“No.”

“Did the defendant spend some of his time with the victim out by the pool?”

“Yes.”

“Most of his time?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever hear them discuss the victim’s husband’s will?”

“Yes.”

“Did they discuss how the proceeds of that will could be obtained?”

“Yes.”

Three steps this way, three steps back.

“Did this process involve the premature death of the victim’s—”

“Objection!” yelped the defendant’s lawyer. He had his jacket buttoned and his tie knotted at his throat, like Murray’s, but he was gleaming with perspiration. Weary to begin with, he had suddenly realized his own body was moving to the rhythm of Murray and the witness’s little verbal dance.

“Goes to motive,” Murray said calmly.

“Overruled,” said the judge.

“Did they sometimes leave the pool and go into the house together?” Murray asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you say the defendant made himself at home?”

“Objection! Calls for—”

“Sustained.” The judge, who himself had been swaying with the testimony, now wanted to hurry this process along.

Murray obviously knew that and was now happy to oblige. “Mr. Aikin, did you ever see the defendant, Bill Phoenix, engage in sexual activity with—”

“Objection! Objection! Objection!”

“Overruled,” said the judge. “Witness may answer the quest—”

“Yes.”

“But not yet.” The judge sighed and held up a hand palm out to signal for silence. A bead of perspiration ran to the tip of his florid nose, clung for a few seconds, then dropped onto some papers before him with a faint but audible splat. “Mr. Murray, you may now complete your question—without interruption.”

“Of course, your honor. . . . Sexual activity with the victim?”

“Yes.”

“Did they ever, before, after, or during sex, discuss what they would do with the inheritance money if your father were to die?”

“Obje—”

“Overruled.” The judge used an already damp handkerchief to dab perspiration from his forehead. He wiped his face, smacked his lips, growled, and said, “On with it.”

After the jury found the defendant, William Alan Phoenix, guilty of first-degree murder, the jurors were released and filed out. There was no doubt in their bearing or on their faces that at his sentencing appearance, Phoenix would learn he was to die at the hands of the state.

Dwayne Aikin was sitting in the back of the courtroom. He watched without expression as Bill Phoenix was led away in handcuffs, to be transferred to a holdover cell. Phoenix caught sight of Dwayne, locked gazes with him, and didn’t look away, craning his neck to see him until it was impossible.

The fear and wonder in Phoenix’s eyes was something Dwayne would never forget. He enjoyed calling it to memory from time to time when he needed something to think about in order to fall asleep.

40

New York, the present

They were in the Q&A offices on West 79th Street. Quinn was seated behind his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair with his fingers laced behind his head as if he were a POW. He was leaning dangerously far back in the chair, but Helen the profiler, who was half sitting, half standing, with her haunches propped on Pearl’s desk, wasn’t worried about him falling. Quinn habitually sat that way, and never had fallen. At least not when anyone was around to see him. Helen wondered.

Quinn was wondering, too. His gaze took in the entire six feet plus of the lanky, athletic woman. Like many redheads, she had a sprinkling of freckles along the bridge of her nose and on her upper chest. The freckles on her chest were visible because her baggy T-shirt sagged enough at the neck almost to reveal whatever cleavage there was. Quinn was musing that he’d not heard of Helen dating or getting involved with a man—or another woman, for that matter. Well, it was none of his—

“It’s none of my business,” Helen said, “but what are you thinking?”

As she so often did, Helen had picked up something in his demeanor. “About the case,” he lied.

“Which case? D.O.A. or the missing Michelangelo piece?”

“They’re the same,” Quinn said.

“Really? You think D.O.A. killed Andria Bell and Jeanine Carson because of Bellezza?”

“There’s not much question about it.”

“But some question?”

Quinn shifted forward in his chair, looking much larger behind the desk. He was a man who could loom even when seated. “There’s almost always some question.”

“What about the killer trying for Nancy Weaver?” Helen asked. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with Bellezza.”

“Which means it successfully diverts and lessens our resources. Feds is on that job now, playing unseen guardian angel for Weaver. Sal, and then Harold, will relieve him.”

“They’re angelic, all right, all three of them.”

“Less sinful, anyway,” Quinn said with a smile.

“By a long shot.”

“What do you think?” Quinn asked.

“I think D.O.A. went after Weaver to turn up the heat on you,” Helen said. “Not because he’s searching for some Renaissance marble bust. It’s part of his sick game.” Helen crossed her arms, muscular as a man’s against her baggy shirt, beneath where breasts must be. Her triceps rippled. “On the other hand,” she said, “it doesn’t have to be either/or.”

“If Bellezza is involved,” Quinn said, “it can’t be either /or. It has to be both.”

As he often did when frustrated, Quinn wished he could light a cigar. He played with the idea of depending on Helen not to rat on him, and then decided he shouldn’t compel her to keep something like cigar smoking secret from Pearl. Or from Jody.

He would play it safe and go cigarless.

“You said you were thinking about the case,” Helen reminded him.

“About that oddball family,” Quinn said.

“Oddball in what way?”

“They’re thick in the way few families are, and it’s hard to keep straight who’s a blood relative. Most of this family isn’t actually part of it. They were adopted, or somehow fell in together.”

“Give me a for instance.”

“Ida Tucker. She says she’s the dead girls’ mother, but looks too old for the part.”

“Not if they were adopted,” Helen pointed out.

“Yeah. Maybe. And what about this package of bricks and straw shipped from England during World War Two?”

“It strongly suggests that something about the size and weight of a small marble bust was stolen in transit, and replaced with bricks and straw. That kind of petty crime was probably a common occurrence in wartime.”

“Not so petty if Michelangelo really sculpted it.”

“Big if.” Helen said.

“Also, it was sent by somebody else who apparently wasn’t a blood relation. A nurse who for God’s sake died in the blitz. That was a long time ago.”

“Those people lived and breathed and made mistakes,” Helen said.

“And most were actually related. Not like this bunch. The lack of DNA in common seems to have bonded this family with an extra strength.”

“Oh, it has,” Helen said. “The reason why is they need each other more than ordinary families. They feel grafted to the family tree, even though they aren’t actually descendents of the original green shoot.”

Quinn laced his fingers back behind his head. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.” But he couldn’t. Not really. On the other hand, he knew how he felt about Jody.

“Family is thicker than blood,” Helen said.

“That’s not exactly how the old saying goes, but I hear you. So where does Bellezza figure in? Is Michelangelo a distant relative?”

“In a way. Bellezza is their raison d’être. That’s French for ‘reason for being.’ ”

“And what would that be for this family?”