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  Lie in bed and plan Dad’s memorial service—not a funeral, no, Dad told me often enough he never wanted to have his carcass stuffed in one of those high-shine coffins sitting on wheels in the front of a church with a big stupid photo of himself beside it that everyone had to look at. No, burn him up in private and spread a nice long trail of ashes into the Chesapeake, where he loved to sail, swim, and eat every crab he pulled out of it.

  Lucy didn’t cry until after she’d called her great-uncle, Alan Silverman, at seven o’clock a.m. and told him his nephew was dead.

  Then the tears wouldn’t stop. When she called Dillon at eight o’clock a.m., she sounded like a scratchy old record.

  The worst of it was hearing her father’s words again, sharp, clear, and panicked. “Mom, what did you do? Why did you stab Dad? Oh my God, he’s not moving. . . .”

  Special Agent Luciana Claudine Carlyle knew her father had witnessed his own mother murdering her husband, Milton, Lucy’s grandfather, a man she’d been told had gone walkabout twenty-two years ago. Whenever she’d asked, that’s what she’d been told—Your grandfather left us, no word, no reason, just gone—until she’d simply set him away in the back of her mind, and eventually stopped thinking much about him at all. As far as she knew, no one had ever heard from him again; he’d simply left one day and never come back.

  Well, that was a lie. He hadn’t just disappeared. Her grandmother had murdered him, stabbed him to death twenty-two years ago, her own father a witness. That would have made her father forty years old when it happened, a grown man living with his parents, since his wife had died and he’d needed help with his small daughter, namely herself. Why hadn’t he stopped it? Because he’d been too late to stop it, that’s why. He’d never let on, never said a word to anyone, as far as she knew. Should she ask Uncle Alan? Would he know? She shook her head. She couldn’t ask him that question, not without knowing more. Surely he didn’t know, as she hadn’t known.

  Her father had seen his own father’s murder again in the moments before he died.

  Lucy couldn’t get her mind around it, couldn’t accept it. Her grandmother a murderer? Her grandmother, Helen Carlyle, had died peacefully in her bed at home three years ago. Both Lucy and her father were with her, and Lucy had kissed her good-bye on her forehead.

  No, she couldn’t believe it, not her grandmother.

  Her grandmother was always fiercely contained, with something ramrod-straight about her. Lucy had sometimes wondered, though, in the deepest part of her, if there was a reason for that.

  Lucy walked into her bathroom, sank to the floor, and leaned against the tub. She sat there for a very long time.

  CHAPTER 5

  Clayton Valley, Virginia

  Blue Ridge Society auditorium

  Sunday afternoon

  Lucy couldn’t seem to get warm. She was surrounded by her father’s friends and business associates, by Uncle Alan and his family—her only remaining family. On Uncle Alan’s face, she saw utter devastation. Beside him sat Aunt Jennifer, turned sixty-four the month before. Jennifer looked as stylish as she always did with her curve-brimmed black hat and Dior black suit. Lucy had always thought she was so like her sister-in-law, Lucy’s grandmother—always self-possessed, always calm, always kind to Lucy. Her own children, Miranda and Court, who were both older than Lucy, sat stone-faced. Court was handsome and fit, a young aristocrat like his father, and Miranda looked like a bohemian wannabe, all dressed in drapey black, like a plump nun. Aunt Jennifer held Uncle Alan’s hand tightly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw the McGruders, her grandmother’s longtime housekeeper and groundskeeper. They were both looking like devout missionaries, stout and somber, dressed in stiff, formal black, Mrs. McGruder’s plain black hat pushing down her over-permed gray hair. Lucy nodded to them, tried to smile, but she was so cold she was afraid her teeth were going to start chattering, and that would be humiliating. Particularly since she had to walk about fifteen feet up to the small auditorium stage, look out over the hundred-plus people, and give her eulogy. Eulogy, she thought, from the Greek eulogia, which meant to speak well of, she remembered her father telling her before the memorial of one of his professors at Princeton.

