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code?”
    “Mr. Swift was almost family to the doctor. It was like he lived his life through the doctor and the missus. Mr. Swift was here almost as much as I was.”
    “How about a guy named Miles Cave?”
    “I never met him, but I think he was an old school friend of the doctor’s,” she said. “I told the police about him. Recently I had heard his name being discussed by the doctor over the phone. Something about money, I could tell. A lot of the doctor’s calls at the end were about money. The calls involving that Cave fellow seemed to be more heated than most. I’m no detective, Mr. Carl, but I told the police and I’m telling you: I believe this Miles Cave has more to do with what happened than the missus. You want to find out what happened, you ought to start by finding him.”
    I looked at the safe, at the figure sprawled on the bloodstained carpet, at the big-screen television. I tried to figure out the scene the instant before the violence, the shooter there, the dead man standing there, the safe open.
    “Is this just the way the room was when you found it?”
    “Yes, sir. The police haven’t let me touch much of anything.”
    “No struggle, then, no bashed pottery or books thrown?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What did the police take with them?”
    “They cut some stuff off the carpet, they dusted the whole place.”
    “Tell me about Julia. How has she been doing lately?”
    “I don’t know, Mr. Carl. She seemed distracted the last fewweeks. It’s always tough to get a grip on the missus. She keeps a lot to herself.”
    “How about her health?”
    “The same as ever, I guess.”
    “Is she on any medications?”
    “How would I know?”
    “Oh, Gwen, my guess is there isn’t much you don’t know. I suppose you’ve cleaned up her medicine cabinet now and then.”
    “There are some pills prescribed by the doctor. Women’s stuff, I think. And some Valium. For muscle pain.”
    “I bet. Does she drink much?”
    “Not as much as the doctor, but she has a glass or two now and then.”
    “Anything more serious?”
    “What are you getting at, Mr. Carl?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Is that her car in front?”
    “That’s right. She called from jail and told me where she left it. I had Norman drive me over to pick it up.”
    “Anything interesting inside?”
    “No, sir. And the police went through it as soon as I brought it back.”
    “I figured. Can you do me a favor? Can you call me when she returns home?”
    “Sure I can. Anything else?”
    “Only whether or not I can take the rest of that pie home.”
    “I’ll box it up for you.”
    “Why, thank you, Gwen.”
    “You going to save her?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “If she deserves to be saved.”
    “We all deserve that, Mr. Carl.”

9
    TUESDAY
    He was waiting for me in my outer office when I came to work the next morning, a slight, dome-headed man with outsize shoes and a striped bow tie. He leaned forward in his chair, his small mouth pursed with worry, his long, pale hands wringing one the other. He might have been my age, or he might have been fifty, it was hard to tell with his wispy red hair and wide forehead. When he saw me, he lifted his chin.
    “Victor Carl, is it?” he said.
    “That’s right,” I said.
    He rocked to his feet, still bowed forward at the waist, as if in a perpetual cringe. His hands continued to rub each other strangely. It was an insectile gesture, calculating and submissive at the same time, like a male praying mantis wringing his hands before sex.
    “Mr. Carl, hello. Yes. It is an honor to meet you, indeed. Anhonor.” His voice was whiny and dispirited, and the way he enunciated “honor,” he might as well have been telling me what a burden it was to be in my presence. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced like this. You can be assured that I wouldn’t bother a personage of your high status and accomplishment if it weren’t so vital. But could you possibly, perhaps, spare a moment in your