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toward the pool, tennis court, and ocean.  He wore a crisp white button-down and pleated khakis.  "I don’t have a preference whether you haul them to Palm Beach or Myopia," he was saying, in a regal voice that left no hint of his roots in Brooklyn.  "Keep them stabled right there in Greenwich, if you like.  Packer can play them at White Birch.  I’m obviously out of commission for now."  He noticed us and motioned for us to come in.
    We hesitated at the door.
    "Go ahead," Claire said.  "He’ll be right with you."  She turned and walked away.
    We took seats on a couch to one side of the room, opposite two armchairs.
    Bishop swiveled in his chair and watched us while he finished his call.  He was a striking man.  His hair was silver and swept straight back, revealing a prominent brow that sheltered eyes the gray-blue of steel.  His skin was perfectly bronzed.  I could see from his wide shoulders, muscular forearms, and thick wrists that he was still, at fifty-four, physically powerful.
    I took in the rest of the room.  An Oriental carpet of subtle green, rose, and beige hues covered the floor.  Recessed shelving, painted high-gloss white, ran along two walls, each shelf lined with leatherbound volumes that looked as though they had never been opened.  A round table of burled walnut, with claw feet, held a dozen or more silver-framed family photographs.  One showed Bishop and two boys racing a sleek sailboat.  Another showed Bishop in black tie, arm-in-arm with a radiantly beautiful, younger woman with black hair who I took to be his wife Julia.  In a third photograph Bishop was decked out in jodhpurs and riding boots, astride a sinewy horse, pointing a polo mallet toward the horizon.
    Bishop had obviously been discussing where to stable his polo ponies not he phone moments before.  The Palm Beach Polo Club and Myopia Hunt Club were hubs of the sport.  Gary Packer, partner of legendary media mogul Rupert Murdoch, was one of its patron saints.
    I noted that none of the photos on the table was of Bishop’s baby girls.
    "I appreciate that, Pedro," Bishop said, finishing up.  "We’ll get through it."  He hung up, stood, and walked over to us.  He looked even more imposing on his feet than he had seated at the desk.  He had to be six foot two, maybe six three.  "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said.  "Win Bishop," he said, extending his hand.  "You would be Dr. Clevenger."
    We shook hands, if you can call it that.  He put nothing into his grip, as if her were a Lord offering the rare chance to touch him.
    "I’m sorry for your loss," I said.
    He took one of the armchairs across from Anderson and me.  "We’ll get through it," he said again.
    A few uncomfortable moments passed, with Bishop looking straight at us, showing no sign that he would speak another word, his expression that of a hitter waiting for a pitch to cross the plate.  It occurred to me that Win Bishop had grown very comfortable wielding power over people.
    "It’s probably best I leave Dr. Clevenger here to interview..." Anderson started.
    Bishop held up a hand.  "An apology.  With all the planning it took to make it happen, I neglected to bring you up to speed:  Billy is no longer here."
    "Not here?" Anderson said.  "Where is he?"
    "I arranged for his admission to the Payne Whitney psychiatric unit, in Manhattan," Bishop said.  He looked at me.  "They tell me it’s a well-regarded place.  Part of Cornell."
    "It is," I said.  "What was your hope in admitting him there?"
    Before Bishop could answer, a baby’s shrill cry — presumably that of his surviving twin girl, Tess — drifted into the room.
    Bishop grimaced.
    "Coming, sweetheart," Claire Buckley called out, from somewhere not too far away.  I heard her footsteps as she headed up.
    Bishop stood, strode over to the door, and closed it.  Then he sat opposite us again, crossing his legs.  He was wearing no socks, and I couldn’t help staring at his ankle, decorated