She was standing in a dark room-a warehouse. On her right was a window, covered over by fabric. Only the faintest of light managed to seep through the weave, offering her a dim view of scattered crates, sagging posts. I have an audience , she thought with a sudden flash of nervousness as she realized shadows were moving around her.
A light sprang on, a single bare lightbulb swaying from a wire.
She squinted against the glare, trying to make out the faces surrounding her. There were at least a dozen of them, all with eyes trained on her, watching her, waiting for signs of fear or vulnerability. She tried not to show either.
"So," she said, "which one of you is Jonah?"
"That depends," someone said.
"On what?"
"On who you are."
"The name's M. J. Novak. And this used to be my neighborhood."
"She's a cop," said Leland. "Goes around askin' questions like one, anyway."
"Not a cop," said M. J. "I work for the medical examiner. People die, my job's to find out why. And you've had folks dying around here."
"Hell," someone said with a laugh. "Folks dyin' all the time. Nothin' special."
"Nicos Biagi wasn't special? Or Xenia? Or Eliza?"
There was a silence.
"So why do you care, M. J. Novak?"
Even before she turned to face the speaker, she knew it was Jonah. The tone of command in his voice was unmistakable. She found herself gazing at a magnificent man, towering, with unnaturally pale eyes and a lion's mane of brown hair. The others remained silent, as he moved forward to confront her in the circle of light.
"Is it so hard to believe, Jonah, that I would care?" she asked.
"Yeah. Because no one else does."
"You forget. This was my neighborhood. I used to hang out on the same streets you hang out on now. I knew your mamas. I grew up with them."
"But you left."
"No one ever really leaves this place. You can try all your lives, but it stays with you. Follows you wherever you go."
"Is that why you're here? To help the lost souls you left behind?"
"To do my job. To find out why people are dying."
"To do your job? Is that all?"
"And-" She paused. "To warn your lady, Maeve."
Jonah stood stock-still. No one moved.
Then the steady click-click of boot heels across the floor cut through the silence. A shadow, sleek as a cat's, came out of the darkness. Casually the woman strolled into the circle of light where she stood with arms crossed, gazing speculatively at M. J. She was dressed all in black, but in various textures of black: leather skirt, knit turtleneck, a quilted jacket with patches of shimmery satin. Her hair looked like broomstraw- stiff and ragged, the blond strands tipped with a startling shade of purple. She was thin-too thin, her eyes dark hollows in a porcelain face.
The woman walked a slow, deliberate circle around M. J., studying her from the side, from behind. She came around to the front, and the two women stood face to face.
"I don't know you," said Maeve. Then, with that declaration, she turned and started to walk away, back into the shadows.
"But I know your father," said M. J.
"Bully for you," said Maeve over her shoulder.
"And I knew Herb Esterhaus. Before he was shot to death."
Maeve froze. She turned to face her.
"You're a suspect," said M. J. "The police'll be coming around, asking questions."
"No, they won't."
"Why not?"
"Because they already know the answers."
M. J. frowned. "What do you mean?"
Maeve glanced at Jonah. "This is between me and her."
After a pause, Jonah nodded and snapped his fingers. "Out," he said.
Like magic, the circle of people melted into the shadows. Maeve waited for the last footsteps to fade away, then she reached for a crate and shoved it toward M. J. "Sit," she said.
"I'll stand, thank you," said M. J., unwilling to yield the advantage of height.
Maeve, unruffled, propped one black boot on the crate and regarded her adversary with new interest. "Where did you meet my father?"
"The city morgue."
Maeve laughed. "That's a new one."
"He came in to look at a body. We thought it might be yours."
"He must've been disappointed when it wasn't."
"No, as a matter of fact, he was terrified by the prospect. As it turned out, it was someone you probably knew."
"Eliza?" Maeve shrugged. "Everyone knew her. You couldn't avoid it. She'd bum you out of your last dime."
"And your last matchbook?"
"What?"
"She had a matchbook. L'Etoile Restaurant. Had your father's phone number written in it."
Again, Maeve shrugged. "She needed the matches. I didn't."
"What about Nicos and Xenia? Did you know them too?"
"Look," said Maeve. "They were stupid, that's all. Took some bad medicine."
"Who passed it to them?"
Maeve didn't answer.
"You know, don't you?"
"Look, it was a mistake-"
"On whose part?"
"Everyone's. Nicos. Xenia-"
"Yours?"
Maeve paused. "I didn't know. The bastard never bothered to tell me. He just said he wanted to make a delivery, needed a runner out to Bellemeade."
