Savich said, “The evening Sean was on TV, it was next to impossible to get him to bed. He was so high, I had to pull him off the ceiling. His grandmother—my mom—didn’t help. She was stuffing him with brownies she’d brought over, telling him he was the next Matt Damon.” Savich grinned. “I’ll bet he’s missing all the attention, with only Gabriella for a slave until we get home. I understand, though, that his best friend, Marty, from right next door, isn’t happy with him. She called him a show-off, said he should have talked about her on TV, since she’s been his friend all these years, and he was boring.”

Ethan returned with three coffees and a cup of tea, four fat bagels, and a dozen packets of cream cheese and butter. He grinned. “Ambrosia for the arteries.”

Joanna was smiling as she spread a thick coat of cream cheese on her bagel. “Do you know, this is the first time in a week I’ve been hungry?” She took a huge bite. “Ah, that tastes nearly as good as you do, Ethan…” Her voice dropped off, her face turned red.

Ethan laughed at her. It sounded so sane, so normal.

Joanna cleared her throat. “I have always blushed. It is my curse, along with my freckles. Dillon, you were talking about Victor Nesser?”

“Well, not really.”

“Who cares?” Sherlock said, and poked him in the side. “Tell Joanna what’s going to happen to Victor.”

Savich said after he’d sipped the lovely Lipton tea, “Marvin Cutler, Esquire, from L.A., has taken Victor’s case pro bono. He announced to a dozen cameras and fifty reporters that he’s putting together a team and—har, har—he is doing this for the public good, not for the publicity. He’s claiming Victor was Lissy’s puppet, a slave under her control, and he only did what she forced him to do. It was Lissy who did all the killing.

“He’s also saying the FBI brutalized Victor, even shot him in the foot for the fun of it after they’d captured him, and the poor young man will limp badly for the rest of his life.”

“Fact is,” Savich continued, “I’m doubtful Victor will go to court when the DOJ prosecutors present all the evidence to Victor’s dream team. I’m thinking Victor will agree to life without parole rather than risk being tried in Virginia where there’s the death penalty. That’s where Lissy shot both a father and mother to steal their car. The mother died.”

Sherlock said as she broke off a piece of bagel, “We heard yesterday that Victor is refusing to eat, refusing to talk, refusing even to see his lawyer. I’m thinking he’s grieving for Lissy. What was between the two of them, no matter how twisted and perverse, it was strong and deep. She was the center of his life. I don’t think he knows what to do or think or how to act without her. Was Victor the center of Lissy’s life? Maybe so. Dillon suggested they put him on a suicide watch.”

Ethan said, “A DEA friend of mine told me Lissy Smiley was buried yesterday beside her mother in Fort Pessel, Virginia. He said the local media plastered a photo of Lissy all over the TV, from back when she was ten years old and looked adorable. The media never fails to astonish me. They go after a criminal tooth and nail until the criminal is captured. Then they do a one-eighty and scream it’s not his fault, point to all the dreadful things that happened in his childhood, how society failed him, blah, blah.”

Savich was chewing on his bagel as he listened. He looked across the small table at Joanna and Ethan, the two of them sitting close together, their arms touching, their body language screaming intimacy. A blind man could see it, and it had all come about in only a couple of weeks. He was looking at two people who’d battled death together and beat the odds, their child with them. Yes, he thought, Autumn was their child now. He wondered when Joanna and Ethan had realized their future was together. All he knew was that when they left the hospital, Autumn between them, they’d be a family. Would they all go back to Titusville and move in with Big Louie, Lula, and Mackie? He asked Ethan, “Who’s taking care of your critters?”

“Faydeen, my dispatcher, moved in right after, well, after Blessed took us away. She said Lula has taken over the roost. Even my black Lab, Big Louie, won’t cross her. Faydeen reported that Mackie, the little wuss, sleeps under her armpit to avoid Lula. She tells him to search out his machismo and stand up to Lula, but Mackie just burrows deeper.”

Savich saw a wonderful picture in his mind. A bachelor party for Ethan at his Georgetown gym with a bunch of hell-raising DEA and FBI guys who would joyfully beat the crap out of each other before eating a dozen pizzas at Dizzy Dan’s. He laughed. Three pairs of eyes fastened on him. Savich cleared his throat. “Just thinking,” he said.