I reached out and shook her hand. Her skin was as soft as a child's. I noticed she wore a channel-set diamond pinkie ring and a Cartier love bracelet, the bangle style with screw heads around it. The bracelet alone runs almost four grand. I knew because I'd bought one for Kathy before she got sick and our lives went bad. Claire Buckley was very well paid, for a nanny. "I'm sorry to hear what happened," I said.

She nodded, stepped aside. "Come in."

The interior of the house was impressive, in an intentional way. The ceilings were twelve feet high, with smooth, whitewashed beams. The furniture was perfectly arranged, overstuffed and covered in woven fabrics that wouldn't last a single summer of careless living. The walls were hung with oil paintings of beaches and ships and whaling scenes, most of them American, a few of them French, all of them very valuable. Walking through the great room, I noticed one canvas by Robert Salmon and another by Maurice Prendergast, each of them worth millions, and each forever fixing in time a moment of Nature's magnificence. What ruined them for me were the showy brass plaques affixed to the frames and engraved with the artists' names.

"It's like a museum," North said under his breath.

Claire Buckley brought us to the door of Darwin Bishop's study. He was seated in a high-back, tufted leather chair, in front of a long, Mission-style desk, staring out French doors that looked 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 on the 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 he 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 on the staircase 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 with a crudely tattooed green-black peace sign. " Vietnam," he said, answering the question that must have been showing on my face. He didn't give me any time for a follow-up. "Let me be clear about Billy," he said. "My wife and I feel we have done everything possible to salvage a very damaged young man. After Officer Anderson informed me of the autopsy results, I had to face reality. Billy can never live with us again. I have to keep my family safe. I have another infant to think about."

"I understand," I said.

Anderson leaned forward in his seat. "The D.A. will see the admission to Payne Whitney as a strategy to avoid your son's arrest."

"The state can order Billy back to Massachusetts to stand trial, if it wishes to do so," Bishop responded.

"Unless I'm misreading something," Anderson said, "that's exactly what will happen. A court order for his extradition can be issued within hours."

Bishop nodded. "I can't control that," he said. "It would be a waste of resources, however. The D.A. will never prove Billy is responsible for his sister's death. There were five people at home the night my daughter was murdered. Any one of us could be the killer." He paused. "And none of us will be testifying."

So much for Darwin Bishop's open-door policy. I glanced at Anderson.

"I hope you'll cooperate with my officers searching the house later today," Anderson said. "We'll need to look for anything that could be relevant to your daughter's death."

"Any time you like," Bishop answered. "I assure you, you'll find nothing."

"The tube of plastic sealant, for instance," Anderson pushed.

"My guess on that," Bishop responded, "is that your crime lab will find that everyone in the house has touched it at one time or another."

"By chance, or design?" Anderson said.

Bishop didn't answer.

I didn't want the meeting to degenerate into confrontation. "What would you like to see happen to Billy?" I asked Bishop.

"It isn't about what I'd like to see. As his father, I'll see to it that he remains at Payne Whitney-or an equivalent facility-until at least his eighteenth birthday. Thereafter, I can create a very structured and safe environment for him in the community."

I thought back to the "watch house" on the road leading to the Bishop estate. "House arrest?" I asked, taking the edge off the words with a half-smile.

"If that's what it takes," Bishop said. "But not this house."

It suddenly registered fully with me that I was sitting with a man who had lost his infant daughter to murder. I wasn't seeing much in the way of rage-or grief. "You still want to be supportive of Billy," I led.