"And you told him Nicos was available."
"I didn't know Nicos was dumb enough to snitch a sample for himself. Pass it to his girlfriends."
"So you arranged it all," said M. J., not bothering to keep the disgust out of her voice. "You do this sort of thing all the time?"
"No! It was a favor, that's all! Old times' sake. I didn't know-"
"That it was poison?"
"He said it was a one-time thing! All he wanted was a delivery boy."
"All who wanted?"
Maeve let out a breath and looked away. "Herb. Esterhaus. He and I, we used to be…"
"I know, Maeve. We saw the photos."
"Photos?"
"You know. All that X-rated posing you did for your good friend Herb."
There was a flash of regret in Maeve's eyes. "Dad saw them too?"
"Yes. He wasn't pleased. Would've strangled Esterhaus if the man wasn't already dead."
Maeve snorted. "I'd like to strangle him myself. For using me."
"Did he use you often? For these deliveries?"
"I told you, it was just a one-time thing." She shook her head. "And I thought he was clean, you know? After he got busted last year, he was real careful to-"
"Wait. Esterhaus was arrested? When?"
"About a year ago. It was small time, a few pot plants in his backyard. I don't know how he squirmed out of the charges, but he did. I figure, the feds stepped in and helped him out. They look after their witnesses."
"You knew he was in the Witness Protection Program?"
"He told me about Miami. When he got busted, that really scared him. He didn't want Miami to find out. And he didn't want to lose his job. Hell, he liked being cooped up in that lab! Me, I hated it. After awhile I couldn't take him either."
"So you left him."
"I wasn't mad at him or anything. I just got bored."
"The police say you're a suspect in his murder."
"They'd say anything."
"You have a better suspect?"
Maeve moved away from the crate and began to pace, weaving in and out of the shadows. "Herb was just your average Joe, trying to make a buck. And trying to stay clean."
"Then why was he stealing Zestron-L? Moving it out onto the streets?"
"He was being squeezed."
"By whom?"
Maeve turned to look at her. "Try the people at the top. The ones who'd like to wipe South Lexington off the map."
"Who, City Hall? The cops?"
"The list goes on and on. People at the top, they look down at us and we're like rats, crawling around in the sewers. And what do people do with rats? They exterminate them."
M. J. shook her head. "Wild accusations won't earn you any points, Maeve."
"No. People like you never listen to people like us."
"Hey, you're not exactly scraping bottom, okay? You're a Quantrell."
"Don't remind me," snapped Maeve. She turned and started to walk away.
"Your father's waiting out on the street," M. J. called after her. "He wants to talk with you."
Maeve turned around. "Why? He never bothered to talk with me before. It was always at me, not with me. Ordering me around. Telling me to clean up my act, toss out my cigarettes. Hell, he's not even my real father."
"He wanted to be."
"But he isn't, okay?"
"So where is your real father? Tell me that."
Maeve glared at her, but said nothing.
"He isn't here, is he?" said M. J.
"He's living in Italy."
"Right. In Italy. But Adam's here."
"He's not my father."
"No, he just acts like one. And hurts like one."
Maeve shoved away a crate and sent it toppling.
"Oh, great," said M. J. "Now we're going to have a tantrum."
"You're a bitch."
"Maybe. But you know what I'm not? Your mother. And I don't have to take this crap." With that, M. J. turned and walked away. She heard, off in the shadows, a scrambling of footsteps, then Maeve's command: "Forget it. Let the bitch go."
M. J. managed to navigate her own way out of the building. It took her a few wrong turns, a half-dozen rickety flights of stairs, but she finally found her way outside. Looking back, she realized she'd been in the abandoned mill building. Boarded-up windows and grafitti-splashed brick was all one saw from the street. She wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching her from behind that wall.
She walked on, heading briskly back to South Lexington Avenue, back to Adam.
She saw him pacing by the car, his fair hair tumbled by the wind, his hands deep in his pockets. The instant he spotted her, he started toward her.
"I was about to call the police," he said. "What happened?"
"I'll tell you all about it." She opened the car door and got inside. "Let's get out of here."
He slid in beside her. "Did you see Jonah?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"It was an unforgettable experience."
He started the engine and muttered, "So was waiting for you."
They pulled onto South Lexington and headed north.
"I saw Maeve," said M. J.
Adam almost slammed on the brakes. "She was there?"
"Celeste got it right. She's Jonah's lady." She glanced back at the line of cars honking behind them. "Keep moving, you're holding up traffic."
