She now looked a little miffed and said, "Remember as kids when we played I'll show you mine, if you show me yours?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Would you just tell me why you're here?"

Also she was quite attractive, though of course in the new Army we don't notice those things. A soldier is a soldier, and l.u.s.t is a weakness monopolized by the hedonists outside the gates.

Oh, yes, and another thing I didn't notice was the lovely body beneath that camouflage. Svelte, muscular, s.e.xy.

Anyway, I had clearly worn out her patience, and I had a good alibi and informed her, "Well . . . an FBI liaison works at the Arlington police headquarters. As the victim is--or was was--an employee of the Defense Department, our liaison thought we should take a look."

"What does that mean?"

"If it turns out to be murder, we might exercise jurisdiction. If suicide, on the other hand, it's beneath Bureau dignity and interest-- we'll let the locals keep it."

"How generous." She stared at me a moment. "Why would the FBI be interested even if it was was murder?" murder?"

"We wouldn't, necessarily. My job is to report back. The big guys make the call."

She nodded.

"And you? Why does the Army have an interest in the death of a Defense Department civilian?"

"I'm not working for the Army right now. I'm a.s.signed to a Special Investigations unit that reports to the Defense Secretary. The office Cliff Daniels worked in was notified by the Arlington police that he was dead. They called my office, and here I am."

"Investigating, or fact-finding?"

"Like you, I'm expected to compile a brief report on the circ.u.mstances of Daniels's death. Nothing more."

"Did you know the victim?"

"No."

"Who gets the report?"

"The header will be the Secretary of Defense's Office. However, it will be read by one of his staff a.s.sistants, and probably ignored." After a moment, she added, "Unless Mr. Daniels was murdered."

"And then?"

"This is my first case like this. My office doesn't usually handle violent crimes. Fraud, theft, and s.e.xual improprieties are our bread and b.u.t.ter. But my guess would be the Secretary's Office will send a letter to the Arlington Police Department and ask to be kept in the loop."

I smiled. "Hard to believe, isn't it? Death . . . the amount of paperwork it generates."

"Sure is." She smiled back. "Look, I have to go talk to the lead detective again. Do me a favor?"

"I'm all yours."

"I neither need nor want all all of you, Drummond." She smiled. "Just keep an eye on that briefcase." of you, Drummond." She smiled. "Just keep an eye on that briefcase."

"Briefcase? I don't see--"

"That one." She pointed it out. "The one you accidentally nudged under the bed."

"Oh . . . I hadn't--"

She put her finger on my chest. "I intend to have it dusted for prints. Don't let me find yours on it."

CHAPTER TWO

The moment Bian Tran stepped out of the bedroom, I shifted position, closer to the bed and directly behind the forensics specialist, who remained bent over the body, manipulating tweezers and picking debris off the sheets. I cleared my throat and asked, "What are we seeing here?"

"It'll all be in my report," he replied.

"Okay, but--"

"Aren't you listening listening? I said it'll be in my report."

I allowed a moment to pa.s.s. Then I withdrew a pen and a small green notepad from my pocket. "What's your name?"

"What?"

"Your name--spell it."

He straightened up. "What are you talking about?"

"For my my report." report."

"What the--"

"Back at the Bureau they throw monumental fits over silly things like misplaced modifiers and split infinitives. Misspellings really make them p.i.s.sy." I added, "I think it's because we hire too many lawyers and accountants. You know? Totally a.n.a.l."

"I still don't know what--"

"It's fairly simple. I can spell 'impeding a federal investigation.' I just need to be sure I get your name right, Mr. . . . ?"

"Reynolds . . . Timothy Reynolds." He turned around and faced me, and in a nasal, whiny voice, said, "I'm just trying to do my job."

"Aren't we all, Tim?" I flashed my phony FBI creds in his face. "Now what are we seeing here?"

Timothy looked around for a moment, obviously torn between doing his job and mollifying the impatient p.r.i.c.k with the federal badge. He insisted, "Well, nothing conclusive. On the surface, it appears the victim committed suicide."

I let a moment pa.s.s and asked, "What about below the surface?"

"You must understand that I can't answer questions with any accuracy until everything's run through lab a.n.a.lysis."

"Of course."

