In the laboratory of FBI headquarters in Quantico, four agents watched the computer screen freeze on the profile of the thief who had broken into the Hamilton home in Chevy Chase over the weekend.

He had pulled the stocking mask up so that he could have a better look at a figurine. At first, the image taken by the hidden camera had seemed impossibly blurry, but after some electronic enhancement, a few details of the face were visible. Probably not enough to make a real difference, thought Si Morgan, the senior agent. It’s still pretty difficult to see much more than his nose and the outline of his mouth. Nonetheless, it was all they had, and it might just jog someone’s memory.

“Get a couple of hundred of these run off and see that they’re circulated to the families in every break-in that matches the profile of the Hamilton case. It’s not much, but at least we now have a chance of getting that bastard.”

Morgan’s face turned grim. “And I only hope that when we get him we can match his thumbprint to the one we found the night Congressman Peale’s mother lost her life because she’d canceled her plans to go away for the weekend.”

It was still early morning as Wayne Stevens sat reading the newspaper in the family room of his comfortable Spanish-style house in Oakland, California. Retired two years from his modestly successful insurance business, he looked the part of a contented man. Even in repose, his face maintained a genial expression. Regular exercise kept his body trim. His two married daughters and their families both lived less than half an hour away. He had been married to his third wife, Catherine, for eight years now, and in that time had come to realize that his first two marriages had left much to be desired.

That was why when the phone rang he had no premonition that the caller was about to evoke unpleasant memories.

The voice had a distinct East Coast accent. “Mr. Stevens, I’m Joe Palumbo, an investigator for the Bergen County, New Jersey, prosecutor’s office. Your stepdaughter was Suzanne Reardon, was she not?”

“Suzanne Reardon? I don’t know anyone by that name. Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re not talking about Susie, are you?”

“Is that what you called Suzanne?”

“I had a stepdaughter we called Susie, but her name was Sue Ellen, not Suzanne.” Then he realized the inspector had used the past tense: “was.” “Has something happened to her?”

Three thousand miles away, Joe Palumbo gripped the phone. “You don’t know that Suzanne, or Susie as you call her, was murdered ten years ago?” He pushed the button that would record the conversation.

“Dear God.” Wayne Stevens’ voice fell to a whisper. “No, of course I didn’t know it. I send a note to her every Christmas in care of her father, Dr. Charles Smith, but I’ve heard nothing from her in years.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Eighteen years ago, shortly after my second wife, Jean, her mother, died. Susie was always a troubled, unhappy and, frankly, difficult girl. I was a widower when her mother and I married. I had two young daughters and I adopted Susie. Jean and I raised the three together. Then, after Jean died, Susie received the proceeds of an insurance policy and announced that she was moving to New York. She was nineteen then. A few months later I received a rather vicious note from her saying she’d always been unhappy living here and wanted nothing to do with any of us. She said that she was going to live with her real father. Well, I phoned Dr. Smith immediately, but he was extremely rude. He told me that it had been a grave mistake to allow me to adopt his daughter.”

“So Suzanne, I mean Susie, never spoke to you herself?” Joe asked quickly.

“Never. There seemed to be nothing to do but let it go. I hoped in time she’d come around. What happened to her?”

“Ten years ago her husband was convicted of killing her in a jealous rage.”

Images ran through Wayne Stevens’ head. Susie as a whiny toddler, a plump, scowling teenager who turned to golf and tennis for recreation but seemed to take no pleasure in her own prowess in either sport. Susie listening to the jangle announcing phone calls that were never for her, glowering at her stepsisters when their dates came to pick them up, slamming doors as she stomped upstairs. “Jealous because she was involved with another man?” he asked slowly.

“Yes.” Joe Palumbo heard the bewilderment in the other man’s voice and knew that Kerry’s instinct was right when she had asked him to delve into Suzanne’s background. “Mr. Stevens, would you please describe your stepdaughter’s physical appearance?”

“Sue was…” Stevens hesitated. “She was not a pretty girl,” he said quietly.

“Do you have pictures of her you could send me?” Palumbo asked. “I mean, those that were taken closest to the time she left to come East.”

“Of course. But if this happened over ten years ago, why are you bringing it up now?”

“Because one of our assistant prosecutors thinks there’s more to the case than came out at the trial.”

And boy, was Kerry’s hunch right! Joe thought as he hung up the phone after having secured Wayne Stevens’ promise to send the pictures of Susie by overnight mail.

Kerry was barely settled in her office Wednesday morning when her secretary told her that Frank Green wanted to see her.

He did not waste words. “What happened, Kerry? I understand that. the governor has postponed presenting the nominations for judgeship. The indication was that he was having a problem with your inclusion. Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do?”

Well, yes, as a matter of fact there is, Frank, Kerry thought. You can tell the governor that you welcome any inquiry that might reveal a gross miscarriage of justice, even if you’re left with egg on your face. You could be a stand-up guy, Frank.

Instead she said, “Oh, I’m sure it will all go through soon.”

“You’re not on the outs with Senator Hoover, are you?”

“He’s one of my closest friends.”

As she turned to go, the prosecutor said, “Kerry, it stinks to be twisting in the wind, waiting for these appointments. Hey, I’ve got my own nomination coming up. Right? I get nightmares hoping it doesn’t get screwed up somewhere.”

She nodded and left him.

Back in her office, she tried desperately to keep her mind on the trial schedule. The grand jury had just indicted a suspect in a bungled gas station holdup. The charge was attempted murder and armed robbery. The attendant had been shot and was still in intensive care. If he didn’t make it, the charge would be upgraded to murder.

Yesterday the appeals court had overturned the guilty verdict of a woman convicted of manslaughter. That had been another high-profile case, but the appeals court decision that the defense had been incompetent at least did not reflect badly on the prosecutor.

They had planned that Robin would hold the Bible when she was sworn in. Jonathan and Grace had insisted that they would buy her judicial robes, a couple of everyday ones and a special one for ceremonial occasions. Margaret kept reminding her that, as her best friend, she would be allowed to hold the robe Kerry would wear that day and assist her in putting it on. “I, Kerry McGrath, do solemnly swear that I will…

Tears stung her eyes as she heard Jonathan’s impatient voice again. Kerry, five appeals courts have found Reardon guilty. What’s the matter with you? Well, he was right. Later this morning, she would call him and tell him that she had dropped the whole matter.

She became aware that someone had knocked on her door several times. Impatiently she brushed the backs of her hands across her eyes and called, “Come in.”