"Are you saying you don't think he did it?" I asked.

She bit her lower lip again. "I'm not sure what I think. I just wanted to get all this off my chest."

"I appreciate that, Claire," I said. "I really do."

"If I think of anything else, should I be in touch with you?" she asked.

"I'm staying at the Breakers overnight," I said. "Feel free to call me there. And you can always reach me on my cell phone." I gave her the number. She walked me to the door. "By the way, where's Garret today?" I asked.

"In his room," Claire said. "He's having a lot of trouble coping. He's lost his sister and his brother. It's a chore to get him to come out of there for meals."

"But he makes it to his tennis matches," I said.

"Reluctantly," she said, "to say the least." She glanced at her watch. "Actually, he has to defend his singles championship at twelve-thirty."

"On the day of his sister's funeral?"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't get involved in any of that," she said. "That's between Garret and his father."

I looked up the staircase, then glanced back toward Darwin Bishop's office. "You think Garret would mind if I talked with him a few minutes?" I asked.

"He won't speak with anyone," she said. "I don't think you'd get anywhere right now."

"I don't mind trying," I said.

She hesitated. "I would have to run that by Win."

I knew how that would turn out. "Don't bother," I said. "I'll catch up with him another time."

"Learn anything?" Anderson asked, as we drove away from the Bishop estate.

"You're right about one thing. Bishop wants this investigation to end," I said.

"What did he say?"

"He offered me fifty grand to cut bait."

"I hope you took it," Anderson said.

I looked over at him. He was grinning. "He wasn't happy when I turned him down," I said. "He's not pretending we're on the same team anymore."

"So he still sits at the top of your list? You think he's the one."

"I think if we keep the pressure on him," I said, "he'll let us know, one way or the other."

"I'll buy that," Anderson said.

I didn't want to hold anything back. "Claire stopped me on my way out," I said. "She wanted to tell me a few things about Julia."

"Like?"

"Julia did get quite depressed after the twins were born." I kept any alarm out of my voice. "I guess she even made a stray comment about wishing they hadn’t been born."

Anderson raised an eyebrow. "All worth hearing," he said. "I'm glad you made the trip."

"Me, too," I said.

"I reviewed that data you e-mailed about the risk of a second infanticide when one twin has been killed," Anderson said. "Seventy percent. I'm going to press the Department of Social Services to intervene and get Tess out of there."

I didn't like the idea of forcing Julia's hand, but the risk to Tess was too high to worry about hurt feelings. "It's the right thing to do," I said.

As we passed Bishop's "watch house" another Range Rover pulled behind us.

Anderson glanced into the rearview mirror, then over at me. "You should get out of that hotel and head to my place for the night."

I instinctively felt for the Browning Baby in my front pocket. "Not a bad idea," I said. "Maybe I'll head over after the funeral."

"Why just maybe?" he asked.

"Because my room is nonrefundable," I joked.

Anderson shook his head. "If you're planning anything with Julia, you're not thinking straight."

"I'll probably come by," I said, feeling the urge to close down the discussion.

"You've been warned," Anderson said.

10

The Brant Point Racket Club on North Beach Street is the kind of place you'd expect people of leisure to spend leisure time. The fences around the outdoor courts are hung with green nylon sheeting intended to protect the players not only from the sun but from the paparazzi. The clubhouse is understated and elegant, with deep armchairs to linger in and talk about this shot or that shot, this racket or that, all the while nursing a gin and tonic, maybe checking a stock quote on a Palm VII.

I had driven over to Brant Point after Anderson left me at my hotel. I thought I might get a few minutes alone with Garret Bishop. My gut told me that something other than grief was keeping him scarce.

I got to Garret's singles match just before 2:00 p.m. The temporary bleachers around the court were filled with spectators. Garret was already winning the third set 4-1. He'd taken the first two 6-2, 6-4. He was serving for another game point. He leaned back. Beads of sweat flew off his brow. He tossed the ball over his head, tracking it with his eyes like a hunter. Then he reached to the sky and funneled every ounce of strength in his powerful body to his arm and wrist. A dull thud broke the silence, his opponent swung and missed, and, just like that, it was 5-1.

What sort of young man, I wondered, can perform with excellence on a tennis court when his baby sister's funeral is to be held four hours later? And what had it cost Garret to buckle to Darwin Bishop's demands for performance and grace under any pressure, no matter how intense? Where had all his anxiety, sadness, and fear gone?

The match ended just five minutes later-6-2, 6-4, 6-1. Garret scored match point, moving in for a weak lob, posturing to slam the ball down the right baseline, making his opponent back up to defend against his power, then tapping the ball ever so gently, so that it dropped just over the net.

As applause filled the air, Garret simply turned and walked off the court-no fist raised in triumph, no nod to the crowd, no handshake at the net.

I tried to get his attention when he was about halfway to the clubhouse. "Garret," I called out, from a few steps behind him. He didn't stop. I quickened my pace until I was walking beside him. He kept staring straight ahead. "Garret," I said, a little louder.

He turned to me, a blank expression on his face. "What?" he said, without any hint that he remembered we had met.

"I'm Frank Clevenger," I said. "I met you with your mother at the house. I was with Officer Anderson."

He kept walking.

"The psychiatrist," I prodded him.

"I know who you are," he said, without breaking pace.

"I'd like to talk with you for a minute," I said.

"I don't need to," he said. He picked up his pace. "I'm getting through it."

It dawned on me that he might think Julia had sent me to help him with his feelings about the murder. "No one knows that I've come here," I said. "Your father and mother didn't send me. I came because I need information."

"Such as?" he said.

I didn't think I had the luxury of being subtle. "I want you to tell me what you can about your father."

That stopped him. He turned to me. "My father," he said, with palpably fragile patience.

"Yes," I said.

"What do you need to know about him?" he asked.

I had the feeling I would get more, rather than less, information from Garret if he knew I suspected his father of involvement in Brooke's death. Maybe he'd relish the chance to get out from under Bishop's thumb. "I'm not comfortable with the party line that Billy killed your sister," I said. "I'm looking at other possibilities."

He looked at me doubtfully. "Isn't Win the one paying you?" he asked.

I remembered that Billy had asked me the same question. I also noted that Garret called his father by his first name. No terms of endearment anywhere in sight. "No," I said. "I work for the police."

"They usually work for Win, too."

Garret's statement gave me a moment's pause about whether North Anderson had always kept himself at arm's length from the Bishop family. But the doubt didn't last more than that moment. Anderson and I had been through hell and back together. "Nobody investigating this case is on your dad's payroll," I said. "That may be a problem for him."