Lincoln Memorial

"Makes me sick," Danny Franks said to Savich and Sherlock as they sat beside him in the Metro squad car. "Awful thing. I haven't ever seen anything like that, I mean, this poor young guy, frozen dead, and he looked like someone beat him to pieces." Franks's voice shook, and he sucked in a deep breath, and focused his eyes on Sherlock's face. She'd pulled off her wool cap, sending a riot of red hair around her face. Mr. Franks didn't seem to be able to pull his eyes away from her hair. "I mean," Mr. Franks continued, "you see dead bodies all the time on TV, even see them medical examiners cutting them open, showing b.l.o.o.d.y organs, whatever, but it isn't real, you know it isn't real."

Danny looked back up to the memorial. "That young man was so young, barely starting his life."

"I know what a shock it was, Mr. Franks," Sherlock said, squeezing his gloved hand in hers. Even if she'd found his outpourings fascinating, she had to bring him back on track. "We need your help, sir. You seem like an insightful person, very visual. Can you tell us what you saw when you found the body?"

"My wife always says I'm clueless, thick as a brick. It's good to know an FBI agent thinks she's wrong. I already told a bunch of cops everything, but I know you're federal, so if the U.S. government wants to have another go, it's all right with me." He gave her a big smile. "You guys are at the top of the cop food chain."

Sherlock grinned back at him. "Start at the beginning, Mr. Franks, if you would."

He nodded. "It was almost nine o'clock when I climbed all those steps ... Geez"-he looked down at his watch-"that was less than two hours ago. I didn't see him at first. I was whistling 'Yesterday,' you know, the Beatles? Anyways, I was making sure everything looked like it's supposed to when I nearly stepped on him." He swallowed. "I really did nearly step on him. I looked down and couldn't believe it. It's a dead kid was all I could think, and someone took all his clothes and left him lying beside Lincoln and he's frozen stiff."

"Did you see anyone?"

"Not a soul; no one was out yet in this miserable weather. It was real cold, I was huffing my breath into my gloves to keep my pipes from freezing up, and like I said, I nearly stumbled over him."

Sherlock squeezed Franks's hand again, kept all her attention on his ruddy face, seamed from years in the sun. He looked nearly sixty, a steady man, straightforward, and he was badly shaken. "It's all right, Mr. Franks. Take your time."

"Okay. Like I said, there wasn't anybody around except for the one guy I saw standing by himself by the Reflecting Pool, looking down at the water. I wondered if the guy was nuts. I mean, why stand there and freeze? I was thinking he wouldn't want to come trudging up here, not with the wind howling all around the columns and the blowing snow.

"As soon as I saw the kid, I called 911. It took a good five minutes for a couple of squad cars to arrive. I think the squad car we're in is one of them. Glad they've got the heat cranked up. The officers came running up and we all stood around the kid-the body. n.o.body could believe it. I mean, the cops weren't as shocked as I was, but they were surprised, I could tell. One of them said to the other, 'Call Detective Raven, he's on.' And so they did. In twenty minutes or thereabouts, here comes this big young guy, and he looks down at the body and says, 'Federal land, FBI,' and he called you guys, then sent his men to interview anyone they could find."

"So it wasn't long until people started coming up to the memorial?"

"Folks seem to sniff out when something bad's happened. I'm sure you know that. They came by ones and twos, and the worst part of it was all of them wanted to rush in and freak themselves out. The cops pulled out crime scene tape, bright yellow, like on TV.

"There were about twenty people, all yapping to beat the band, wanted to know what was going on, and they were snapping photos like you wouldn't believe, until the cops managed to get them away again. I don't know if they got any of the kid, though. I sure hope not. You think about his mama seeing her son like that-"

Savich kept his voice slow and calm. "You said you saw a man standing by the Reflecting Pool, Mr. Franks. Did you see anyone else nearby? Anyone hurrying away? Running?"

"No, only that one guy standing by the Reflecting Pool. Like I said, I remember wondering why he was here, I mean, you could freeze your eyeb.a.l.l.s early this morning."

