When Dix pulled his SUV into his driveway early that afternoon, he heard Brewster-his four-pound toy poodle-barking his head off. He opened the front door and quickly grabbed him up and held him away from him when he walked into the house so Brewster wouldn't pee on him in his excitement. As it was, he, Ruth, and the boys were supporting the dry cleaner.

"Yeah, yeah, fluffball, I'm home, and yes, I'll take you outside, but you're not going to like it."

"No need," Ruth said, coming out to see him, a big spoon in her hand. "Rafe took him out a few minutes ago, laughing his head off when Brewster sank into the snow over his head. Turned into a game. Soup's on." She pushed through a half-dozen licks from Brewster when she tried to kiss her husband. "I invited Griffin to stop over to get something to eat and take some of your yummy chili-if there's any left-back to Delsey. She's probably really tired of hospital food. He says she's seen the photo, Dix, and confirms it's the same man."

She took Brewster, let him lick her some more, and shouted to her boys, who were watching a recording of the football play-off game from last night in the living room. She made them promise to wash essence of Brewster off their hands before lunch.

"I'm glad the photos have been of some use," Dix said as he took off his thick jacket and leaned over to pull off his boots. "We've been showing them around town, and we've heard everything from his being a salesman from Henderson to a basketball scout visiting the high school. The guy was friendly, like Delsey and Anna told us, visited with everyone, but no one knew his name."

"Maybe Dillon's facial-recognition program could help," Ruth said.

"Maybe. Is it halftime yet? I missed the game last night, too, you know."

"Nope, in a few minutes, depending on the number of time-outs the coaches take. We can watch the game if you like while we chow down on your chili and corn bread, made from-who was it? Oh, yes, your granddad's favorite recipe. And I made the mandatory salad I expect everyone to eat."

As they set up trays to take to the living room, Ruth said, "I spoke to Dillon, told him what was going on here. He's tied up with his own case, that Tommy Cronin murder. He asked me to stay here and save your bacon and figure this all out for you."

Dix laughed. "What a nice guy. That's quite a case he's got. Why murder a twenty-year-old and set him up on the world stage like that?" But Dix didn't expect an answer. His eyes were locked on the TV and the game.

"What do you mean?"

Thankfully, there was a time-out, and she got his attention. "If it was payback, it's like killing the messenger. I mean, why kill the boy when he wasn't responsible for any of the mess himself? He's not his grandfather."

Ruth said slowly, "Unless it was some kind of message. 'You all hurt me, so I'm taking one of yours'?"

"If that's so, it's a stranger world than I thought," Dix said.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

Sunday morning

FBI Special Agent Ted Atkinson, a former college football tackle with a neck the size of Sherlock's waist, met Savich and Sherlock at the oversized oak front door of the Cronin estate. "I'm glad to see you guys. It's quiet as a tomb around here." He cracked his knuckles. "What a terrible business."

"Amen to that," Sherlock said.

"Some of the media were here when I arrived early this morning." He waved past the postcard-beautiful lawn with snow blanketing the maple and oak trees toward the three TV vans hunkered down at the distant curb. "Those gates you drove through have helped keep the vultures out, but they're still sitting out there. Why? Do they think someone will welcome them in, tell them how they feel, offer them a latte? I take a stroll around the perimeter every once in a while, show them how big and mean I look. Did they ha.s.sle you?"

"Not really," Sherlock said. "We smiled at them and gave them a little wave. I thought one of the guys was going to try to sneak through the gate, but better heads prevailed at the last minute. I do believe, though, he had some comments about Dillon's antecedents."

"Give me the nod and I'll go speak to him." Atkinson gave a ferocious grin. "Come on in before you freeze to death. It's beautiful with the sun shining on all the snow, but it's still cold enough to see your breath.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cronin are in the living room, have been for the past three hours, huddled together, not talking much. Enduring, I'd guess you'd say. It's been a terrible blow for those poor old folks." Atkinson shut the front door behind them, paused for a moment, then locked it and shrugged as if to say, You never know, now, do you?

"This old place dates back to 1910," Atkinson said. "Can you imagine the heating bills?"

They stepped through a large Art Deco entrance hall with signature black and white floor tiles. A kidney-shaped Art Deco table that looked to be an emile-Jacques Ruhlmann original sat against one long wall. Savich's mom loved Ruhlmann, had bought a small table designed by the man himself.

Centered on the wall over the table hung a painting of a small barefoot girl in pink shorts running on a beach, hanging for dear life on to a kite string, the tail of a vivid red dragon nearly slapping her face as it whipped and whirled about in the wind. You could feel the young girl's excitement and the absolute perfection of that single moment, feel the beating wind stinging your face, tearing your eyes. You could smell the brine. Savich stared at the painting, couldn't help himself. It was one of his grandmother's, t.i.tled The Child.

