“I’m only guessing, okay? I think, though, that you might’ve elicited a motive from Thomas this evening. He and Lee, they both knew their love was doomed. Thomas had only four weeks remaining on his tour. Lee wasn’t going to join him in the States, and maybe Thomas – or Lee – decided the time had come to orchestrate a separation.”

“So you think maybe this partner-swapping thing was an effort to separate? Like some kinky kind of divorce?”

“Maybe, yes. Remember, you’re talking about gays. They were seeking a clean way to emotionally disentangle. Maybe they decided to start by physically disentangling.”

“And they did this by engaging in some kind of switch-hitting orgy?”

“No, Drummond. I’d guess they tried to handle it in a very gentle, discreet way. They probably drank a great deal to deaden their nerves and fortify themselves for something that was emotionally trying. And I’d guess that at some point in the evening, they paired off and went to separate bedrooms.”

“So this was how they chose to separate?”

“It’s possible.”

“Is that common? Is that how gays handle it?”

“Is there a common way heteros handle breakups and divorces?”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t assume there’s a universal way gays handle it, either. Every relationship’s different; every ending’s different.”

“Okay,” I said, “then see if you can figure this out. There was about a thirty-minute gap between the time Lee’s corpse was discovered and the arrival of the police. What did they do during that gap?”

She said, “Who called the police?”

“Moran.”

“Really? And why’d he do that?”

“Huh?”

“Why’d he call the police? Think about it. He awakens to find a corpse in the apartment. Now if he was the murderer, or was implicated in the murder, why would he call the police? Wouldn’t he and Thomas try to work out some way to dispose of the body? Wouldn’t they put their heads together and try to figure out how to sneak the corpse out of the building so they can dump it in the woods someplace where it would never be found? Wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose, yeah.”

“But instead, Moran called the police, right?”

“But was Whitehall aware he was calling the police?”

“Almost certainly, yes.”

“Then let me try a different tack. Whitehall’s upset at Lee. The love of his life has just refused to run off and join him back in the States. He feels jilted, rebuffed.”

“Okay…”

“They agree to try this partner-swapping merry-go-round, only instead of helping Whitehall get over it, it makes him insanely jealous. He gets incensed. They retire to the bedroom together. They start having sex, only Whitehall’s emotions fly out of control. He gets rough. First he punches him silly. Maybe he hits him in the solar plexus and knocks the wind out of him. Then he slings a belt around Lee’s neck, and before he knows it, he’s killed him. Maybe it was deliberate. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was subterranean rage boiling to the surface. He lies awake the rest of the night and tries to sort through what to do next. Act one is to seem like he’s sound asleep when Moran opens his door at five-thirty.”

“Then why would he let Moran call the police? Why wouldn’t he try to talk him out of it?”

“Because that’s act two. He’s smart. If he resists, that would be tantamount to admitting he killed Lee. Instead he says, ‘Geez, gosh, oh my God, look at this! Somebody killed my boyfriend. Quick! Someone call the police!’ ”

“Unless Thomas really was surprised.”

“No. Don’t you see it? By feigning innocence, he’s able to get Moran and Jackson to trust him, to go along with him, to conspire in his alibi. Nobody witnessed him killing Lee. The other two are completely confused, but they’ve got things to hide, too. They give him the benefit of the doubt, and he’s hoping he can at least get them to tell a few fibs to help him with his story. He knows they’ve got things to hide. He decides to exploit their trust and their fears and take his chances.”

“That’s not exactly what I’d call a perfect plan.”

“Yeah, well, you got a guy who just flew into a rage and killed his lover. He’s distraught. He was drunk. He acted impetuously. There are no perfect plans available. He knows he can’t get the body out of the apartment without maybe waking Moran or Jackson. Or without maybe being seen by some Korean as he’s standing in the elevator with a corpse slung over his shoulder. He’s forced to ad-lib.”

She said, “You know what? I’ll bet that’s exactly the case the prosecutor is going to present.”

“It’s sure as hell the case I’d present,” I admitted, without confiding that was exactly what I’d hoped to accomplish that night: to get a handle on what Eddie would argue, so I could figure out a strategy to block him.

Katherine gave me a fairly friendly smile. “You know, Drummond, I hate admitting this, but you’re a pretty good attorney.”

I said, “Me? You’re the one who figured it out,” which actually was true. In fact, she’d had it figured out long before I came to her room, which made me suddenly suspicious about how much else she’d already figured out that she wasn’t sharing with me.

She peered at me over the covers. “Is that a compliment?”

I smiled. “That’s a compliment.”

She stared at the far wall a moment. “I never thought I’d say this, but we make a pretty fair team.”

I reluctantly said, “In some ways, I guess we do.”

Katherine then dropped her covers and climbed out of bed. She pitter-pattered to the bathroom. A moment passed, then I heard water running. She came back in sipping from a tumbler. Maybe I was imagining things, but I could swear she’d brushed her hair, too, because it was no longer disheveled and mussed. It hung down like a long, captivating robe past her waist. She grabbed another chair, dragged it over in front of me, and fell into it. Swinging those delicately shaped legs up, she propped her feet right next to mine.

It was what you might call a very stimulating gesture. I mean, lesbian or not, she really had great legs. And I’m a guy, and even though I knew she was untouchable fruit, there are parts of my body that don’t know the difference between fruit and cannoli. This was also the moment when I noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under that thin, tiny T-shirt. These two cute little things jiggled about a bit, and the bottom of her T-shirt was hiked up all the way to the tippy-top of her thighs. I guess because she was gay, she was unconscious of the effect all this was having on me.

I began fighting a chivalrous battle to keep my eyeballs pasted on the floor, on the table, on the wall – anywhere but on her. I wasn’t winning, but I swear I put up a hell of a fight.

“All right,” she said, apparently unconscious that Ol’ Humungo really couldn’t care less if she was a raging bull dyke, so long as she had all the right plumbing and equipment. And she did. Believe me, she did.

She asked, “You’re still convinced Whitehall did it?”

“Uh-huh. Very convinced,” I said, rubbing my forehead, so I could shield my eyes, so she couldn’t catch me staring at her cute little feet.

“Do you buy my premise they were trading partners?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why not? I mean, it’s not exactly how I’d break off an affair, but I guess it’s plausible.”

She took a sip of water and I could sense, but not see, her studying my face, because my own eyes were busy sliding from her shapely little feet up her velvety smooth shins.

“Humor me some more,” she said. “Go back to what you asked Thomas tonight, about who else might’ve killed Lee. Start with Moran. He’s Whitehall’s friend, right? He knows what Whitehall intends. He obliges him by bringing a consenting partner.”

“A true friend,” I caustically agreed.

Katherine had marvelous kneecaps, too, I’d just noticed. Not too big, not too small, not too bony, not too fleshy. My mother always used to say the only true way to judge a woman is by her kneecaps. Sounds odd, but in a funny way, she’s got a point.