Hevlaska started at the sound of the door buzzer, then frowned at her cup of, sadly decaf, tea. If that was either of her brothers, they could go straight to hell as far as she was concerned.

"The police, madame," said her housekeeper, looking shaken, but the police had that effect on people.

Marian! Hevlaska thought. It wouldn't be the first time. "Please come in, officers," she said.

"We're so sorry to disturb you," one of them said, a heavy-set, middle aged man. "I'm Detective Ruben Lenaerts, and this is my partner Alicia Carlier."

"It's nice to meet you," Hevlaska said. "Please sit down. Would you like some tea?" She knew they'd turn her down, but it was still polite to ask.

"No, thank you," Lenaerts said. "I'm afraid we have some bad news."

Hevlaska waited.

"Do you know a Marian Cross?" Lenaerts asked as he and his younger partner sat.

"Yes. What's happened?"

"We're not sure, ma'am, but we believe he's dead."

Dead. Of course. He didn't keep files. All of his information was in his head. "You believe? What happened?"

"At a little before 3:00 this afternoon, they sent an attendant to investigate a noise complaint, loud television, and found him slumped on the windowsill, apparently shot in the head. Unfortunately, instead of staying on the scene and calling us from there, he ran to the front desk to have them call. By the time we arrived, the body was gone. There was so much blood lost, though, that I think it's safe to say he's dead. I'm very sorry."

"Thank you," she said from what felt like somewhere near the ceiling. Marian had seemed too large and full of energy to die. "What do you believe happened?"

"There was an old war movie playing on the television," Lenaerts said. "We think the shooter used that to mask the sound of the gun, then moved the body after the attendant fled the scene."

Yes. Yes, that would make sense, and the only question was why the shooter bothered to move the body, but that would never be answered, not even in a courtroom.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am, but if we could ask you a few questions?" Carlier asked.

"Yes," Hevlaska said. "Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help."

"What was your relationship with Mr. Cross?"

Hevlaska sighed. They probably already knew, certainly they could find out, so it was best to tell the truth. "Complicated," she said. "Legally speaking, I'm his adoptive mother, but really I was his teacher and little more. His birth mother was my protege, and I trained Marian as well." Poor Maria! And Deirdre, her mother. Hevlaska sent them both a silent apology.

"Then maybe you could help us understand these?" Lenaerts pulled out a plastic bag containing three Visa gift cards. "We found them in his wallet. The bank says they were originally worth €1000 apiece."

Allen! Hevlaska thought, grateful for the surge of anger that kept her from getting weepy. What had that poor child been doing to earn that kind of money? "Yes, those were mine. Marian was a fine dancer, but he was also a shiftless alcoholic, and I felt responsible for that."

"Why is that, ma'am?" Carlier asked.

"He didn't have an easy time of it. Marian's mother was raped when she was nineteen, and sent to a home for wayward girls when she tried to report it. In Ireland, they're called Magdalene laundries, because the girls were kept as prisoners, and made to do the washing the convents took in as punishment for their sins. That's where Marian was born. I adopted him out of the orphanage the nuns put him in, but I was never the motherly type, so he was raised by some friends of mine and sent to boarding schools as soon as he was old enough. Most of his interaction with me was his dance training. He never thought of me as his mother, and I never expected him to." She sighed. "I know that tough love is a very popular way of dealing with this kind of thing these days, but he didn't get much of any other kind growing up, at least not from me. I also know that change that profound has to come from inside, so I gave him enough money to keep him from hurting other people for it, and waited." At least she thought she had given him enough, but apparently not. Either that, or he'd been trying to teach Allen a lesson of some kind, although what that might be escaped her.

"We found cash as well," Lenaerts said.

Hevlaska's actual contribution. "I gave him both cards and cash. They're both useful. So this wasn't a robbery?" Why on earth hadn't her idiot brother bothered to pretend it was? Or did he want to make damned sure she and Malcolm knew exactly who did it? Was this a veiled threat?

"It doesn't appear that way, ma'am," Lenaerts said. "We found his wallet, phone, keys and loose change on the table where he must have emptied his pockets, so we believe this was personal. Can you tell us anything that might help us find whoever did it?"

What was there to tell? The responsible person was almost untouchable by the local police, and even if Hevlaska was feeling vindictive, there were the Order's dancers to consider. The cardinal had a lot of hostages. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I think you'll soon find that you're spoiled for choice. He was a charming man, but a difficult one, and more popular with women than was good for him."

"Do you think there was any connection between the fire here and Marian Cross's death?" Carlier asked.

Were they fishing? Or had they gotten farther with this than she expected them to? "Very few people knew about Marian's adoption," she said. "I suppose there might be a connection, but I don't see which of those few would resort to violence after all these years." Except for one.

Carlier took a card out of her pocket and handed it to Hevlaska. "If you could make a list of those names, I'd appreciate it. Just call this number. Or do you have e-mail?"

Was she so old that people thought she couldn't use a computer? "Of course."

"Then e-mail is fine, too. The sooner you can get back to us, the better."

"Of course."

Lenaerts rose, his dislike of her plain on his face. "You've been very helpful, ma'am. Thank you. We'll be in touch if we have further questions."

"Of course." Hevlaska touched a button on her phone to summon her housekeeper. "Do you mind if my housekeeper sees you out? I think I would like to stay where I am for now."

"Of course not. Is there someone we can call for you?" Carlier asked. "A friend who might be able to come over?"

"No, thank you," Hevlaska said. Most of her friends were dead. The rest she would have to call anyway.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Rouvellier," Carlier said. "Thank you for your time."

Hevlaska waited, her head in her hands, listening to the sounds of the police leaving, fighting back the need cry. Perhaps this was her fault, but perhaps he would have been like that no matter what. Her friends were good people, a little coarse in some ways, but more nurturing than she was. She couldn't imagine how she could have done a better job, but she hadn't known the first thing about raising children. The orphanage was definitely worse, bare, cold, only failing to be squalid because of the meticulousness of the nuns.

Surely Hevlaska's solution won out, if only by being the lesser evil? Was that enough? Or should she have removed herself and Marian from the Order, whatever the consequences? Was that what had done it, too much exposure to her brothers? They had driven others to suicide. They could very well have driven a vulnerable man to drink.

Was that it? The Order destroyed his life, so he gave his life to destroy the Order?

What she wanted to do was curl up into a ball of grief and self-pity, but there were a few things she needed to do first, and she needed to do one of them immediately. She picked up her phone and dialed.

"Father Tiedoll," said the headmaster. "Hevlaska?"

"Yes," she said. "Froi, we have a situation and I need your help."