Adam, still rattled, turned his attention back to the road. "Did she seem… happy?" he asked.
"To be honest?" M. J. shook her head. "I don't think that kid was ever happy."
"Will she talk to me?"
M. J. heard it in his voice and saw it in his face: a father's fear, a father's despair. All at once she wondered about her own father, that nameless man with the green eyes. She wondered where he was, if he knew or cared he had a daughter. Of course he doesn't, she thought. Not the way this man does.
She looked ahead, at the line of traffic. "She isn't ready to see you," she said.
"If I tried to-"
"It isn't the time, Adam."
"When will it be the time?"
"When she grows up. If she ever does."
He gripped the steering wheel, staring ahead in frustration. "If I only knew what I did wrong…"
"Some kids are just born angry. In Maeve's case, my guess is she's angry at her real father. But he's not around to scream at, so she takes it out on you. Nothing you do is right. You exert a little control, and you're a tyrant. You try to set limits, she smashes them." M. J. reached over and touched his knee. "You did the best you could."
"It wasn't enough."
"Adam," she said gently, "it never is."
He drove in silence, his troubled gaze focused on the road. How quickly he accepted the blame, she thought. As if Maeve had no responsibility for her own life, her own mess.
"She did clear up a few things," said M. J. "In fact, she cleared up a lot. Esterhaus was the source. He stole the Zestron and passed the drug to Nicos for a delivery. Nicos must have kept some for his own use. That's how it got into the Projects."
"A delivery? To whom?"
"Maeve didn't say. But you know who she says is behind it all?" M. J. laughed. "The city elite, unspecified. Meaning all the creeps in power. She figures they're distributing the drug in order to clean the trash off the streets."
"I hate to admit it, but she's got the city elite pegged just about right."
M. J. glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "But systematically pushing poison? To clean the riffraff from Albion? That's a big leap." She gazed out at the numbing landscape of abandoned buildings, shattered windows. "Still, I admit the same thought did cross my mind a few days back. But that's paranoia for you. Conspiracies are seductive…" She paused. "By the way. Did you know Esterhaus was arrested a year ago? Possession of marijuana plants."
"No, I was never informed."
"Somehow it stayed off his record, and he walked."
"Maybe the feds stepped in to protect their old witness. Had him released."
There was a silence. Quietly Adam said, "What if it wasn't the feds?"
"Come again?"
"What if he made, say, other arrangements to avoid the charges?"
"You mean… bribery?"
"He had access to an inexhaustible supply of narcotics. At Cygnus. That's a pretty persuasive bribe."
"So he cuts a deal. With a judge. Or…"
"The police," Adam finished for her.
They were back on the old conspiracy kick, but it was hard to let it go. Esterhaus's death had been an apparent execution. She thought of what Maeve said-that Esterhaus was being pressured to steal the Zestron and deliver it somewhere. The bombing of her house had been a professional job. She thought about all the doors that had slammed in her face when she'd tried to publicize the overdose victims. The powers that be in Albion had systematically shrugged off the deaths of those three junkies in South Lexington.
Shrugged off? Or covered up?
"Head downtown," she suddenly said.
"Why?"
"We're going to City Hall. I want to see Ed."
Adam turned onto the downtown exit. "Why?"
"Force of habit-I like to torment him. Plus, he might get us the information we need. Namely, which cop arrested Esterhaus-and then let him go. And what else the said cop has been involved in."
"Would Ed know that?"
"He has a direct pipeline into Police Internal Affairs. If there's a crooked cop involved, they might have a file on him."
"Unless they're all crooked."
"Please," she groaned. "Don't even mention the possibility."
City Hall had been turned into a media circus. Banners were everywere: Mayor Sampson Presents the Albion Bicentennial, 200 Years of Vision, Albion: looking toward the third century. In the hall was posted a map of Friday's two-mile parade route. Anyone who bothered to study that map would see that the parade didn't even go anywhere near Albion's center, but skirted around it, along the northern city limits, thereby avoiding the South Lexington district entirely.
Ed was in his office, barricaded by a fortress of papers. Campaign posters were plastered across the wall behind him. A picture of a kid serenely skipping rope caught M. J.'s eye: "Albion. Safe, and getting safer." For whom? she felt like asking.
Ed, as usual, did not look happy to see her. "I haven't got a lot of time, okay?" he grumbled as M. J. and Adam settled into chairs. "This bicentennial thing is turning into a disaster. The weatherman says rain. Three high school bands have dropped out because of sniper rumors. And now the cops say they can't guarantee crowd control."
