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said, “Did you look at the boy, Mr. Franks? At his face?”
    Danny Franks lowered his own face to his hands, both his hands still clutching Sherlock’s. “Yeah, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him good.”
    “Mr. Franks, did you think the young man looked familiar?”
    Mr. Franks shook his head. “His face was such a mess, I don’t have a clue who he is.”
    •   •   •
    T WO HOURS LATER, Savich and Sherlock were at the Hoover Building when Palmer Cronin, the retired former chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank, called the FBI to identify the dead boy as his grandson, Tommy Cronin, still on his winter break from Magdalene College. His grandmother had made out her grandson’s white frozen face in a photograph picked up by an Internet news site. Someone had posted it on YouTube.

Maestro, Virginia
    Early Saturday afternoon
    Griffin had to pull over for half a dozen big SUVs on his prayer-filled drive through winding snow-drenched streets on his way from the hospital to Professor Salazar’s house on Golden Meadow Terrace in Maestro. He slid up as close as he could to the curb in front of Professor Salazar’s ranch-style home. Its sloping roof and large front yard were covered with snow and flanked by snow-laden oak and pine trees. He counted four cars in the driveway. Was the party still going on?
    The front door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.
    A woman about his age, wearing pink shorts, of all things—and in the winter and while it was snowing—a nubby pink sweater, and black boots to her knees blinked up at him. Her hair was long and black, parted in the middle, hanging down on either side of her pale, striking face. She eyed him. “Oh, I thought it was Barbara finally back from Starbucks, but no, you are a guy.”
    She sounded French. She’d spoken formally, but her English seemed perfectly fluent. A student?
    “How can you tell?” Griffin’s face was covered up to his eyebrows.
    She said, “You are tall, and I can picture your legs inside those nicely fitting jeans. Come on in; everyone is in the living room and kitchen. Hurry, I am freezing. Hang your coat on the rack.”
    No wonder she was freezing, Griffin thought, watching her hurry into the house, her hair streaming down her back, straight as a board. He shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his parka and wool scarf, pulled off his ski cap and gloves, and hung everything on a coat rack near the front door. She called over her shoulder, “I am Gabrielle DuBois. I am Parisian, in case you are wondering about my accent. I play the oboe. Rafael and I make beautiful music together.”
    Guitar and oboe duets?
    “I sing as well—in fact, better than I play the oboe.”
    “That’s nice to know,” Griffin said.
    She turned to say something else and her mouth snapped shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him.
    “
Mon Dieu
, if you had been at the party last night every female would have wanted to leave with you.
C’est pas bon—
Rafael isn’t going to like you at all. Who are you?”
    Griffin thought she sounded both a bit alarmed and amused. Her French accent had thickened, and why was that? He fumbled pulling his creds out of his jeans pocket because her eyes were following his every move. He gritted his teeth, finally held up his shield. “Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI.”
    “Mais c’est impossible!”
came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “But how can you be an FBI agent? I mean, you should be a movie star like Brad Pitt.”
    “Can’t act,” he said.
    Gabrielle gave him a classic Gallic shrug. “Ah, but who would care if you can act, except for those idiot critics no one with a heart pays any attention to?”
    A male voice heavy with the mellifluous cadence of Barcelona called out, “Gabrielle! Who is at the door? Is it Barbara? With my Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte?”
    Griffin waved a hand toward the voice. “Professor Salazar, I presume?”
    “Yes, that is