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intimidating presence. “What can I do for
    you?”
    “This isn’t an official call or anything. I wanted to let you know the detectives have
    a possible lead on this. Probably nothing will come of it, but we’re keeping our fingers
    crossed.”
    “I see. No matter. Damage done.” Rafe motioned his visitor toward the kitchen,
    where he planned to retrieve another beer. His bottle opener was still on the counter,
    and he picked it up, holding it thoughtfully before speaking. Should he offer
    something? Was that proper? “Would you care for some refreshment? I was about to
    have another beer.”
    “Thank you. That would be just great.” Morgan lifted a hand to his tie but asked
    permission before he loosened it. “May I? I’ve just come from taking my mother to
    mass.”
    “Make yourself comfortable. You took your mother to church? What a gentleman.
    You must make her very proud.”
    “She’s an old-fashioned girl.” He shrugged off the compliment. Ben stuffed his tie
    into his pocket and took a beer—served in a glass with the perfect amount of foam. “She
    doesn’t like to go without family. After my father died…”
    “You go every Saturday night?” Ben nodded. Rafe couldn’t help but smile. “You
    are a very good son, Officer Morgan.”
    “Please, call me Ben. I see you were able to begin the cleanup process.”
    “Ah, yes. Thanks to fine police investigation, they completed the insurance report
    on Thursday and gave me permission to have things hauled away. I am apparently
    covered for arson.”
    Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
    24

    “I’m glad.”
    “I believe your partner thought I did it myself.”
    Ben stopped in the act of bringing his glass to his lips. “You think?”
    “My brand-new car was elsewhere when my garage burned. I don’t blame him, but
    he isn’t a very subtle man.”
    “No. He’s not. I’m sorry about that.”
    “I did point out that if I wanted sympathy, I’d hardly put heil Hitler on the door.”
    “Well, now…” Ben smiled. “You could be a spy of some sort.”
    “You may laugh, but there was a time I passionately wanted to spy for the US
    against Germany. I had the language; I was familiar with the countries involved.”
    “But you said your heart…?”
    “Yes. I didn’t even know I had a problem, actually, until they told me. I rarely
    suffer from it. Occasional shortness of breath and palpitations, which I’d always
    attributed to overexertion or nerves. I was far too young to serve as a spy, but I
    imagined myself in the role. Then the war ended.”
    “You might have made a good spy.”
    “I would have been a great spy. I’m an excellent liar.” Before Rafe had a chance to
    regret saying that to a police officer, he changed the subject. “Follow me if you’d like
    more comfortable seating.”

    Ben followed, and Mooki tagged along with them into the living room, her tapping
    toenails silenced as soon as they left the wood floor and crossed over the Oriental rug.
    Was it his imagination, or was Rafe nervous? Ben supposed it was the normal
    reaction of having a policeman in one’s home. It was his experience that even his
    relatives acted out of character; they watched what they said around him.
    The fastidious Rafe—who poured beer into pilsner glasses and provided cocktail
    napkins for his guests—sat in a wing chair, inviting Ben to take up a comfortable
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    position on the couch. Ben placed his beer on a coaster on the coffee table between
    them.
    “This is a nice place.” Ben glanced around. “Two bedrooms?”
    “Three.” Rafe shrugged. He took a pipe from the table next to him and held it up.
    “Do you mind?”
    Ben shook his head. “I like it, actually.”
    Ben watched Rafe’s hands with interest. The act was precise and practiced. Rafe
    packed his pipe, then removed a wooden match from a box bearing the name of a local,
    swanky restaurant, He struck the match against the box, watching it flare for