  At least there hadn’t been a question about where to have his memorial service. Her father was an active member of the Blue Ridge Society for his entire adult life, a well-established group of like-minded people who wanted to preserve one of the nation’s natural wonders.

  Hold it together. She was surprised when Coop slid in beside her and closed his hand over hers. His flesh was wonderfully warm. He must have felt how cold she was, because he took both her hands in his and rubbed them until at last she got the signal from the minister. She rose and walked slowly to the lectern at the center of the stage. One of her father’s bank managers and close friends had finished speaking. Mr. Lambert was a short man, which meant she had to raise the mike, and the simple act of twisting the mike upward made her brain blank out. She could see some of her friends, mostly lawyers she’d met through her roommates in college, and wasn’t that strange? They were all here for her just as they’d all been at the hospital, and they’d called her constantly, as if they were on a schedule, until she’d asked them not to call so often, to give her some time on her own. She met the eyes of Mr. Bernard Claymore, the family’s lawyer, for many years, not all that much younger than her grandmother. He was bent low, his old face weathered from spending so much of his life out-of-doors. Her father had said Bernie had all his wits and he was hard not to like even though he was a lawyer. That was good enough for Lucy, and so Mr. Claymore was dealing with her father’s estate as well. She could see tears spilling out of his eyes and trailing down his seamed face from the lectern. It nearly broke her.

  She was frozen to the spot, panic rising in her throat. She stood there, trying to center herself, and looked out again over the sea of faces, most familiar, some not. So many people, she thought, their lives intertwined with her father’s, and how were each of them feeling about his sudden unexpected death? She saw shock and sadness and blankness and imagined all these expressions were on her own face as well. She met her Uncle Alan’s dark eyes and remembered his telling her how he’d once fed her some strained peaches and she’d thrown up on him. And with that memory, Lucy realized she wasn’t cold any longer. She said fully into the mike, “Thank you for coming to honor my father’s life.

  “My mother, Claudine, died when I was very young. I remember my father trying to explain to me that she wasn’t coming home, and I remember he was crying but trying not to. I didn’t understand and kept asking for her. Dad would always say my mom was in heaven and that God didn’t want to let her go; she brought too much happiness and joy to those around her. And then he’d say, ‘Do you know, Lucy, I bet your mom is making everyone in heaven laugh their heads off. If I were God, I wouldn’t let her go, either.’

  “I think God feels the same way about Dad. All of you know how he could make you laugh, even if you were in a big funk. He could throw out one-liners so fast it was hard sometimes to keep up with him. It was impossible not to wear a perpetual smile around my father, even when I was a teenager and my world was otherwise filled with angst.

  “Another thing about my dad—I always knew he was in my corner. No one messed with me, ever, teenage boys in particular.

  “When I told him I’d changed my mind and I didn’t want to become a lawyer, that what I really wanted to do with my life was become part of the best cop shop in the world—the FBI—I’ll never forget the look on his face. Surprise, and then tears filled his eyes. I asked him what was wrong, and he smiled at me and hugged me and said it must be fate. When I asked him what he meant, he told me my mother had applied to the FBI only a few weeks before her death. Then he laughed, said he would have to readjust his long-term plans since it didn’t look like he would have a lawyer daughter to support him in his old age. In the FBI I’d do a whole lot more good than most lawyers ever do, but I wo
uldn’t get paid much for it.”

  Lucy paused to let the burst of laughter wash over her. It was as if the entire audience sitting in front of her had drawn a collective breath, and let in some memories of their own.

  “My dad loved his snifter of Hennessy Ellipse cognac every evening. He’d sit in his favorite chair, his head against the chair back, his eyes closed, and I’d know he was thinking about my mother. I know my mother and father are together now, and that all heaven laughs.

  “My dad was the best of fathers. I will miss him forever.”

  When she relinquished the mike to her Uncle Alan and smelled his familiar bay-rum scent when he hugged her, she realized some of her deadening pain was gone. She felt warm again.

