Savich shook his head. “Now he’ll be so spoiled that we’ll actually have to say no to him a couple of times to get him grounded back into reality.”

“I bet Mom would love to baby-sit him on a regular basis,” Lily said.

“Well,” Savich said, “she’s got her own life. She’s his treat; two or three times a week he gets big doses of Grandma. It works well that way. Our nanny, Gabriella Henderson, is the best. She’s young, so she’s got the energy and stamina to keep up with him. Believe me, he can wear you down very fast.”

Lily was laughing, looking over at Sean, who was seated in his walker, a nifty contraption that let him scoot all over the downstairs. If he ran into something, he just changed directions.

Savich said, “Those wheels are bad for the floor, but Sherlock and I decided we’d just have them refinished when he moves on to crawling and walking.”

Lily said slowly, “Isn’t it strange? I never imagined you with a kid, Dillon.”

Savich smiled and helped her down on his big stuffed chair. “I didn’t either, but here came Sherlock, blasted right into my comfortable life, and it just seemed like the right thing. We’re very lucky, Lily. Now, sweetheart, we’ve been traveling all day and you’re jet-lagged, probably really bad what with the surgery a week ago. I want you to sleep at least ten hours before you face the world here in Washington tomorrow.”

“You and Sherlock have to be jet-lagged too. Even though you travel a lot and you are FBI agents, you—”

The front doorbell rang.

Savich walked around Sean, who was speeding toward the front door. It was Simon Russo. Savich knew him as a man of immense energy and focus, a man who just didn’t quit. And now Simon was looking beyond him to the living room.

“Simon, it’s good to see you. What the devil are you doing here?”

Simon grinned at his friend, shook his hand, and said, “Yeah, good to see you, Savich. I came to see the paintings. Where are they? Not here, I hope. You don’t have the kind of security to keep the paintings here, even overnight.”

“No we don’t. Come on in. No, the paintings are in the vault in the Beezler-Wexler Gallery, safe as can be.”

“Good, good. I’d like you to arrange for me to see them, Savich.”

“So you said. First, however, you need a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie. My mom made it.”

“Oh, not your blasted tea. Coffee, please, Savich, I’m begging you. Coffee, black. Then we can see the paintings.”

“Simon, come on in and say hello to Sherlock and meet my sister, Lily.”

Simon shook his head and asked, “Not until tomorrow? How early?”

“Get a grip, Simon. Come along. Hey, guys, look who just flew through our front door? Simon Russo.”

Lily’s first impression of Simon Russo was that he was too good-looking, that he was a man who looked like a Raphaelesque angel, hair black and thick and a bit too long. Yeah, the angel Gabriel, probably, the head angel, the big kahuna. He was taller than her brother, long and lean, his eyes brighter and bluer than a winter sky over San Francisco Bay, and he looked distracted. He hadn’t shaved. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a white dress shirt, a yellow-and-red tie, and a tweed jacket. He looked like a gangster academic, an odd combination, but it was true. Or maybe a nerd gangster, what with a name like Simon. He also looked like he knew things, maybe dangerous things. Lily was sure all the way to her bones that she wouldn’t trust him if he pledged his name in blood.

Red lights flashed in her brain. No, she wouldn’t let herself even see him as a man. He was an expert who wanted to see her Sarah Elliott paintings for some reason. He was Dillon’s friend. She wouldn’t have to worry about him. Still, she found herself drawing back into the big chair, just in case.

“Simon!” Sherlock was across the living room in under three seconds, her arms thrown around him, laughing and squeezing him. She came barely to his chin. He was hugging her, kissing her bouncing hair. She pulled back finally, kissed his scratchy cheek, and said, “Goodness, you’re here in a hurry. Yes, I know it isn’t us you want to see, it’s those paintings. Well, you’ll just have to wait until morning.”

Lily watched him hug her sister-in-law close once again, kiss her hair once again, and say, “I love you, Sherlock, I’d love to keep kissing you, but Dillon can kill me in a fair fight. The only time I ever beat him up, he was sick with the flu, and even then it was close. He also fights dirty. I don’t want him to mess up my perfect teeth.” He lifted her over his head, then slowly lowered her.