He said quietly to Sherlock, "There are only three of my grandmother's paintings I haven't seen since I was her age." He pointed to the little girl. "This is one of them. The Cronins have owned it for a very long time."

Atkinson nodded at the painting. "You like that painting? I think it's kind of pretty."

Sherlock smiled at him. "The artist is Sarah Elliott, Dillon's grandmother. Most of her paintings are in museums."

Atkinson said, "My wife tells me I'm going to get shot for my big mouth one day, since I'm too big to bother beating on."

Savich waved it away. They followed Atkinson into the living room on their right, a barn of a room that was, surprisingly, toasty warm, the fire in the old brick fireplace blasting out heat like a bellows. Palmer and Avilla Cronin sat pressed together on a sofa, silent, their eyes moving to the three agents walking toward them into the room. Even their eyes looked flattened, Sherlock thought, and no wonder.

Their deadening pain was palpable in the very air, bowing the Cronins under the weight of it. Sherlock knew the pain would morph into rage and blame; it was the only way to survive such devastation. The Cronins would blame the monster who murdered their grandson, yes, but she knew they would blame the world at large and the FBI as well, for not somehow preventing Tommy's murder from happening in the first place. It was human nature, and she'd seen it far too many times, and was prepared for it.

Palmer Cronin was seventy-seven, once a compact and solid man, with swarthy skin and lots of hair, and looking more in keeping with his moniker, Big Buddha. Now he was thin, his shoulders stooped, his hair a tonsure of gray around his large head. He looked, Savich thought, ten years older than the last time Savich had seen him on the cover of The Economist six months before. Inside the covers was a smoothly ironic review of Cronin's decisions and where they'd led, with photos of mortgage, banking, and investment-firm villains sprinkling the pages.

Cronin was wearing ancient leather bedroom slippers, old brown wool pants, a faded plain brown shirt, and, oddly, a lovely new pale blue cashmere cardigan. A Christmas present?

He got slowly to his feet, shuffled more than walked across to them, and looked up at Savich. He seemed folded in on himself, Savich thought, his face pale and drawn, but those dark eyes of his were deep and hard with an intelligence that looked beyond every word uttered to him to the consequences of his reply. Odd, Savich thought, that such formidable intelligence had gone so awry in what had been his undisputed area of expertise.

And now this. This man whose daughter-in-law had died two years before, and his only son last year, had now seen his only grandson brutally murdered yesterday. His name would die with him. He looked, Savich thought, like he'd reached the end of his road and didn't care.

Cronin said, his voice flat, "You're the FBI agents Director Mueller told me he was sending."

Savich nodded, introduced both himself and Sherlock to Mr. and Mrs. Cronin, and out of habit, they showed them their shields. He said, "Please accept our condolences, though they aren't enough, we know that, nothing could be. We are very sorry to intrude on you at this time, but we have to move quickly and we lost a day because of the blizzard."

"We have heard of both of you," Cronin said. "Avilla and I saw you Sat.u.r.day morning, Agent Savich, speaking in front of the Lincoln Memorial. The news stations have been showing that clip all weekend. You didn't know then that the victim was my grandson. We watched you like every other benighted human being, shocked and horrified, of course, at the finding of a frozen dead body at Lincoln's feet. It doesn't say much for the human race, does it, our rapt attention at our safe distance, to a violent death displayed for the world to see? Neither Avilla nor I thought you wanted to be standing there speaking to the media. You looked ... angry, Agent Savich."

"No, sir, I didn't want to speak about it," Savich said, "and yes, I was very angry."

Avilla Cronin said from behind her husband, "Tell me now, Agents, do you honestly believe you will find the monster who murdered our grandson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cronin, we do," Sherlock said.

Palmer Cronin gave Sherlock a brief dismissive look and continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Despite that revolting photo and where that poor boy was left, is the FBI considering the possibility that Tommy was murdered for personal reasons?"

Savich said, "It's possible, sir. That's one of the reasons we're here, to find out more about him."

Cronin studied Savich's face for a moment. "But of course you know it's a waste of time. Sit down, both of you." He waved at two Art Deco chairs sitting opposite the rounded sofa. He shuffled back and sat down carefully next to his wife. Savich watched him take his wife's thin hand in his, but he didn't squeeze it. Their two limp hands simply rested against each other.

Cronin asked, "Do you know yet who posted that horrific photo of Tommy? Has anyone claimed responsibility?"

"Not yet, sir; we're working on it."

"Avilla and I have talked of nothing else, of course, and it seems obvious that a quiet, studious boy like Tommy would not have had an enemy who would go to such lengths to kill him and add the final humiliation of placing him at Lincoln's feet. I do not wish to accept it, but Avilla tells me I must. He was killed because I am his grandfather, as revenge against me.