your business.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “Charles was a heart surgeon I married in Boston when he was still a resident and liked playing his guitar. Then he got a position at the Med Center here and stopped liking anything but cutting chests. Eventually I got tired of begging for attention and asked him to move out. For a while I felt depressed and worthless and jogged five miles a day to keep it together. Finally one of my apartment neighbors who’s a cameraman suggested I try news—after all, I was presentable and maybe even bright. By then I was sick of jogging and missing Boston. So I went to the station and asked for a job.”

A thin, silent waitress in shocking blue tennis shoes interrupted with iced tea and a small blackboard with the fare scribbled in chalk. We stopped to order. It was hot even in the shade and our salt was stuck in its shaker. I asked for another one, and the waitress left, undelighted with me and her job.