"That doesn't mean it's wrong."

"No." He looked at his cigarette. "I never liked him," he said. "I tried to, because Amanda loved him, or was in love with him, or whatever you want to call it. But it's difficult to like someone who clearly dislikes you, or at least I found it difficult."

"Thurman disliked you?"

"Immediately and automatically. I'm gay."

"And that's why he disliked you?"

"He may have had other reasons, but my sexual orientation was enough to place me beyond the pale of his circle of potential friends. Have you ever seen Thurman?"

"Just his photo in the newspapers."

"You didn't seem surprised when I told you I was gay. You knew right away, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say I knew. It seemed likely."

"On the basis of my appearance. I'm not setting traps for you, Matthew. Is it all right if I call you Matthew?"

"Certainly."

"Or do you prefer Matt?"

"Either one."

"And call me Lyman. My point is that I look gay, whatever that means, although to people who haven't been around many homosexuals my own gayness, if you will, is probably a good deal less evident. Well. My take on Richard Thurman, based on his appearance, is that he's so deep in the closet he can't see over the coats."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't know that he's ever acted out, and he may very well not be consciously aware of it, but I think he prefers men. Sexually. And dislikes openly gay men because he fears we're sisters under the skin."

THE waitress came over and poured me more coffee. She asked Warriner if he wanted more hot water for his tea. He told her he would indeed like more hot water, and a fresh tea bag to go with it.

"A pet peeve," he told me. "Coffee drinkers get free refills. Tea drinkers get free hot water, but if you want another tea bag they charge you for a second cup. Tea costs them less than coffee anyway." He sighed. "If I were a lawyer," he said, "I might mount a class-action suit. I'm joking, of course, but somewhere in our litigious society, someone is probably doing just that."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"She was pregnant, you know. Almost two months. She'd been to the doctor."

"It was in the papers."

"She's my only sibling. So the bloodline dies out when I go. I keep thinking that should trouble me, but I don't know that it does. What does trouble me is the idea of Amanda dying at the hands of her husband, and of him getting away with it. And of not knowing for sure. If I knew for sure-"

"What?"

"It would trouble me less."

The waitress brought his tea. He dunked the fresh tea bag. I asked him what might have motivated Thurman to kill Amanda.

"Money," he said. "She had some."

"How much?"

"Our father made a lot of money. In real estate. Mother found ways to piss away a good deal of it, but there was still some left when she died."

"When was that?"

"Eight years ago. When the will cleared probate Amanda and I each inherited slightly in excess of six hundred thousand dollars. I rather doubt that she spent it all."

BY the time we were through it was getting close to five o'clock and the bar business was beginning to pick up as the first of the Happy Hour set arrived. I had filled several pages in my pocket notebook and had begun turning down coffee refills. Lyman Warriner had switched from tea to beer and was halfway through a tall glass of Prior dark.

It was time to set a fee, and as always I didn't know how much to ask for. I gathered that he could afford whatever I charged him but that didn't really enter into my calculations. The number I settled on was $2500, and he didn't ask me how I'd arrived there, just took out a checkbook and uncapped a fountain pen. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen one.

He said, "Matthew Scudder? Two t's, two d's?" I nodded and he wrote out the check and waved it to dry the ink. I told him that he might have a refund coming if things went faster than I expected, or that I might ask for more money if it seemed appropriate. He nodded. He didn't seem terribly concerned about this.

I took the check, and he said, "I just want to know, that's all."

"That might be the most you can hope for. Finding out that he did it and turning up something that'll stand up in court are two different things. You could wind up with your suspicions confirmed and your brother-in-law still getting away with it."

"You don't have to prove anything to a jury, Matthew. Just prove it to me."

I didn't feel that I could let that go. I said, "It sounds as though you're thinking of taking matters into your own hands."

"I've already done that, haven't I? Hiring a private detective. Not letting matters take their own course, not allowing the mills of God to grind in their traditionally slow fashion."

"I wouldn't want to be part of something that winds up with you on trial for Richard Thurman's murder."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I won't pretend it hasn't occurred to me. But I honestly don't think I would do it. I don't think it's my style."

"That's just as well."

"Is it? I wonder." He motioned for the waitress, gave her twenty dollars and waved away change. Our check couldn't have come to more than a quarter of that, but we'd taken up a table for three hours. He said, "If he killed her, he was exceedingly stupid."

"Murder is always stupid."

"Do you really think so? I'm not sure I agree, but you're more the expert than I. No, my point is that he acted prematurely. He should have waited."

"Why?"

"More money. Don't forget, I inherited the same amount Amanda did, and I can assure you I haven't pissed it away. Amanda would have been my heir, and the beneficiary of my insurance." He took out a cigarette, put it back in the pack. "I wouldn't have had anyone else to leave it to," he said. "My lover died a year and a half ago, of a four-letter disease." He smiled thinly. "Not gout. The other one."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm HIV-positive," he said. "I've known for several years. I lied to Amanda. I told her I'd been tested and I was negative, so I had nothing to worry about." His eyes sought mine. "That seemed like an ethical lie, don't you think? Since I wasn't about to have sex with her, why burden her with the truth?" He took out the cigarette but didn't light it. "Besides," he said, "there was a chance I might not get sick. Having the antibody may not necessarily mean having the virus. Well, scratch that. The first telltale purple blotch appeared this past August. KS. That's Kaposi's sarcoma."

"I know."

"It's not the short-term death sentence it was a year or two ago. I could live a long time. I could live ten years, even more." He lit the cigarette. "But," he said, "somehow I have a feeling that's not going to happen."

He stood up, got his topcoat from the rack. I reached for mine and followed him out to the street. A cab came along right away and he hailed it. He opened the rear door, then turned to me once more.

"I hadn't got around to telling Amanda," he said. "I thought I'd tell her at Thanksgiving, but of course by then it was too late. So she didn't know, and of course he wouldn't have known, so he couldn't have realized the financial advantage in delaying her murder." He threw his cigarette away. "It's ironic," he said, "isn't it? If I'd told her I was dying, she might be alive today."