He knew how to touch a nerve. “Perhaps Eowen and I do have a few things in common,” she admitted.

He nodded sympathetically. “It’s only a story.”

They walked to his apartment. Gray gusts tugged at her coat. It was a relief to get back inside. His place overlooked a wooded stream. The furnishings were rich and tasteful: cedar to clear the nostrils, carpets on the floor, handmade lamps, and another huge case of books. The wall facing the stream was glass—the sky seemed to reach inside the room and chill her. He acted pleased when she complimented him on his fine taste.

“My wife deserves all the credit,” he said.

“She’s a lovely woman.” Kelly stood beside the tall window. The adjoining room was full of exercise equipment. She could hide in there, she thought, while the two talked. Perhaps she could match Michael Grander with the man in Slate’s tapes, although faces and bodies did not always fit.

“There are few like her. May I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” she replied.

“Are you sure? I have sherry.”

“Sorry. On the job.”

“Of course.”

There was a black-and-white picture of a man and a boy standing in front of a run-down office building. The man looked gruff, the boy lost. She pointed out the photograph.

“My father and I,” Banks said, coming up at her side. “You’d never guess, but I grew up only a few miles from here.”

“Was your father a businessman?”

“My father was many things. You could call him that if you want.”

“And your mother?”

He shook his head. “A long story.”

She glanced at her watch. “It’s been an hour. Perhaps we should make a plan?”

“If you like. Michael is always late.” Banks headed for the kitchen and she heard cabinets being pulled open. “I think I’ll have that drink without you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’m the one who has intruded on your day.” She glanced again at the exercise room. He had a treadmill, a stationary bike, and an elaborate weight machine for circuit training. He must be serious about his body. “I was thinking I could stay out of sight in here while you two talked.”

Banks reappeared with a bottle. “You don’t want to meet him?”

“I don’t know what I would say to him.”

Banks smiled. “You won’t introduce yourself as an FBI agent? I suppose not. Hey, I remember now. I answered all your questions, but you didn’t answer any of mine. Why is Michael a murder suspect? What exactly did he do?”

It was warm in the apartment. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”

He continued to stand in front of her. “But he’s my student. I think I deserve to know at least some reason why you suspect him.”

“He left clues pointing to him at the scene of the crime.”