“That was so weird, and I asked him why he’d say that, now that Tommy was dead, but he wouldn’t tell me. Then he got this look on his face like he’d come to some decision, nodding and talking to himself. He acted nervous, jumpy, you know what I mean?”

“You don’t know what he was nervous about?”

Melissa shook her head. “Since he was being such a jerk, I left. The snow had lightened up, so I hooked a ride on a motorcycle.”

“Did you see Peter yesterday?”

She nodded. “He called me after you interviewed him and his dad. He sounded really pleased with himself, said how he rubbed your noses in it since we were together in Georgetown Friday night, at that gallery.”

Savich said, “Do you know if he spoke to Stony yesterday?”

“I don’t know.” She raised her eyes to Savich’s face. “Stony killed himself. Why did he kill himself? I don’t understand it. All three of them are dead, just dead. Why?”

“We have to find out,” Sherlock said. “Melissa, what exactly did you and Peter fight about last night before you went to the rave with Janelle?”

“I finally accused him of drugging my wine. He denied it, of course, grinned at me. Do you know he said I should have some more of that wine, since it made me so wild? He thought he had the right, you know? Because he was helping me pay some bills. He didn’t have the right.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock said. “No one has that right.”

Savich said, “You got here at what time, Melissa?”

She blinked at him, as if she couldn’t quite understand what he’d said. She looked at Sherlock, who said, “Was it about nine o’clock when you knocked on his door?”

“Closer to nine-fifteen, maybe.”

Sherlock said. “Now, Melissa, I want you to think about when you arrived here at the apartment building tonight. Did you see anyone you didn’t recognize? Maybe someone running or walking very quickly here in the building or outside when you drove up?”

She paused to think, and that was good, Savich thought; she was focusing her brain. Finally, she shook her head. “No, I didn’t see anybody.”

Savich brought up hypnosis. Melissa said, “Do you think I could really remember more?”

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“Then I’ll think about it, I promise, Agent Savich,” she said, and turned back to stare down at her pink UGGs.

Maestro, Virginia

Monday evening

Rolling clouds scuttled over the black sky again, threatening snow before morning. It was only nine o’clock, but already the temperature had dived so low it was too cold to breathe comfortably without a wool scarf covering your mouth.

Griffin looked at Anna’s taillights, a couple dozen feet ahead. It seemed they were the only two people on the winding roads in Maestro. He knew she didn’t want to go back to her cottage, since she’d packed and locked her duffel in the trunk, but she hadn’t found Monk and she’d looked in all his hiding places. They’d find Monk together. When she’d said it was her fault because she’d spooked the cat, acted like a madwoman, he got in her face and told her not to be an idiot. He took her seriously when she’d told him if anyone at the B&B said anything about pets, she’d draw her gun and shoot them.

She hadn’t wanted to have dinner at the Nobles’ house, but Griffin had known she needed the distraction, needed contact with the real world again. He’d talked about Dix’s barbecued ribs and potato salad and Ruth’s green salad she always made for show until he’d swear Anna was salivating.

Anna wasn’t salivating now. She felt jumpy and worried, not only about Monk but about everything that was happening so fast she couldn’t get her mind around it.

When she’d backed out of her driveway to follow Griffin to the Nobles’ house, she was wondering if she’d ever see her cottage again after today. No, it was all over for her here in Maestro, and it was all on her record—she’d failed here, miserably. Arnie Racker had been murdered under her nose, and she’d learned nothing of value except that being in Salazar’s house had gotten him killed—that, and her vastly improved violin technique. Six months wasted, along with the taxpayers’ money and her time. All of it made her want to scream and cry at the same time.

Still, she thought now, Dix and Ruth had made her glad she’d come. It felt safe and warm in the Nobles’ house, and she’d felt herself relax with each passing minute. She’d packed away nearly as many ribs as the Nobles’ two sons, Rafe and Rob, good-looking teenagers who’d wanted to know everything about the shootings in Maestro. They groused and complained at the dinner table when their father cut short their questions, but they’d left happily enough to study, since that meant they wouldn’t have to help clean up.