  Alan Silverman didn’t speak until Lucy was once again seated beside Coop. Alan smiled at her as he said in his deep, booming voice, “I am a lawyer, and Josh often told me the same thing.”

  And there was more laughter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hoover Building

  Tuesday morning

  “Please, Dillon, I can do my job. I want to work; I need to work.”

  Savich looked beyond Agent Lucy Carlyle’s pale, composed face, beyond the misery sheening the air around her, to the fierce determination in her eyes. They were a darker blue than Sherlock’s, the color of the Caribbean under a cloudy sky. She looked as neat and puttogether as she always did, her chestnut hair, many different shades after the hot sun of summer, plaited neatly in a thick French braid, and her signature small silver hoops hanging from her ears. Her skin was so pale—was it whiter than usual? Grief, he knew, could leach the color out of you. She was wearing black boots and a white blouse and a black pants suit that looked to be a size too large for her. How much weight had she lost in five days?

  He said, “What are you going to do with your dad’s house, Lucy?”

  Why did he care? “I’m going to sell it. I’ve decided to sell my condo, too.” She drew a deep breath, spit it out. “I’m going to move into my grandmother’s house.”

  This surprised him. Savich had heard about Helen Silverman Carlyle’s huge mansion in Chevy Chase, Maryland, one of those fine old houses built at about the turn of the twentieth century, a barn of a place and a bear to heat, he imagined, in the Maryland winters. She’d been quite the philanthropist, a friend, in fact, of his own very famous grandmother, Sarah Elliott.

  “Your grandmother died a while ago, didn’t she?”

  “Three years. My dad kept Mr. and Mrs. McGruder on to take care of the house and grounds after she died. They live in town, and checked in with my dad several times a month.” She swallowed, looked down at her boots, frowned because she saw some mud on the toe, then looked up at him again.

  “Why are you moving into her house, Lucy?”

  Why does he want to know all this stuff ? He can get the truth out of a stalk of asparagus, so keep it simple. “I don’t know, it’s just something that feels right.”

  A black eyebrow shot up. “It feels right to you?”

  Idiot. He can spot a lie even before it’s out of your mouth. He was simply curious, but now you’ve got him focused on it.

  She found a smile. “You’re my boss, Dillon, but I know I can keep some things private; it’s in my job description.”

  He smiled back at her. “Point taken. Are you going to need some help moving?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll take it slow and easy, move a bit at a time. Please, let me work while I’m doing it.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you work the Black Beret case with Coop in the mornings and take the afternoons off to get yourself moved. It’s a big house, Lucy. Are you sure you want to rattle around in it alone?”

  “I grew up in that house. I love it.”

  He frowned.

  “What are you thinking, Dillon?”

  “What? Oh, someone walked on my grave. I had this strange feeling someone else was outside Mr. Patil’s Shop ’n Go when the cops started arriving, but that’s impossible, the cops would have seen anyone out there.

  “Now, Lucy, you promise me you’ll holler loud if you need help? With anything?”

  Savich watched her walk slowly from his office, after less resistance than he’d expected. It seemed she’d have agreed to anything just to get out of there. There was something going on with Lucy, and he’d bet some fresh grilled corn on the cob it was more than her grief for her father. No, this was something else, and it was connected, somehow, to her grandmother’s house. Too bad his gut wasn’t telling him any more than that. He’d have to keep a close eye on her.

  Savich rose and walked to his one big window. It was a cool day, with lots of sun, and there were a good dozen people already eating an early lunch in the park across the street. He felt it again, someone walking on his grave, and he let his mind float back to that night, trying to focus on something or someone who didn’t belong beyond that huge glass window at the Shop ’n Go just as the police arrived, but it was growing fainter in his mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was a glass half full, Lucy thought, but working a half day was better than nothing. She got out of Dillon’s office as fast as she could. He always saw too much. She cleaned up some paperwork, humming to herself to keep focused, because her brain kept splintering off to her father, laughing or smiling, or to his face slack in death, and tears would clog her throat. An hour later, on her way out, Coop called her over. “I got a call from the Cleveland PD. A bartender notified the police department last night, said our guy came in the bar about nine o’clock, looked around, then left real fast when he saw the bartender looking hard at him. He said he ran outside and looked around for the guy, but he didn’t see him. Then he called the police.”

