I order Scotch, Kelly the same. Our reflections watch us from the mirror behind the bar like solemn relatives visiting from a cold northern country. When the whisky comes, I swallow a shot big enough to steal my breath, then wipe my mouth on my jacket sleeve. Kelly sips with a deep centeredness, like a man who has known life without luxuries and wants to savor them while he can. He doesn't talk. He doesn't look at me. He stares through the bottom of his glass, as though pondering the grain of the wood beneath. Yet I am certain that every movement in the restaurant-even on the street outside-registers on his mental radar. Kelly is covering me even now.

"Kelly?"

"Mm?"

"Did you have a maid when you grew up?"

His head bobs once. Then I hear soft laughter, an ironic chuckle.

"Did you?"

"My mother was a maid."

He glances at me from the corner of his eye, then looks back into his glass. Embarrassment is not exactly what I feel. It's more like mortification. I'm trying to think of how to apologize when he says, "Nothing wrong with being a maid. It's honest work. Like soldiering."

I want to hug him for that.

"How long did Ruby work for your family?"

"Thirty-five years. She came when I was three."

"That's a long time."

"And she burned to death. Because of what I'm doing, she burned to death."

Kelly rotates his stool and puts his foot on a crosspiece of mine. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why are you doing what you're doing?"

"The truth? I don't know. In the beginning I wanted to nail a guy who hurt my father a long time ago. And me." I take another shot of Scotch, and this one brings sweat to my skin. "That's a bad reason, I guess."

"Not so bad."

"It's not worth Ruby's life."

"No. But that's not the only reason you're doing it. You're trying to set a murder right. And from what I can tell, it needs setting right. I've watched you these last few days. You're a crusader. I knew some in the service, and you're one of them. I've got a feeling you saw some horrible atrocity when you were young. A race murder or something. Something that's weighed you down a long time."

"No. I never saw anything like that. Not much of that happened around here, to tell you the truth."

I swallow the remainder of my Scotch and signal the bartender for a refill. "What I do remember… it probably won't sound like anything. I was in the fourth grade when integration started here. I was in the public school then. The first semester they sent twenty black kids into our school. Twenty. Into an all-white school. The black kid in my grade was named Noble Jackson. Nobody was horrible to those kids. Not overtly. But every day at recess, we'd be out there playing ball or whatever, and Noble Jackson would be standing off at the edge of the playground by himself. Just standing there watching us. Excluded. I guess he tried to play the first couple of days, and nobody picked him for anything. Every day he just stood there by himself. Staring, kicking rocks, not understanding. The next semester my parents moved me to St. Stephens."

The Scotch has soured in my stomach. "Now that I'm older, I know that kid's parents made a conscious decision to do something very hard. Something my parents wouldn't do. They risked their child's education, maybe even his life, put him into a situation where it would be almost impossible for him to learn because of the pressure. They did that because somebody had to do it. When I think of that kid, I don't feel very good. Because exclusion is the worst thing for a child. It's a kind of violence. And the effects last a long time. I think maybe Noble Jackson is part of the reason I'm doing this."

"What happened to him? Where'd he end up?"

"I have no idea. I've often wondered. Wherever he is, I'll bet he got the hell out of the South as soon as he could."

We return to our drinks, both lost in our own thoughts. As the bartender returns to refill his glass, Kelly says, "Got a phone book, chief?"

The bartender turns around and takes one from beneath the telephone. The Natchez phone book is only a half-inch thick, including the yellow pages. Kelly flips through it, then runs his finger down a page. "Here's your man. Noble Jackson."

A strange tightness constricts my chest. "That's probably his father."

"Let me borrow that phone," Kelly says to the bartender.

"Local call?"

"You bet." Kelly takes the phone and dials the number, watching me in the mirror. "Hello, I'm calling for Noble… It is? This is Sergeant Kelly, Noble. Daniel Kelly… You don't recognize my voice? From Bragg?… Fort Bragg. I'm trying to track down some members of our old unit… You're kidding me, right?… Never been in the service? You're shining me, man. Well, Noble always said he was going to get out of Mississippi as soon as he could… Yeah? How old are you?… Well, that's the right age. What you do for a living?… Ha. Noble sure didn't know nothing about engines. You married?… No kidding. Man, I'm sorry I bothered you. My mistake all the way. You have a good Sunday, chief."

Kelly hangs up, and the bartender puts the phone back in front of the mirror.

"Noble Jackson works as a mechanic for Goodyear. He's thirty-eight years old, married with four kids, and he's lived in Natchez his whole life. He sounds happier about it than a lot of people would be."

This knowledge, mundane as it sounds, somehow eases my grief over Ruby. "Kelly, you're a funny guy."

His eyes twinkle. "That has been said."

He looks past me, and I hear the restaurant door open behind me. His expression tells me that whoever came in is a woman, an attractive one. I find myself hoping it's Caitlin.

"Female inbound on your six," he says. "You know her?"

I rotate my stool and watch a tanned brunette walk toward me. It's Jenny, the waitress. She's wearing black jeans and a T-shirt that says lilith fair. Her dark hair is swept back from her neck, and her large brown eyes are shining. She gives me a shy wave as she reaches us.

"Jenny, this is Daniel Kelly."

She smiles and shakes Kelly's hand, then looks back at me. "I'm surprised to see you here. Isn't the funeral today?"

"We just came from there."

"Oh. Um, could I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure."

She looks furtively at Kelly. "Alone, I mean?"

Kelly starts to slide off his stool, but Jenny takes his arm and holds him there. "I didn't mean for you to leave."

"How about one of those booths?" I suggest.

"Well… I was hoping you'd come upstairs. To my apartment. Just for a minute."

My mental alarm is ringing now, soft but steady. Even modest fame can attract some strange people and propositions, and legal complications often follow. Caitlin pegged Jenny as having a fixation on me the first time she saw her. Maybe she's right.

"It's practically deserted in here," I say. "Let's just grab a booth."

Jenny suddenly looks on the verge of tears. "It's nothing weird, I promise. It's… personal. It has to do with what you're working on. Your case."

Curiosity muffles the alarm in my head. "The Payton case? What do you know about that?"

She glances at the bartender, who's totaling numbers on a calculator a few feet away. "It has to do with the Marston family."

I'm convinced. "Okay. Upstairs it is. Have another on me, Kelly."

"Glad to, boss. Keep your pants on."

Jenny leads me to the rear of the restaurant, where a spiral staircase winds up to the second floor. We pass some long tables set up for a party, then climb a short flight of stairs to a small landing and a red door. Jenny takes a key from her pocket, opens the door, and waits for me to go through.

Her apartment is as spartan as the cell of a lifer. You could bounce a quarter off the bed, and the linens are surprisingly masculine. A tall set of shelves stands against the wall to my right, and it's filled from top to bottom with books. Literary novels mostly, though the familiar spines of my books are among them, along with Martin Cruz Smith, Donna Tartt, and Peter Hoeg. There's no television, but a boom box sits beside the bed, an Indigo Girls concert flyer tacked to the wall above it. Caitlin's suspicion that Jenny has a crush on me is looking less accurate by the second.