The floorboards squeaked. "I heard you playing' Clair de Lune. "Very nicely I might add." Nana was standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. There were two steaming coffee mugs on it.

She pushed one of them toward me and I took it. She then sat in the old wicker rocker near the piano, quietly sipping her brew.

"This instant?" I kidded her.

"You find any instant coffee in my kitchen, I'll give you this house."

"I own the house," I reminded her.

"So you say, sonny boy. Sunrise Concerto, Alex? What's the occasion?"

The sunrise Concerto. I couldn't sleep. Bad night, bad dreams. Bad morning so far." I sipped the delicious coffee which was laced with chicory. "Good coffee, though."

Nana continued to sip hers. "Mmm-hmmm. Tell me something I don't know. What else?"

"You remember Maria's stepbrother, Enrol? Sampson and I found his body in the First Avenue project last night," I told her.

Nana made a low clucking sound, and she gently shook her head. "That's so sad, such a shame, Alex. They're a good family, nice people."

"I have to go and tell the family this morning. Maybe that's why I'm up so early. Couldn't sleep."

"What else?" Nana asked again. She knew me so well, and in a way that was comforting now. "Talk to me, Alex. Tell your nana."

"It's Christine,"I finally said," I think it's over between us. She doesn't want to see me. She told me, made it official. I don't know where that leaves little Alex. Nana, I have tried everything in my power. I swear I have."

She put down her coffee mug and she slid one skinny arm around me. She still has a lot of strength in her body. She held me tight," Well then, you've done what you can, haven't you? What else can you do?"

"She hasn't gotten over what happened in Bermuda," I whispered. "She doesn't want to be with a homicide detective. She can't do it. She doesn't want to be with me."

Nana whispered back at me, "You're taking too much on your shoulders. You're taking on blame you shouldn't. It's bending you, Alex. You can break. You listen to Nana now."

"I'm listening. I always do."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do not, and I can keep this up longer than you," she snapped. "Besides, it proves my point."

Nana always has the last word. She is the best psychologist in the house, or so she tells me constantly.

Chapter Thirteen

The second bank robbery went off like a time bomb early that morning in the town of Falls Church, Virginia, about nine miles outside Washington.

The bank manager's house was a well-maintained Colonial in a sweet neighborhood where people seemed to genuinely like one another. There was evidence of well-loved children everywhere: Tyco toys, bikes, a basketball net, dueling swings, a makeshift lemonade stand. There was a beautiful garden filled with flowered shrubs. Birds perched on a whimsical weathervane a witch on a broom up on the garage roof. That morning you could almost hear the witch's cackle.