“The exhibit says it all without me heaping on praise. I wanted to tell you I’ve got you and Sherlock a lovely town house in Chelsea to stay in while you’re here. Friends of mine are heading for Paris for a couple of weeks—why not Tahiti, I wanted to ask them, since it’s February, but hey, their choice. You guys can come, right?”

Savich said, “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet. We’re still trying to dig our way out of this mess down here—you said we were up to our necks in alligators, and you’re right, that’s the perfect way to put it.”

“Well, let me add another draw. Not only am I trying to get my nephew Nicholas Drummond here—you remember, he’s the youngest muckety-muck at Scotland Yard? One of his colleagues, Detective Inspector Elaine York, is here in New York as the minder for the Crown Jewels, especially the Koh-i-Noor, since it’s the centerpiece of the entire exhibit. She’s one smart cookie, fun, and I think you’ll really like her. Best of all, she’s a vegetarian, Savich, a kindred spirit. Anyhow—”

Savich looked up to see Mr. Maitland waving at him. He said quickly, “All good inducements, Bo, and thanks for setting up a house for us. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

“You got it, boyo. Good hunting.”

Savich left his office and walked toward the interview room where Peter and Stony had sat at the table with him only two days before. Mr. Maitland met him outside the door. “She’s a beautiful girl,” he said first thing, “with a story to tell. Hope you get the truth out of her, Savich. You know her better than I do.”

Savich nodded, walked into the interview room, and closed the door behind him. Lucy Carlyle stood back against the wall, watching over her.

Mr. Maitland was right, Savich thought. Melissa Ivy indeed looked beautiful this morning, the deadening shock in her eyes from a few hours before a thing of the past. Her face was no longer pale, her eyes no longer vague, and her long blond hair was glossy, falling sleek and wavy around her face. She wore eye shadow, a lovely shade of pale green that matched her sweater.

“Ms. Ivy,” he said, nodded to Lucy, and sat down.

“Agent Savich.”

“I see you’re feeling better today. Glad you could come in so quickly after you called this morning. Director Maitland tells me you’re certain now you saw someone at Peter Biaggini’s apartment last night, though you told us then you hadn’t seen anyone. Tell me why this is.”

She sat forward, clasping her hands in front of her. Even her manicure was fresh, her nails a soft pink. “I’m sorry, but last night, after I found Peter and then you came, I couldn’t think. All I could see was Peter and how horrible his head looked and so much blood everywhere. My mind wasn’t working.”

That was the unvarnished truth. “I understand you remember someone now. Before you tell me, Ms. Ivy, I have some questions for you myself. Had you ever seen the gun that killed Peter before, the one on the floor? Had Peter, Stony, anyone, had it in their apartment, or mentioned a gun like that in your presence?”

She shook her head, sending her hair swaying beside her face. “No, none of them had a gun. All they liked to talk about was computers, or economics or banking, computer games, sometimes, but never about guns.”

“Did any of the three mention a camera at the Hart residence, a surveillance system, recordings of any kind?”

“The Harts have that? You mean they watch you with hidden cameras?” At his nod, she said, “That’s creepy. I visited there a few times.” And he could see her thinking, wondering if she’d ever done anything she shouldn’t have while at the Hart house. “I don’t think any of them knew, maybe even Stony. At least he never mentioned it.”

“Now tell me what you remember at Peter’s apartment last night.”

He watched her swallow once, clasp her hands in front of her on the table. “When I arrived at Peter’s apartment building, I automatically went over to get Peter’s mail. He always forgot, and so he gave me a key and asked me to open his box and bring me his mail whenever I was over. I was standing by the row of mailboxes, sorting through some mail, when I heard someone coming down the stairs. I turned my head and saw this person all bundled up, out of breath from running down the stairs, I remember thinking, and then he walked out the front door. He didn’t look at me, maybe he didn’t even see me, he was in too much of a hurry. I watched him stop right outside the glass doors, like he was pulling himself together, and then he walked away. I lost sight of him. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, and I forgot him until I was in bed last night.”