"Only on alternate Wednesdays," he said. "We won't get into Rick's psyche."

Robin's pickup was parked in front of the house. I found her in her studio at the back carving the top of a mandolin. Spruce shavings created a soft, creamy carpet at her feet. Blanche had found herself a warm spot and burrowed.

Cozy as Elise Freeman in her bed of frozen carbon dioxide.

The studio smelled like a conifer forest after a drizzle. That brought back autumns in Missouri.

Walking through the parkland behind the little sad house I grew up in. A kid with a head full of fear and confusion sneaking out when Mom escaped to her locked room and Dad raged at high-burn.

Hoping I'd get lost.

I smiled and kissed Robin. She put down her chisel, flexed her fingers. "Perfect timing, I'm ready to quit."

The mandolin top was smooth, curvy, with a subtly arched belly. Unmistakably female. "Nice."

Robin tapped the spruce. A musical tone rang out. "The music's already in the wood, my job is to not screw it up."

"Any serious job is like that."

We headed for the house, pausing by the fishpond to feed the koi. Blanche stuck by us, smiling in that strange but endearingly humanoid way.

Over coffee, I told Robin about the woman on ice.

She said, "Someone bragging I'm a stone-cold killer?"

"Interesting slant."

"Long days carving, I get symbolic."

I filled her in on the chief.

She said, "Politicians are a low life-form."

"The chief's appointed."

"His commodity's power, Alex. That puts him two notches below slime mold."

"My girlfriend the anarchist."

"If only," she said.

"If only you were an anarchist?"

"If only reality made anarchy a reasonable approach."

That evening, I was at my computer, keywording windsor prep and learning nothing beyond official P.R.

I switched to victimology. Eleven-year-old Elise Freeman from Great Neck, New York, had an artful MySpace page that showcased her pastel drawings and successful orthodonture. Ninety-six-year-old Elise Freeman had just celebrated her birthday in Pepper Pike, Ohio, and received a card from the Cleveland Cavaliers. No hits on Elise Freeman, deceased tutor.

When Milo rang in at nine forty, I said, "She's cyber-invisible, Fidella was right about her liking her privacy."

"Everything else Fidella told us is checking out, including his calls to Elise four hours before she died. The phone subpoena only covered one week of his account, I'm preparing another one for Elise's, we'll see how far back they'll let me go. For the time being, Sal's out of the spotlight."

"Had a beer and watched TV at home isn't much of an alibi."

"That's what His Augustness said. I asked him for alternative suspects and he responded with less-than-pristine language. Ten minutes later, his secretary calls back: We've got face time with Windsor Prep's president, guy named Edgar Helfgott."

"Saw his name on the website," I said. "A parent?"