  “So he’s aware everyone’s on the lookout for him.”

  Coop nodded.

  “Same description?”

  “He didn’t even change his black socks.”

  “Do you think he will now?”

  “He got a scare last night. I’m thinking he’s gonna have to get out of Dodge, head to another big city, maybe Philadelphia or New York, and change his routine and color scheme.

  “Hey, why don’t I buy you some lunch—there’s that new Moroccan restaurant over on Crowley. My friend at State says the couscous is pretty good.”

  She eyed him. He wasn’t acting like a conceited jerk. In fact, she didn’t ever recall his being anything but nice to her, and she realized she appreciated it. She didn’t have to jump on his busy fishing line if he threw it her way. She started to say no, and then her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten? She couldn’t remember. Coop grinned. “Yep, it’s that time. You got something heavier than that wimpy jacket? It’s pretty chilly out there.”

  They stopped by Lucy’s black Range Rover in the Hoover garage, and she shrugged into her leather jacket she kept in the backseat. She paused for a moment, eyeing the jacket. “I wonder if the cleaners can get blood out of leather?”

  “What did you do?”

  “Me? Nothing. I was thinking about Dillon’s leather jacket, the one he put over the head of that woman robber at the Shop ’n Go.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to ask him. How’d you come by that Range Rover?”

  “My dad gave it to me when I graduated. He said an FBI agent couldn’t have too much muscle, car included.” Coop led her to his blue Corvette with its black-leather interior that smelled like a million bucks.

  Lucy ran her fingers over the shining hood. “This is a very sexy car.” Not that I’m surprised; a cool car would be a must to maintain your rep.

  He lightly tapped his hand on the top of the car. “I had to put the top back on two weeks ago for the winter. In the summer, though, cruising around as a convertible, she’s something else. The color is called jet stream blue.”

  “Not a girlie blue, yet not so dark it’s nearly black. It’s nice. The metallic finish gives it a kick. Jet stream blue? Neat name. Yep, very sexy, Coop.” She couldn’t help it, s
he smiled at him. Was she nuts?

  “That’s what my mother said. She presented her to me on my last birthday.”

  A laugh spurted out. His mother gave him this car? What kind of line was this? “Your baby is a her?” Well, why was she surprised?

  “Her name is Gloria. The day after I got her, she was sitting here in my slot, singing out her name to me.”

  “And you’re saying your mom gave Gloria to you?”

  He nodded. “She said I was getting too staid, too set in my ways, and here I was thirty-one years old, and she wanted some grandkids. When I told her she already had eight rugrats from my prolific siblings, and that I was only on the very first day of my thirty-first year, she said that wasn’t the point. When I asked her what the point was, she smacked me, told me the point was I was to go cruising around D.C., looking hot, and getting myself some action. The salesman, she assured me, said the Corvette Grand Sport was just the ticket. She’s got high hopes for Gloria.”

  Lucy eyed him. He sounded legitimate—self-deprecating, charming, really, not like the playboy of the Western world at all. She ran her hand over the hood. “Given Gloria’s cost, your mom must really want a grandkid from you.” Then she reached out and stroked his ego, to see what he’d do. “And, Coop, you already are hot. Everybody in the unit knows that.”

  He opened his mouth, stared at her, then shook his head. “You’ve been listening to people you shouldn’t, haven’t you? There’s nothing to it, just some of the guys pulling my chain. No, wait, it’s Shirley, isn’t it?”

  “Come on, don’t try to pretend you’re some sort of hopeless nerd.”

  “I know it’s Shirley. I heard her tell Ruth I had to add pages to my black book, it was so crammed. Then she was going on about Annette in the forensics lab and Glenis in personnel. They’re friends of mine, that’s all, just friends.”