Itwas a massive, sprawling Tudor building with a circular driveway accented withcobblestones, a large gabled entrance. To the right, partially hidden by trees,was a stable, next to a pair of tennis courts. A high wrought-iron fenceencircled the property.

    Byrneparked his van and, even though he was wearing his best suit, suddenly feltunderdressed. He also realized that he had been holding his breath. He got outof the vehicle, straightened his tie, smoothed the front of his overcoat, andrang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a woman in her sixties.Byrne announced himself, and the woman led him through the high, archeddoorway. Ahead was a carved mahogany winding staircase; to the right were thickfluted pillars leading to a formal dining room. To the left was the great room,with a view of the pool and the manicured grounds beyond. Byrne's heels echoedin the massive space. The woman took his coat and led him into a study off theenormous foyer.

    Theroom was darkly paneled, clubby, with a pair of large bookcases built in and avaulted open-trussed ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. The mantel wasarrayed with pine cones and other autumn decorations. Above the mantel was alarge portrait of Christa-Marie. In the painting she sat in a velvet chair. Ithad to have been painted right around the time Byrne met her, that dark nightin 1990.

    A fewmoments later the door opened and a man entered.

    BenjaminCurtin was in his early fifties. He had thick gray hair, swept straight back, astrong jaw. His suit was tailored to perfection and might well have cost whatByrne made in a month. Curtin was probably twenty pounds heavier than helooked.

    Byrneintroduced himself. He did not produce his identification. He was not there inany official capacity. Not yet.

    'It'sa pleasure to meet you, detective,' Curtin said, perhaps to remind Byrne whathe did for a living. Curtin had a Southern accent. Byrne pegged him asMississippi money.

    'Andyou, counselor.'

    There,Byrne thought. Everyone knows their jobs.

    'IsLiam still keeping the peace down there?'

    Downthere, Byrne thought. Curtin made it sound like the boondocks. He wasreferring to Judge Liam McManus, who everyone knew was going to run for thePhiladelphia Supreme Court in a year.

    'We'relucky to have him,' Byrne said. 'Rumor is he won't be there for much longer.Next thing you know he'll be living in Chestnut Hill.'

    Curtinsmiled. But Byrne knew it was his professional smile, not one that held anywarmth. The attorney gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk. Bothmen sat down.

    'CanCharlotta get you anything? Coffee? Tea?'

    'I'mfine, thanks.'

    Curtinnodded. The door behind Byrne was closed.

    'So,what brings you here to visit Ms. Schönburg, detective?'

    'I'mafraid I can't really get into anything too specific, but I will say that shemay have information about an open investigation being conducted by thePhiladelphia Police Department.'

    Curtinlooked slightly amused. 'I'm intrigued.'

    'Howso?'

    'Well,as I'm sure you're aware, Ms. Schönburg no longer lives a public life. She isby no means a recluse, but, as I'm sure you can appreciate, she does notcirculate in any of the social circles to which she once belonged.'

    'Iunderstand.'

    'Shehas almost constant companionship here, so I'm afraid I don't see how she couldpossibly be involved in anything that has taken place recently inPhiladelphia.'

    'That'swhat I'm here to determine, Mr. Curtin. But I have a few questions before Imeet with her.'

    'Isshe suspected of a crime?'

    'No,'Byrne said. 'Absolutely not.'

    Curtinstood, walked to the window, looked out. He continued to speak without turningaround. 'I must tell you that in the few years she has been out of prison therehave been no fewer than a hundred requests for interviews with her. She isstill very much the object of fascination not only with people in the world ofclassical music but also with the basest denizens of the tabloid world.'

    'I'mnot here to write something for the Enquirer,' Byrne said.

    Curtinsmiled again. Practiced, mirthless, mechanical. 'I understand. What I'm sayingis, all these requests have been presented to Christa-Marie and she hascategorically turned them all down.'

    'Shecontacted me, Mr. Curtin.'

    Byrnesaw Curtin's shoulders tense. It appeared that he had not known this. 'Ofcourse.'

    'Ineed to ask her a few questions, and I want to know what her general mentalstate is. Is she lucid?'

    'Mostof the time, yes.'

    'I'mnot sure what that means.'

    'Itmeans that much of the time she is rational and fully functional. She reallywould not have any problem living on her own, but she chooses to have afull-time psychiatric nurse on the premises.'

    Byrnenodded, remained silent.

    Curtinwalked slowly back to the desk, eased himself into the sumptuous leather chair.He placed his forearms on the desk, leaned forward.

    'Christa-Mariehas had a hard life, detective. From the outside, one might think she led alife of glamour and privilege and, up until the incident, she did enjoythe many rewards of her talent and success. But after that night, from theinterrogations and subsequent allocution, to her eighteen months at ConventHill, to her incarceration at Muncy, she—'

    Thewords dropped like a Scud missile. 'Excuse me?'

    Curtinstopped, looked at Byrne.

    'Yousaid Convent Hill?' Byrne asked.

    'Yes.'

    ConventHill Mental Health Facility was a massive state-run mental hospital in central Pennsylvania.It had been closed under a cloud of suspicion in the early 1990s after nearlyone hundred years of operation.

    'Whenwas Christa-Marie at Convent Hill?'

    'Shewas there from the time she was sentenced until it closed in 1992.'

    'Why wasshe sent there?'

    'Sheinsisted on it.'

    Byrne'smind reeled. 'You're telling me that Christa-Marie insisted on being sent toConvent Hill? It was her choice?'

    'Yes.As her attorney I fought against it, of course. But she hired another firm andmade it happen.'

    'Andyou say she was there for eighteen months?'

    'Yes.From there she went to Muncy.'

    Byrnehad had no idea that Christa-Marie had spent time at the most notoriouslybrutal mental-health facility east of Chicago.

    WhileByrne was absorbing this news a woman walked into the room. She was about fortyand wore a smart navy blue suit, white blouse.

    'Detective,this is Adele Hancock,' Curtin said. 'She is Christa- Marie's nurse.'

    Byrnerose. They shook hands.

    AdeleHancock was trim and athletic, had a runner's body, close- cropped gray hair.

    'MissSchönburg will see you now,' the woman said.

    Curtinstood, grabbed his coat, his briefcase. He rounded the desk, handed Byrne alinen business card. 'If there is anything else I can do for you, please do nothesitate to call me.'

    'Iappreciate your time, sir.'

    'Andgive Liam my best.'

    Sure,Byrne thought. At the next curling match.

    BenjaminCurtin nodded to Adele Hancock and took his leave.

    Byrnewas led down a long dark-paneled hallway past a room that held a grand piano.On that night twenty years ago he had not visited this wing of the house.

    'Isthere anything I should know before I meet with her?' Byrne asked.

    'No,'Hancock said. 'But I can tell you that she has not spoken of anything elsesince your call.'

    Whenthey reached the end of the hallway, the woman stopped, gestured to the room atthe end. Byrne stepped inside. It was a solarium of sorts, an octagonal roomwalled by misted glass. There were scores of huge tropical plants. Music liltedfrom unseen speakers.