It was near dinnertime when Savich parked his Porsche a half-block from Melissa Ivy’s 1970s three-story red-brick apartment building.

“Place looks tired,” Sherlock said. “Probably not a lot of upkeep, since it’s mostly students. Look at how they’ve trashed that little yard. What were they doing, throwing rocks at snowmen?”

The lobby was narrow and pedestrian, with a linoleum floor and a triple row of black mailboxes. They walked to the third floor, down a bare-floored wooden hallway that creaked. The lighting, though, was bright, even glaring. They stopped at apartment 3B.

Melissa Ivy answered their knock fast, as if she’d been standing by the door, her eyes plastered to the keyhole.

Gorgeous was Savich’s first thought, staring at the small Venus standing in front of them, biting her bottom lip and twisting her hands, even as she tried to look grown-up and confident.

After Melissa looked at their creds and they introduced themselves, she led them into a small living room, its white walls covered with oversized prints of media legends going back to Edward R. Murrow and a young Barbara Walters, all dozen or so in stark black and white. You didn’t even notice the Goodwill furniture until you sat down on her living room sofa and were immediately aware that the springs were too close to the surface.

Melissa was wearing tight jeans, a short pink crop top that left her white midriff bare, even though it was thirty-three degrees outside, and pink UGGs on her small feet. Her figure was well nigh perfect. Her hair was long, blond, and straight as a stick, falling to the middle of her back. Savich imagined the camera would love her heart-shaped face, with its impossibly high cheekbones.

He said without preamble, “Ms. Ivy, you’re twenty years old, a sophomore at George Washington, majoring in communications. Is that correct?”

She nodded, still chewing on her bottom lip.

Savich waved at the photos on the walls. “So you want to be a newscaster?”

She beamed, nodding. “It’s always been a dream of mine to be an anchor on a major network. I’d really like to be on FOX News. They have the highest ratings, you know.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “Who knows who’ll have the ratings when you’re ready to anchor a desk? It might be something not even on TV yet, like Amazon World News or something.”

Melissa blinked—beautiful long lashes—and nodded thoughtfully toward Sherlock, as if grateful for this insight from an older woman.

Savich said, “We’d like to record our conversation. Is that all right with you, Ms. Ivy?”

She straightened like a shot, looked alarmed, her eyes darting to his cell phone, then to his face.

“It’s for your protection, Ms. Ivy.”

“I didn’t do anything bad. Do I need a lawyer?”

She sounded for all the world like a teenager busted for pot. Savich assured her she didn’t, identified the three of them, gave the date and time, then said, “Ms. Ivy, where were you Friday evening?”

As if by rote, which it undoubtedly was, since he was sure Peter had called her, Melissa told them she was with Peter Biaggini. “It hadn’t started snowing yet, but everyone knew the storm was coming, and so Mr. Raleigh closed the gallery at ten o’clock, and that’s when we left. Peter and I had a late dinner at Pocco’s near Dupont Circle, then he drove me home when the storm was just beginning.”

“Then what happened, Ms. Ivy?” Sherlock asked her.

Melissa’s very pretty gray eyes lowered to her hands, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Please don’t tell my parents, but Peter didn’t leave until late Saturday morning. We—we were eating a late breakfast when we heard about Tommy on TV. Peter was very upset; I mean, we were both upset. Tommy and I—well, maybe you know we dated for a while, and he was one of Peter’s best friends.”

“We’re very sorry for your loss. I’m sure you want to find out who murdered Tommy Cronin as much as anyone.”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s horrible, the way Tommy died.”

“We know you were Tommy’s girlfriend until, what, three weeks ago?”

“Certainly I dated Tommy, but—” She raised blurred eyes to Sherlock’s face. “Of course I was upset—devastated, really. Tommy was a really nice person, even if our relationship didn’t work out. But you know Peter had known Tommy nearly all his life.”

“Since Peter knew you were upset, did he stay to comfort you?”

“No, he couldn’t stay. He said he had things to see to. When he left I cried and cried.”