Savich said, "Can you describe him, Mr. Franks?"

"He was all bundled up in a dark blue parka with the furred hood pulled up, nearly covered his face. I couldn't tell if he was fat or thin, he just looked bulky. I was too far away to even guess how tall or short he was, sorry. I'd guess he wasn't exactly fat; he gave me the impression he was strong, big, but I could be wrong."

Sherlock said, "Did you see this man anytime later? Could he still be here?"

"No, and I've looked for him. Haven't seen him anywhere since before the cops arrived."

Sherlock said, "Mr. Franks, when repairs are needed, how do you access the area above the ceiling in the central chamber where Lincoln is sitting?"

"You don't; there's no access. If anything needs attention they've got to bring in those really big extension ladders, or put up scaffolding."

Savich said, "Did you look at the boy, Mr. Franks? At his face?"

Danny Franks lowered his own face to his hands, both his hands still clutching Sherlock's. "Yeah, I couldn't help myself. I looked at him good."

"Mr. Franks, did you think the young man looked familiar?"

Mr. Franks shook his head. "His face was such a mess, I don't have a clue who he is."

TWO HOURS LATER, Savich and Sherlock were at the Hoover Building when Palmer Cronin, the retired former chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank, called the FBI to identify the dead boy as his grandson, Tommy Cronin, still on his winter break from Magdalene College. His grandmother had made out her grandson's white frozen face in a photograph picked up by an Internet news site. Someone had posted it on YouTube.

Maestro, Virginia

Early Sat.u.r.day afternoon

Griffin had to pull over for half a dozen big SUVs on his prayer-filled drive through winding snow-drenched streets on his way from the hospital to Professor Salazar's house on Golden Meadow Terrace in Maestro. He slid up as close as he could to the curb in front of Professor Salazar's ranch-style home. Its sloping roof and large front yard were covered with snow and flanked by snow-laden oak and pine trees. He counted four cars in the driveway. Was the party still going on?

The front door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.

A woman about his age, wearing pink shorts, of all things-and in the winter and while it was snowing-a nubby pink sweater, and black boots to her knees blinked up at him. Her hair was long and black, parted in the middle, hanging down on either side of her pale, striking face. She eyed him. "Oh, I thought it was Barbara finally back from Starbucks, but no, you are a guy."

She sounded French. She'd spoken formally, but her English seemed perfectly fluent. A student?

"How can you tell?" Griffin's face was covered up to his eyebrows.

She said, "You are tall, and I can picture your legs inside those nicely fitting jeans. Come on in; everyone is in the living room and kitchen. Hurry, I am freezing. Hang your coat on the rack."

No wonder she was freezing, Griffin thought, watching her hurry into the house, her hair streaming down her back, straight as a board. He shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his parka and wool scarf, pulled off his ski cap and gloves, and hung everything on a coat rack near the front door. She called over her shoulder, "I am Gabrielle DuBois. I am Parisian, in case you are wondering about my accent. I play the oboe. Rafael and I make beautiful music together."

Guitar and oboe duets?

"I sing as well-in fact, better than I play the oboe."

"That's nice to know," Griffin said.

She turned to say something else and her mouth snapped shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

"Mon Dieu, if you had been at the party last night every female would have wanted to leave with you. C'est pas bon-Rafael isn't going to like you at all. Who are you?"

Griffin thought she sounded both a bit alarmed and amused. Her French accent had thickened, and why was that? He fumbled pulling his creds out of his jeans pocket because her eyes were following his every move. He gritted his teeth, finally held up his shield. "Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI."

"Mais c'est impossible!" came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, "But how can you be an FBI agent? I mean, you should be a movie star like Brad Pitt."

"Can't act," he said.

Gabrielle gave him a cla.s.sic Gallic shrug. "Ah, but who would care if you can act, except for those idiot critics no one with a heart pays any attention to?"

A male voice heavy with the mellifluous cadence of Barcelona called out, "Gabrielle! Who is at the door? Is it Barbara? With my Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte?"