"I know. I think the murder might not have been about race at all."

Her mouth opens slightly. "What else could it have been about?"

"I don't know yet. Have your people learned anything about Dwight Stone?"

"Yes. One of our reporters in Alexandria, Virginia, says Stone was dismissed from the FBI in 1972 for alcohol-related problems."

"Anything else?"

"He was second-generation law enforcement. His father was a state trooper in Colorado. Stone himself served with the marines in Korea and won a handful of medals I don't know the significance of. He went to law school after he got out of the service, and joined the Bureau in 1956. He spent sixteen years in, and received several commendations before being dismissed."

"Althea Payton told me Stone was sympathetic to her, that he really wanted to solve the case. I wonder if the fact that they both served in Korea was the root of that?"

"I guess it could be."

"Something strange happened at the prison tonight, Caitlin."

"What?"

"The director of the FBI showed up."

"John Portman? Why would he show up at the Hanratty execution?"

"To warn me to stay out of the Del Payton case."

"What?"

"Portman and I have a history. When you asked about the Hanratty case on the plane, I left out some details. When Hanratty committed that first murder in Compton, he was seen by a dozen witnesses before he fled the scene, and they ID'd him from photographs under his real name. An LAPD detective remembered that Hanratty had been the star witness in a federal hate-crime trial a while back. His testimony put a half dozen white supremacists in jail and made a star out of the U.S. attorney of Los Angeles."

"Portman," Caitlin says softly.

"Exactly. The LAPD went to Portman, who told them Hanratty was under witness protection and couldn't have committed the crime. Political pressure started building. The next day Hanratty 'escaped' from the program and wound up in Houston with his brothers. The rumor was, Portman tried to cover up the murder to keep his reputation clean. I'm pretty sure now that it's true. Hanratty referred to it tonight in his deathbed statement. Anyway, Portman wanted to neutralize the rumor by throwing the book at Hanratty in the L.A. courts."

"And you stopped him."

"Exactly. The guy hates my guts."

"But what does that have to do with the Del Payton case?"

"I'm not sure. But Portman just killed the career of an FBI agent who gave me a little help on the phone. He's transferring him to Fargo, North Dakota. I don't think there's even a field office there. Just a resident agency. Whatever's in the Del Payton file must be embarrassing as hell to the Bureau. I want you to get your people working on Portman immediately. I want to know everything there is to know about him."

"I'll call our Alexandria guy before we fly out in the morning."

"I'm going to call that FBI agent right now. I owe him an apology."

"It's the middle of the night. And it's later in Washington."

"I doubt he's sleeping."

I pull the phone over from between the beds, dial directory assistance, then use my credit card to call Peter Lutjens at his home in Washington. His phone rings five times before he answers, but his voice is wide awake.

"Peter, this is Penn Cage."

Silence.

"I had no idea this thing would boomerang on you like this. I am so sorry."

"Shit. I don't blame you. I gave you the list, didn't I?"

"Peter, if there's anything I can do-"

"Can you get Portman fired?"

"I don't-" Suddenly an idea hits me. "Maybe I can."

"What?"

"Peter, have you wondered why Portman would punish you so severely for what you did?"

"He hates you, that's why."

"It's the Payton file. Portman flew to Huntsville, Texas, tonight to warn me off the Payton case. And asking about the Payton file is what got you into trouble. Right?"

"Yes."

"I think Portman is concealing some illegality about that case. If he is, and you can find out what it is-"

"Stop right there. Are you suggesting that I go back and try to look at that file myself?"

"Have they barred you from the building?"

"No, but-"

"When do you leave for Fargo?"

"Don't even say that word, goddamn it. And I'm not losing my pension for you. Cowboy time is over."

"Peter, if that file is damaging enough, it might get Portman thrown out of the directorship. It might buy your old job back."

"I've got a wife and kids. And I'm not out to trash the Bureau."

"I'll shut up, then. I really called to apologize anyway."

"That makes me feel so much better."

The phone goes dead in my hand.

Caitlin puts the phone back between the beds for me. "He wouldn't try it?"

"No."

"Let's just forget it all for tonight, then."

She picks up the remote control and flips through the channels, finally settling on a showing of To Catch a Thief. Grace Kelly and Cary Grant zoom across the screen in a vintage sports car.

"Okay with you?"

Staring at Grace Kelly, the coolly luminous Princess Grace, I recall my earlier thought that she and Livy Marston look more than a little alike. The similarities go deeper than looks too, for despite her cool exterior, Grace Kelly had a dark and promiscuous sexual history.

"It's fine," I say absently.

Caitlin turns up the sound, and we watch from our chairs while Annie snores away on the bed. My mind is so full I cannot think clearly, but one image is predominant: Livy Marston in the Baton Rouge airport, seemingly as beautiful and untouched as she looked at seventeen. But when is anything ever what it seems? As beautiful as Livy was, she was not untouched. No girl that radiant survives adolescence without attracting the attention of every male in the three grades above her. And nature being what it is (and the seventies what they were), sex usually follows. I didn't understand this so clearly then, of course. At sixteen, though I was as perpetually and mindlessly horny as the rest of my compatriots, I was also ready to place some lucky (or unlucky) girl on a pedestal of mythic proportions. When, after a showing of Looking for Mr. Goodbar, Livy tearfully confessed to me how she'd lost her virginity-a date rape by a senior with whom I played football-she installed herself on that pedestal with the permanence of a pieta.

Once she occupied this place of reverence in my psyche, it became impossible for me to see her clearly. Her public image was flawless. Queen of the elite private school in a city with five high schools, she was wanted by every male student in the city-not merely lusted after, but actually worshiped- and thus floated above the usual tortured angst of high school life. What I didn't understand then was that, to a girl like that, the most exciting company would be guys who didn't care what she said or thought, and who treated her accordingly.

Everyone knew Livy Marston occasionally went out with boys from the public schools-rough, handsome guys who straddled the line between "hoods" and outright criminals-some of whom were so dumb as to boggle the mind. It was hard to imagine what Livy could find to talk about with these guys. What I didn't understand then-or was too afraid to admit-was that she was not interested in talking to them. (

It was something of a tradition for St. Stephens boys to sleep with girls from the public schools, who we thought to be "looser" than the ones we saw in class every day. Whether this was true or not, I'm still not sure. Some public school girls defended their virtue like Roman vestals, while many St. Stephens girls led active romantic lives, to say the least. In any case, it was understood, according to a time-honored double standard, that boys slept around as a rite of passage into adulthood. When girls did it, they entered that unjustified but unforgiving territory known as sluthood. When Livy Marston did it, she confused everybody. To the point that no one really believed she was doing it. Everyone thought she was putting on a show. Acting wild. Driving her uptight father crazy. Now, of course, I understand it perfectly. In the time-honored tradition of Southern women of a certain class, Livy was taking her pleasures downward.