“We always found him levelheaded, and respectful to us. The only time he gave us cause for worry was when he brought that Melissa Ivy girl here with her notebook, and her fingers flying on her phone.” She fanned her thin veined hands in front of her. “What else is there to say about him? He gave Palmer the lovely cashmere sweater for Christmas.” Avilla Cronin’s fingers lightly stroked her husband’s arm, feeling the soft material. She blinked and licked her lips, so white they disappeared into her parchment face.

Sherlock said, “If we could discuss some of Tommy’s other friends, perhaps. Of course we will be speaking about that with Tommy’s aunt, Marian Lodge, and Tommy’s two sisters as well.”

Cronin’s old mouth seamed and twisted. “Marian—she will mourn the boy with us as if she were his mother, though she showed no such courtesy to my own son, Palmer Junior, when he died. But that is a family matter.” He fell silent for a moment. “Avilla and I couldn’t take the children, simply couldn’t, so we stepped back when she sought their guardianship.

“You asked about other friends. One of the boys Tommy brought here regularly was Peter Biaggini—I remember I didn’t care for him. He was a handsome boy, but too polite, a bootlicker, that’s what you called him, Avilla. Nor did I like the way he tried to dominate Tommy, treated him as if Tommy were his acolyte or his boy Friday. Why Tommy put up with that, I can’t say.

“There was Stony Hart—his real name is Walter. His father, Wakefield Hart, was at one time a colleague of mine, one of the senior accounting officers at Fannie Mae during the accounting irregularities that led to the whole senior staff resigning some eight years ago. When he was forced to resign that position, he reinvented himself as a financial consultant and a public speaker. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He earns most of his money now denouncing his erstwhile colleagues, calling for decentralization and regulations, and warning of financial Armageddon. We no longer speak.

“His son, Stony, though, has always seemed a fine boy, though he, too, seemed too much under Peter Biaggini’s thumb. Actually, all of them were. Stony—Walter—is another smart young man who attended MIT, one of those very logical people who used to write software programs for fun, and now— I really don’t know what he is doing now.” Mr. Cronin stopped talking, as if it were simply too much effort to continue.

Avilla said abruptly, “When will we be able to bury Tommy?”

Savich said, “We will notify you as soon as we know.”

Henderson County Hospital

Sunday morning

When Griffin left the elevator on the hospital’s third floor, he stopped to speak with Maestro Deputy Tuck Warner, stationed outside Delsey’s room. There’d been a lot of people wanting to see Delsey, Tuck told him. He’d let Henry Stoltzen in again since Delsey had called out when she’d heard his voice. Anna was still with Delsey. He said Anna’s name with a good deal of affection. Griffin didn’t know if Deputy Warner was married, but if he was, Griffin hoped he curbed his enthusiasm at home.

Warner said, “We all know Anna. She’s not snooty like some of the students at Stanislaus. She’s always nice, always ready with some fresh coffee and a big smile when you sit down at the diner. She even invited some of us to one of the concerts at Stanislaus last fall, to hear her play a violin solo.”

Anna was sitting beside Delsey’s bed, her head down, her long hair falling along her face, looking over some papers on her lap. All her winter gear was on the floor beside her chair. She was wearing jeans and a blue turtleneck, boots on her feet. He heard Delsey in the bathroom taking a shower. She was set on leaving the hospital once she was cleaned up. Griffin knew she’d walk over him to get out of here.

“Hello again, Ms. Castle.”

Her head jerked up, and she shuffled the papers she was reading and slipped them back inside a notebook. He held out his hand to her, showing her the photo of the dead man’s body on his cell. He saw something in her eyes, something hard, maybe a flash of anger, and then it was gone. “I understand you never knew his name, Ms. Castle?”

She looked up at him, her eyes clear, and when she spoke, her words came out so slowly as to be nearly frozen. “No, he never mentioned his name. I didn’t want to be rude and ask. As I told Agent Noble, what I remember about him is that he usually sat alone in the back, and he was always a good tipper.”

“Do you remember any of your conversations with him?”

“We only spoke about everyday things as I took his order. He was friendly.”