"Yep, that's our town," said M. J. sweetly. "Safe, and getting safer."
"What you do want?" snapped Ed.
"Some service for my tax dollars, Mr. DA."
He sighed. "This isn't about the drug ODs again, is it?"
"Peripherally. By now, you've heard about my exploding house. And the dead Cygnus researcher."
"That was a paid hit, Miami mob. At least, that's what the cops tell me."
"The cops also say Esterhaus stole the drug from Cygnus and bombed my house to stop me from asking too many questions."
Ed laughed. "I can think of a lot of reasons to bomb your house."
"But that theory strikes us as too simple," said Adam. "Blame all those acts on a dead man. Esterhaus kept his nose clean for years. He had only one arrest-a year ago, for growing marijuana."
"I didn't hear about that," said Ed.
"He wasn't charged. It appears he was rather quickly released. We want to know who made the arrest."
"Why?"
"Pot growing's an open-and-shut case," said M. J. "Find the plants, you've got your conviction. Now, why go to the trouble of arresting someone, and then let him walk without charges?"
"The decision could've been made on a number of levels."
"We want to know the street level," said M. J. "The name of the cop."
"Yeah? What else do you want?"
"We want to know if Esterhaus might have offered this cop a bribe. Whether this particular cop suddenly found some new… prosperity. Check with Internal Affairs, see if there's a file."
"There may not be."
"Then just the name, Ed. Get me that."
Ed shook his head. "You're just fishing, M. J. You've got nothing."
"I've got an empty lot where my house used to be."
"And I've got a dead researcher," said Adam.
Ed leaned back. "So you're both fishing, huh?"
"You should be too," said Adam. "It's part of your job, Mr. DA."
"And he's a terrific one, too," said a voice from the doorway. They turned to see Mayor Sampson, looking dapper in a three-piece suit. He strolled into the office and, like any good politician, reached out to pump Adam's hand. "Mr. Quantrell, good to see you again. Coming to the bicentennial ball, aren't you?"
"I hadn't made plans."
"But I thought Isabel reserved two inner-circle tickets."
"She didn't mention them to me."
Sampson glanced at M. J. and she saw the look of dislike on his face, quickly smothered by a smile. "Keeping busy, Dr. Novak?" he asked.
"Too busy," grumbled Ed.
"Oh, Lord. Not those junkies again?" Sampson gave M. J. an indulgent pat on the shoulder, the sort of gesture she resented. "You are taking this case entirely too personally."
"Yeah. It got real personal when my house blew up."
"But Ed is right on top of things," said Sampson. "Aren't you?"
"Absolutely."
"Now, isn't it time we got moving?" asked Sampson.
"Huh?" Ed glanced at his watch. "Oh, yeah. Gotta go, M. J. Parade committee."
They all walked out of the office together. In the hall, Ed raised an arm, a gesture that could've meant either goodbye or good riddance, and headed off with the mayor. M. J. watched the two men disappear around the corner and then snorted in disgust. "Our tax dollars, hard at work. I'll be glad when this damn bicentennial is over."
They got into the elevator, joining a City Hall clerk, her arms loaded down with a pile of gaudy flyers. "Take one!" she said in a cheery voice.
M. J. snatched one up and read it: Mayor Sampson's Bicentennial Ball. General tickets: $50. Contributor: $100. Inner Circle: $500.
"Do you think Ed will help us out?" asked Adam.
"I'll hound him to the grave if he doesn't."
Adam laughed. "I'd say that's a pretty potent threat, coming from you."
They stepped off the elevator. "Hardly," said M. J., still gazing down at the flyer.
Inner circle tickets were $500 each and Isabel had two of them.
"I'm not a threat to anyone," she muttered. Then she tossed the flyer into a trash can.
The cook had laid out a lovely supper for them: Cornish hens glazed with raspberry sauce, wild rice, a bottle of wine chilling in the bucket. And candlelight, naturally. Everything, thought Adam, was perfect. Or should have been perfect.
But it wasn't.
He watched M. J. silently chase a sprig of parsley around her plate, and he wondered how many days, how many hours, before this woman-this fascinating, maddening woman-would be strolling out of his life. That she would leave, he had no doubt. It was only a matter of time. She was right, of course; the gap between their worlds was immense, perhaps unbridgeable. His world was Groton and Harvard, ski slopes and Surry Heights. Adam Dillingham Quantrell IV had known both his parents, had even known the names of his grandparents and their grandparents, had grown up versed in the history of his bloodlines. Mariana Josefina Ortiz, raised on the mean streets of South Lexington, had known only her mother's name. Her father would forever remain a mystery. Lacking any pedigree, she was, quite simply, what she'd made of herself.
