“Not a whole lot. Professor Salazar dropped by as well. The two of them are different in a lot of ways. But they both want you, sis, and that I find very curious.”

Potomac Village

Potomac, Maryland

Sunday afternoon

The countryside was pristine white, tree branches bowed low from the weight of snow, houses domed under six-foot-deep white hats. Savich was thankful the roads were clear and he could rocket his Porsche toward Potomac, Maryland, his light bar flashing on the roof. There were no harried commuters on the road this beautiful Sunday morning, and the few cars in their way pulled over to let the Porsche speed by.

Savich felt it to his gut—if they didn’t move fast, something else bad was going to happen. Then he thought it might not matter if they moved at the speed of light, something bad was still going to happen. He hated the feeling of helplessness, of inevitability.

Sherlock settled sunglasses on her nose to cut the glare. “I wonder what all the pulled-over drivers are thinking about a red Porsche cop car.”

“They probably think we’re yuppie idiots who paid someone to steal the flasher for us. We’ll fit in better once we get to Potomac Village. Did you know the place is one of the best-educated small towns in America? Lots of money, too, and not far from Washington.

“I forgot to tell you, I got a voice mail from Bo Horsley. You remember him, don’t you? Partnered with my dad on a lot of cases in the New York field office? He was the SAC until he retired a couple of months ago and opened his own security business.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Savich shook his head. “Something about the Jewel of the Lion exhibit in New York City in a couple of weeks. You know, that exhibit at the Met. I haven’t had time to call him back since we’ve been moving so quickly on this case. It didn’t sound all that urgent, so I’ll get to him when we come up for air.”

The Porsche slowed as they left the highway and cruised to the intersection of Falls Road and River Road.

“Nice place.” Sherlock nodded toward the clusters of upscale shops and businesses.

Savich turned the Porsche onto Rock Creek Court, checked his GPS, and after another half-block, turned into the driveway of a two-story white Colonial with black window frames. Lush, snow-heavy pine and oak trees dotted the sloping grounds. Like its neighbors, Marian Lodge’s house had a big front yard, a sturdy white fence on two sides, and a three-car garage. It looked welcoming and particularly charming with the Christmas lights still up, turned on, and shining brightly under the midday sun.

Marian Lodge was expecting them. When she opened the front door, they heard the sounds of the Titanic movie theme song playing faintly in the background.

Sherlock had seen Marian Lodge’s photo, but the woman in the flesh was far more striking. She was nearly as tall as Dillon, built like an Amazon, her dark hair pulled back with a careless hand and fastened with a clip. She wore black yoga pants and an oversized white shirt that hung off one shoulder, showing a black bra strap. She was barefoot.

“Come in, come in—don’t want all the heat to whoosh out of here.”

Marian Lodge waved them into the entrance hall and quickly closed the black front door. After introductions, Ms. Lodge checked their creds and waved them straight ahead into the living room.

The house’s pure Colonial exterior gave way to American country inside, with big overstuffed furniture, cozy and without pretense. It looked lived-in and welcoming. Half the back living room wall was glass, a deep backyard beyond that sloped down to a frozen creek. Like the front, the back was filled with motionless white trees and dozens of hibernating rosebushes you could barely make out in all the snow.

Marian Lodge faced them, her arms crossed over her chest. “My nieces are upstairs watching Titanic for about the tenth time. At least it’s a distraction. I’ll bring them down later if you wish to speak to them, though I hope you don’t. They would be of little help. Come into the kitchen. We’ll have coffee at the table.”

It was a worn wooden table, with scars and scratches, a family table that had seen gossip, arguments, laughter. Tommy Cronin had eaten at that table, Sherlock thought, maybe spread his books out, yelled at his sisters—she shook it off, anger at what had happened to him wouldn’t help.

Her coffee was good, though not as good as Dillon’s. Sherlock listened as Dillon expressed their condolences.

Lodge said abruptly, “Yes, everyone is very sorry. Who wouldn’t be? Tommy was only twenty years old, and now he’s dead, killed by some maniac who could only find Palmer Cronin’s face to connect to the anonymous banks that screwed him over. So he took his revenge, not by killing Palmer, since he’s an old man, his life nearly over, so why not make him suffer to his dying day by taking his only grandson?