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“I’ve heard Mrs. Califano’s boutiques are quite successful. I plan to buy my husband something for his birthday at the one in Georgetown. That’s where we live.”

A smooth eyebrow went up. “Georgetown?”

“My husband’s grandmother was Sarah Elliott, the painter. She willed her beautiful home to my husband.”

Janette Weaverton’s jaw dropped. “Really? Sarah Elliott was your husband’s grandmother? The Sarah Elliott? How very incredible that must be.”

Sherlock nodded, watched her put sugar packets and Equal in a small bowl, and set it next to the creamer.

Sherlock asked, “Do you work as well, Mrs. Weaverton?”

“No. I’m fortunate to have been born to very rich parents. I do, however, travel a lot. But things are different now with Stewart dead. Perhaps Margaret will need my help. I don’t know yet.”

“Would you want to join her in her business?”

“Unfortunately I have no business experience. And, the sad fact is, I don’t think I could sell a shoe addict a pair of Ferragamos.”

Sherlock laughed. “Well, who knows? Shall I carry this for you?”

“Thank you. Imagine being an FBI agent, working with your husband. Does it cause problems for you at home?”

Sherlock smiled, lifted the heavy tray, and said over her shoulder, “Not yet.” People, she thought, you never knew what was in their minds, in their hearts, but bottom line, Janette Weaverton was a loyal friend to Margaret Califano, and that counted for a lot.

Conversation was strained in the living room. Margaret had fallen silent, despite everyone’s best efforts, and sat clasping and unclasping her hands. Callie still sat beside her, her own hand on her mother’s forearm, squeezing gently, every once in a while, so she’d know she wasn’t alone.

Ben saw a strong resemblance between the two women, although Callie’s eyes were bluer, her brows and hair darker. Callie had a sharper chin, but there was no doubt that the same intelligence burned brightly in both mother and daughter. It still bugged him that Margaret hadn’t married Stewart Califano until Callie left for college. Being careful about protecting your daughter was one thing, but it seemed to Ben that Margaret had gone overboard.

Savich couldn’t figure out Harry Thorpe. He sat there, silent and hunched over, saying not a word. He wasn’t small or insignificant, he looked fit, he was a very successful businessman, rich in his own right, so why then did he look somehow beleaguered? Savich realized then that Harry had probably thrown in the towel long ago, had handed over the reins to this inflexible woman seated beside him with her intolerant spirit, her seamed lips, her extraordinary disapproval. How could he love her? What need could she possibly fulfill? A stupid question, Savich supposed. She was a Justice of the Supreme Court. She would be in the history books.

Savich said to Justice Alto-Thorpe, “Do you have children?”

The lips didn’t unseam, but she finally nodded. “Yes, two girls. They’re both lawyers, both practicing in Denver, Colorado. Harry is their stepfather. Their real father died eleven years ago in a boating accident.”

Harry Thorpe didn’t say anything.

“It’s a lovely state,” Justice Alto-Thorpe said.

Sherlock said, “I understand that a lot of Californians have moved to Colorado, driven up the home prices.”

Bitsy St. Pierre said, “Everyone has signs that say ‘Go west again.’ ”

Once everyone had coffee and Savich had his tea, Ben Raven said, “We spoke to Bobby Fisher today, and three other law clerks as well at his apartment—Sonya McGivens, Tai Curtis, Dennis Palmer. We told them about Danny O’Malley’s murder.”

The silence was sudden and acute.

“Bobby is a talented clerk,” said Justice Alto-Thorpe. “As for Danny O’Malley, he was all right, too, despite being in a conservative Justice’s chambers. You could change his mind. He had a good brain.”

“Unfortunately, ma’am,” Ben said, saluting her with his coffee cup, a cup so feminine and delicate he was afraid he was going to inadvertently crush the damned thing, “our working assumption is that his final decisions were stupid enough to get