Savich was about to leave his office when Judy Garland sang out "Somewhere over the Rainbow." He looked down at caller ID. Bo Horsley. He didn't have time, he didn't-no choice. He said, "Hi, Bo. You calling to tell me more about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit?"

"The exhibit says it all without me heaping on praise. I wanted to tell you I've got you and Sherlock a lovely town house in Chelsea to stay in while you're here. Friends of mine are heading for Paris for a couple of weeks-why not Tahiti, I wanted to ask them, since it's February, but hey, their choice. You guys can come, right?"

Savich said, "We haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. We're still trying to dig our way out of this mess down here-you said we were up to our necks in alligators, and you're right, that's the perfect way to put it."

"Well, let me add another draw. Not only am I trying to get my nephew Nicholas Drummond here-you remember, he's the youngest muckety-muck at Scotland Yard? One of his colleagues, Detective Inspector Elaine York, is here in New York as the minder for the Crown Jewels, especially the Koh-i-Noor, since it's the centerpiece of the entire exhibit. She's one smart cookie, fun, and I think you'll really like her. Best of all, she's a vegetarian, Savich, a kindred spirit. Anyhow-"

Savich looked up to see Mr. Maitland waving at him. He said quickly, "All good inducements, Bo, and thanks for setting up a house for us. I'll get back to you, okay?"

"You got it, boyo. Good hunting."

Savich left his office and walked toward the interview room where Peter and Stony had sat at the table with him only two days before. Mr. Maitland met him outside the door. "She's a beautiful girl," he said first thing, "with a story to tell. Hope you get the truth out of her, Savich. You know her better than I do."

Savich nodded, walked into the interview room, and closed the door behind him. Lucy Carlyle stood back against the wall, watching over her.

Mr. Maitland was right, Savich thought. Melissa Ivy indeed looked beautiful this morning, the deadening shock in her eyes from a few hours before a thing of the past. Her face was no longer pale, her eyes no longer vague, and her long blond hair was glossy, falling sleek and wavy around her face. She wore eye shadow, a lovely shade of pale green that matched her sweater.

"Ms. Ivy," he said, nodded to Lucy, and sat down.

"Agent Savich."

"I see you're feeling better today. Glad you could come in so quickly after you called this morning. Director Maitland tells me you're certain now you saw someone at Peter Biaggini's apartment last night, though you told us then you hadn't seen anyone. Tell me why this is."

She sat forward, clasping her hands in front of her. Even her manicure was fresh, her nails a soft pink. "I'm sorry, but last night, after I found Peter and then you came, I couldn't think. All I could see was Peter and how horrible his head looked and so much blood everywhere. My mind wasn't working."

That was the unvarnished truth. "I understand you remember someone now. Before you tell me, Ms. Ivy, I have some questions for you myself. Had you ever seen the gun that killed Peter before, the one on the floor? Had Peter, Stony, anyone, had it in their apartment, or mentioned a gun like that in your presence?"

She shook her head, sending her hair swaying beside her face. "No, none of them had a gun. All they liked to talk about was computers, or economics or banking, computer games, sometimes, but never about guns."

"Did any of the three mention a camera at the Hart residence, a surveillance system, recordings of any kind?"

"The Harts have that? You mean they watch you with hidden cameras?" At his nod, she said, "That's creepy. I visited there a few times." And he could see her thinking, wondering if she'd ever done anything she shouldn't have while at the Hart house. "I don't think any of them knew, maybe even Stony. At least he never mentioned it."

"Now tell me what you remember at Peter's apartment last night."

He watched her swallow once, clasp her hands in front of her on the table. "When I arrived at Peter's apartment building, I automatically went over to get Peter's mail. He always forgot, and so he gave me a key and asked me to open his box and bring me his mail whenever I was over. I was standing by the row of mailboxes, sorting through some mail, when I heard someone coming down the stairs. I turned my head and saw this person all bundled up, out of breath from running down the stairs, I remember thinking, and then he walked out the front door. He didn't look at me, maybe he didn't even see me, he was in too much of a hurry. I watched him stop right outside the gla.s.s doors, like he was pulling himself together, and then he walked away. I lost sight of him. I didn't think anything about it at the time, and I forgot him until I was in bed last night."

"Can you describe him?" Savich said.

"He was wearing a long coat that was too large for him, I think. It was dark, maybe dark brown. I'm sorry, but I didn't really pay attention."

"Was he tall? Short?"

Melissa gave Savich a helpless look and shook her head.

"Did you recognize him?"

"No, sir."

Savich pulled a photo of Wakefield Hart out of his pocket. "Was this the man?"

"No, sir, that's Mr. Hart. Mr. Maitland already showed me his picture, and I told him it couldn't have been Mr. Hart. I've met him several times. I would have said h.e.l.lo to him. Mr. Maitland showed me a whole series of photos, but I didn't recognize any of the men on them, except for Mr. Hart and Mr. Biaggini."

