'When did you become a member of the Communist Party, Mr Addison?' Roscani leaned forward, a notepad at his sleeve.

'Communist Party?'

'Yes.'

'I am most certainly not a member of the Communist Party.'

'How long had your brother been a member?'

'I wasn't aware that he was.'

'You are denying he was a Communist.'

'I'm not denying anything. But as a priest he would have been excommunicated…'

Harry was incredulous. Where did this come from? He wanted to stand up and ask them where they got their ideas and what the hell they were talking about. But he didn't. He just sat there in a chair in the middle of a large office, trying to keep his composure and go along with them.

Two desks were at right angles in front of him. Roscani was behind one – a framed photograph of his wife and three teenage boys next to a computer whose screen was a mass of brightly colored icons. An attractive woman with long red hair sat at the other, like a court stenographer, entering the text of what they said into another computer. The sound of the keys as she typed made a dull staccato against the noisy grind of an aging air conditioner under the lone window, where Pio stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, expressionless.

Roscani lit a cigarette. 'Tell me about Miguel Valera.'

'I don't know a Miguel Valera.'

'He was a close friend of your brother.'

'I'm not familiar with my brother's friends.'

'He never spoke of Miguel Valera.' Roscani made a note on the pad next to him.

'Not to me.'

'Are you certain?'

'Detective, my brother and I were not close… We hadn't spoken for a long time…'

Roscani stared a moment, then turned to his computer and punched something up on the screen. He waited for the information to come up, then turned back.

'Your telephone number is 310-555-1719.'