He liked the result.
And he was perplexed by it.
She was shoving a sliver of carrot around her plate now. Where was her appetite? With a sigh, she put down her fork and looked at him.
"Thinking about Esterhaus again?" he asked.
"And… everything, I guess."
"Including us?"
After a pause, she nodded.
He picked up his wineglass and took a sip. She watched him, waiting for him to say something. It was unlike her to hold back words. Are we so uncomfortable with each other? he wondered.
"It's not healthy for me," she said. "Staying here."
He glanced at her scarcely touched meal. "At least you'd eat properly."
"I mean, emotionally. I'm not used to counting on a man. It makes me feel like I'm up on stilts, tottering around. Waiting to fall. I mean, look at this." She waved at the elegant table setting, the flickering candles. "It's just not real to me."
"Am I?"
She looked directly at him. "I don't know."
The fearless M. J. Novak , he thought with sudden understanding. Terrified of being loved.
He pinched his own arm and said with a smile, "I seem real enough to myself."
She didn't appreciate his humor. In fact, he couldn't get even the glimmer of a smile out of her. He leaned forward. "M. J.," he said. "If you always expect to be hurt, then that's what will happen."
"No, it's the other way around. If you're ready for it, then you can't be hurt."
Resignedly he sat back. "Well, that pretty much wraps up the future."
She laughed-a sad, hollow sound. "See, Adam, I take one day at a time. Enjoy things while I can. I can enjoy this, being with you. But I'm going to ask you to promise something: When it's over, tell me. No BS, just the straight scoop. If I'm not what you want, if it's not working, tell me. I'm not crystal. I don't break."
"Don't you?"
"No." She picked up her wine and took a nonchalant sip. The truth was, he thought, that she had a heart as fragile as that wineglass, and she wouldn't let it show. It was beneath her dignity to be weak. To be human. She was convinced that one of these days he would hurt her.
And maybe she's right.
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. "Come on," he said.
"Where?"
"Upstairs. If this is a doomed affair, then we should make the most of it. While we can."
She gave him a careless laugh and stood up. "While the sun shines," she said.
"And if it doesn't work -"
"We'll both be fine," she finished for him.
They headed up the stairs, to his bedroom, and closed the door, shutting out the rest of the world. One day at a time, he thought as he watched her unbutton her clothes, watched the garments slide to the floor, one moment at a time.
And what comes after is for tomorrow to decide.
He took her in his arms, kissed her. He wanted to be gentle; she wanted to be fierce. As though, in making love, she was battling some inner demon, struggling against it and him, against even herself. Love and war, delight and despair, it was what he felt that night, making love to her.
When it was over, when she'd fallen asleep in pure exhaustion, he lay awake beside her. He gazed around his darkened bedroom, saw the gleam of antique furniture, the vaulted ceiling. It comes between us, he thought. My wealth. My name. It scares her.
And in a way, she scared him. There was too much fire, too many sparks in this Mariana Josefina. He thought of all the turmoil she'd brought into his life. In one short week she'd introduced him to dead bodies, street fights, and exploding houses. She'd forced him to confront his failure as a father and his guilt as a man of wealth. She intrigued him, infuriated him, delighted him. How would he ever fill the vacuum she'd leave behind?
She whimpered in her sleep and turned towards him, burrowing against his chest.
How could he keep this wild and crazy woman in his life? he wondered, holding her tightly.
Maybe I can't.
Ratchet was back from vacation, sporting a red sunburn and even redder mosquito bites. While the mosquitoes had found the pickings good, Ratchet, it seemed, had not.
"One lousy fish," he said. "The poorest excuse for a trout I ever saw. I didn't know whether to cook it or put it in a bag of water for my kid's goldfish bowl. A whole damn week, and that's what I had to show for it. Lost three of my best lures, too. I tell you, the rivers up there are fished out. Totally fished out."
"So how many did Beth catch?" asked M. J.
"Beth?"
"You know. Your wife."
Ratched coughed. "Six," he mumbled. "Maybe seven."
"Only seven?"
"Okay, maybe it was more like eight. A statistical fluke."
"Yeah, she's good at those flukes, isn't she?"
Ratchet yanked his lab coat off the door hook and thrust his arms into the sleeves. "So how's it been here? Anything exciting happen?"
"Not a thing."
