“Did you give them your name?” This was Frank, from his chair, casual, nonchalant. So how was your weekend?

“Not on the phone. They asked me when they got there.”

Sykes’s tone changed, got a little sharp. “So you waited there for the police to arrive?”

“What was I supposed to do? Jump out the window?”

“Walk down the stairs,” Frank suggested. “Isn’t that how you got in?”

Rafe ignored that. So did Sykes, or at least Rafe thought she did until she said, “So you managed to get us involved in a murder.”

“Good going,” said Frank.

Rafe held back—what was wrong with these people? “I don’t think they think I killed the guy. I went there to see an old friend. That’s what I told them. And it happens to be true. If that matters. I think they saw it as a break-in gone bad. There was a blow to his head . . .”

“You didn’t mention your mission?” asked Sykes. “Your recent special interest in your old friend? Your investigation of your old friend’s firm?”

“No. I’m know I’m new at this spy stuff, but that didn’t seem wise.” He wanted to be out of there. He wanted to take a walk that didn’t end in finding a dead body. When he went to the phone on Mayfield’s desk, he had stepped in the pool of blood. He was pretty sure there was still some blood on the bottom of his shoe.

But Sykes and Frank weren’t finished.

“You think they saw it as a break-in gone bad?” asked Frank. “What led you to think that?”

“What else could it be?”

“It’s not a bank, is it?” said Sykes. “They don’t keep cash in that office, do they?”

“No,” said Rafe. It seemed like a long time ago that he had resolved to think more like an intelligence officer, but it had only been breakfast. “Oh,” he said, remembering. “We were speculating. You were speculating”—he looked at Frank—“that someone might have blown up the firm’s anonymity. That maybe it was done on purpose, by Majid’s partner . . .”

“The late Mister Mayfield,” said Sykes.

“So if there really is a Homeboy, and Mayfield did do that, and Homeboy knew that Mayfield was rocking the boat . . .” Rafe had an image of Homeboy, an outraged homicidal character in a video game.

“The question,” said Frank, “is what kind of investigation the police will be pursuing. A break-in gone bad? The jealous husband of some woman Mayfield was fucking? Or something else?”

“Did they give you a hint?” asked Sykes.

“They wouldn’t tell me anything, would they?”

“They might if they thought you knew something,” said Sykes. “They might if they wondered why you were really there.”

“I was really there to see my friend.”