So Mr. Maitland had shown her photos of all the princ.i.p.als Savich sat back, watched her a moment. He rose. "Excuse me, Ms. Ivy." He motioned for Lucy to follow him outside.

"Tell me what you think, Lucy."

"She's drop-dead gorgeous, she's fluent and reasonable, and I don't know if I believe a word she said. If she'd seen this man in the coat, wouldn't she have told you that last night? Could shock have really made her not remember? It's a pretty big deal, Dillon, seeing this man. On the other hand, why should she lie? This is about her boyfriend's killer. Wouldn't she want him caught?"

"Good question."

Bob Dylan's whiny nasal voice sang "Like a Rolling Stone" from Savich's cell. Savich excused himself. "Sherlock, what's up? Did you dig up some b.l.o.o.d.y clothes?"

"Nope, Dillon. The only thing we found was a skeleton of a dead parrot wrapped in blankets. Tom picked up a trace of blood with Luminol inside the washer under the back of the lid, but not enough to identify whose blood it is. It's not looking good in the yard. Three techs are in the woods, looking around. Seems to me if someone dug in the woods, it'd be pretty obvious. Oh, and Wakefield Hart's lawyer is here, accusing us of hara.s.sing a grieving family. He had them bring the girls down, and they're sobbing in their mother's arms, all huddled in the living room to show us what cruel jerks we are."

"I don't suppose Tom found any video disks from the webcams in the living room?"

"Not yet, but we found another camera, well hidden in the study."

Savich didn't hold out much hope. "Once the techs clear the woods, cut Tom and the forensic team loose. I need you back here to speak to Melissa Ivy. She's saying now she remembers seeing a man running down the stairs before she went up to Peter's apartment."

"How could she have forgotten that fine tidbit, even as upset as she was? I'll be there as soon as I can, Dillon."

Savich walked back into the interview room to see Melissa Ivy staring down at her clasped hands, no expression on her beautiful face. She looked up at him, gave him a tentative smile.

He said, "This is Mr. Griggs. I'd like you to work with him to give me a picture of the man you saw."

She blinked long lashes and looked distressed. "But, Agent Savich, I only saw the man for a moment, really, and not all that clearly, and I-"

"You said you saw him long enough to be certain it wasn't Wakefield Hart. Please try for us. Mr. Griggs is good at this. Jesse, this is Ms. Ivy. I'll come back when you're done."

Savich left Jesse Griggs, their best sketch artist, alone with Melissa, and stepped out of the interview room. Lucy, Dane, and Ollie were cl.u.s.tered together, all talking nonstop. He raised his hand. "Someone please call me when Jesse is finished with his sketch, all right? Excuse me a moment."

He walked into his office, closed the door, sat down, and tried to clear his brain. Since they'd been called to the Lincoln Memorial, they'd spent their time reacting, first to Tommy's murder, then to Stony's suicide, and finally to Peter's murder. They'd been pulled one way, then another; it was time to stop playing catch-up, time to focus in. He went back to the beginning, to Sat.u.r.day morning, with the call from Ben Raven, let each scene unfold slowly in his mind. He didn't a.n.a.lyze them, only let them flow over him to get impressions, to let his gut ring in.

It all had to be of a piece, had to be. One overriding motive that had resulted in both Tommy's and Peter's murders. But what? The gun in Peter's apartment pointed a neon arrow right to Wakefield Hart. But any of the boys could have taken that gun from the Harts' attic. It might already have been in Peter's apartment last night, though he doubted that. The murderer had come to kill, not talk. And now Melissa Ivy was saying the man she'd seen in Peter's apartment lobby wasn't Mr. Hart?

Stop. Back up. The one thing Savich was sure of was that Tommy's murderer was a man. A woman could have shoved Tommy Cronin out of a two-story window, perhaps, a fall that had broken so many of his bones, but he couldn't imagine a woman hauling him to the Lincoln Memorial, stripping him naked, and displaying him at Lincoln's feet. That took a good deal of strength. Two people, then? He shook his head at the utter debas.e.m.e.nt of the act.

He pictured each of the men he'd met in the past three days, not all that many, really, and had one of them been Tommy's killer? Or was he still off the mark, despite all the evidence against Hart? It could have been an acquaintance, a student at Magdalene who hated Palmer Cronin enough, perhaps on his own father's or mother's behalf, to strike out in rage at his grandson. He saw Palmer Cronin's aged grieving face, then August Biaggini's face when his son had treated him with such contempt on Sunday afternoon, and finally, Wakefield Hart's face, set and angry, ready to do battle for his son that same afternoon.

He let his mind return to the victims, picture them in death. Tommy Cronin's dead, bone-white face, Stony's peaceful face, then, finally, Peter Biaggini's, covered in blood.

Savich saw Stony's face clearly in his mind, saw the bewilderment, the horror when they'd accused him of uploading Tommy's photo. No, Stony hadn't done that, but he knew who had, and it had shaken his world. A user of people wouldn't have cared so much. Was he the innocent victim in all this?