"Why do I bother asking?" Ratchet muttered. He went over to the in-box and fished out a pile of papers. "Look at all this stuff."
"All yours," said M. J. "We left 'em for you."
"Gee, thanks."
"And you've got two dozen files on your desk, waiting for signatures."
"Okay, okay. It's enough to keep a guy from ever going on vacation." He sighed and headed down the hall to his office.
M. J. sat at her desk, listening to the familiar squeak of his tennis shoes moving down the hall. It was back to business as usual, she thought. The same old routine she had had for years. So why was she so depressed?
She rose and poured another cup of coffee-her third this morning. She was turning into a caffeine junkie, a sugar junkie. A love junkie. Hopeless relationships-that was her specialty. She dropped back into her chair. If she could just stop thinking about Adam for a day, an hour, maybe she'd regain some control over her life. But he had become an obsession for her. Even now, she wondered what he was doing, whether he was sitting at his desk, missing her. Or was he like most other men she knew, able to separate the various parts of his life into neat little boxes, to be opened at the appropriate times? I need to learn that trick , she thought. But every time she opened a file, signed her name, those images of the night before would float through her head.
They'd made love, slept a few hours, made love again.
She'd awakened with the sinking realization that things had careened way beyond her control. She wasn't going to be able to walk away from this one without hurting. To think that the affair had started off as nothing more than a lark, a fantasy. Now she could lack herself for getting into this fix. This addiction. This craving for the touch of him, the sight of him. She was as hooked as any junkie on a drug, as hooked as Nicos Biagi and Xenia Vargas had been.
She loved him.
She was going insane.
M. J. grabbed a file from the stack on her desk, signed her name, and slapped the file shut again. She almost groaned when she heard those tennis shoes come squeaking back down the hall toward her office.
Ratchet reappeared in her doorway. "Hey, M. J.," he said.
"What?"
"What the hell's this supposed to mean?" He read aloud from a lab slip. "'Results of mass and UV spec-trophotometry show following, noriquantitative: Narcotic present, levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6, 10-beta-dihydroxy class. Full identification pending.'" He looked up at her. "What is this gobbledygook?"
"You must have one of my slips. The drug's Zestron-L."
"Never heard of it."
"Here, I'll take care of the report."
"But it's got my name on it."
A frightening thought suddenly occurred to M. J. "Who's the subject?"
"Jane Doe."
"Oh." M. J. sighed with relief. "Then that's mine."
"No, it's my Jane Doe." He held the slip out to her. "See? There's my name."
Frowning, M. J. took it. On the line next to authorizing physician was typed the name Bernard Ratchet, M.D. She scanned the Subject ID data. Name: unknown. Sex: female. Race: White. I.DJ: 372-3-27-B. Processing date: 3/27.
A full week before her Jane Doe had rolled in the morgue doors.
"Get me this file," she said.
"Huh?"
"Get me the file."
"Whatever you say, mein Führer." Ratchet stalked away and returned a moment later to slap a folder on her desk. "There it is."
M. J. opened the file. It was, indeed, one of Ratchet's cases. She had seen this file before; she remembered it now. This was the Jane Doe of the glorious red hair, the marble skin. The page from the central ID lab was clipped to the inside front flap, with a notice of a fingerprint match. The corpse's name was Peggy Sue Barnett. She had a police record: shoplifting, prostitution, public drunkenness. She was twenty-three years old.
"Do we still have the body?" asked M. J.
"No. There's the release authorization."
M. J. glanced at the form. It was signed by Wheelock the day before, releasing the body to Greenwood Mortuary.
"I called it a probable barbiturate OD," said Ratchet. "I mean, it seemed reasonable. There was a bottle of Fiorinal next to her."
"Were barbs found in her tox screen?"
"Just a trace."
"No needles found on site? No tourniquet?"
"Just the pills, according to the police report. That's why I assumed it was barbs. I guess I was wrong."
"So was I," she said quietly.
"What?"
She reached for the telephone and dialed the police. It rang five times, then a voice answered, "Beamis, Homicide."
"Lou? M. J. Novak. We've got another one here."
"Another what?"
"Zestron OD. But this one's different."
She heard Beamis sigh. Or was that a yawn? "I'm real interested."
"The victim's name is Peggy Sue Barnett. She was found in Bellemeade-a week before the others. And get this-she was set up to look like a barbiturate OD."
"Are you going to tell me what is going on?" whined Ratchet.
M. J. ignored him. "Lou," she said. "I'm going to stick my neck out on this one." She paused. "I'm calling it murder."