"Also I haven't yet taken prints from the gun."

"Check."

"Obviously, this is very important, and--"

"Noted."

"A complete toxicology and serology will need to be worked up. If the victim was on drugs or under the influence of alcohol, that can--"

Holy s.h.i.t. "Shut up, Tim." I took a deep breath and tried to recall my question. "Is there any physical matter we should be concerned about at this stage of the investigation?"

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Tim glanced over his shoulder at the body and replied, "Well, it's interesting. What I think is--"

"Tim . . . did I ask what you think think? Facts."

"Oh . . . all right. For starters, the sheets on this bed are changed and washed weekly. The maid informed us. This is relevant and important information. It establishes time frame. The particles and residue on this sheet were deposited within the last seven days."

I flipped open my notebook, scribbled, and said, "Time frame . . . yes, yes, always important . . ." Actually, I began sketching Tim, standing perfectly erect, tottering on a chair, noose around his neck, arms straight, extended and . . .

"There are a lot of the victim's hairs on the pillow," Tim continued, "and sweat residue. But you expect that. Everybody sheds and sudates when they sleep. But there are other hair particles and strands as well."

I erased the chair, Tim's legs were kicking furiously, and--I looked up--"Not his his hair?" hair?"

"Well . . . you can see that his hair was gray, coa.r.s.e, and cropped very short. There are some red hairs, and also some very fine blonde hairs. Both are quite long, which suggests they could be from females . . ." He turned tentative again, and added, "That's a hypothesis on my part. A chromosonal a.n.a.lysis is needed before a firm conclusion can be reached."

"More than one woman?"

"Well . . . I would say at this point--"

"Yes or no."

"Uh . . . yes."

Goodness. Despite Tim's pathological aversion to declarative phrases, this suddenly took an interesting turn. I asked him, "Have you finished the bathroom yet?"

"I did that first. Bathrooms are always gold mines."

"And what did we find there?"

"More hair. Both black and red, as well as some of the victim's hair in the sink, probably from shaving. And the usual pubic traces on the toilet seat."

"Further confirming the presence of more than one female?"

"It appears . . . yes, perhaps as many as three." He knew what my next line of questioning would be and added, "I ran an infrared light over the sheets. There are interesting traces . . . probably s.e.m.e.n. I don't know whether these traces are new or old."

Like that, Cliff Daniels went from the ubiquitous man in a gray flannel suit to something far more complicated and mysterious. This raised a number of evocative questions, not to mention a few dark and dubious possibilities.

Anybody who beds two different women inside one week likes to live on the edge. This guy didn't have to whack himself--just arrange for the two or more women to show up together and they'd take care of things for him.

Indeed, that that, or some variation thereof, might be what happened here. I looked at the corpse on the bed and asked myself the obvious question: What was Clifford doing in the hour before the trigger was pulled? Did he die alone? Or with company?

To Tim I asked, "Is there any any indication he was having s.e.x at the time of, or shortly prior to, his death?" indication he was having s.e.x at the time of, or shortly prior to, his death?"

"It does seem an obvious conclusion, doesn't it? I intend to take epidural traces from his p.e.n.i.s for the lab. However, from what I've seen . . . or didn't see--specifically, no visible traces of sperm, or crust of v.a.g.i.n.al fluid on his p.e.n.i.s--it's possible the victim was stimulating himself."

Tim looked at me expectantly as I weighed whether to ask him another question or just kill myself. When I remained silent, he said, "Can I return to my work?"

"What's stopping you?"

"Well . . . you are."

"Nonsense."

"Oh . . . that's a joke." He emitted a sort of high-pitched laugh.

I looked at him and said, "If anything interesting pops up, call me immediately. I'll be in the living room." I turned and started to walk away when I was struck by an afterthought, and turned back around. "Uh . . . ?"

He stared at me.

"How many suicides have you investigated?"

"I don't know. A good many. This is a high-stress area code. Within the county, we experience more suicides than homicides."

"How many of those suicides involved guns?"

"A few. Perhaps three this past year. Overdoses and slashed wrists are the norm. A majority of our suicide victims are teenagers who can't afford--"

"I understand . . . thank you." I asked Tim, "Did you observe any blood splatter on the gun?"

"Yes, some. It was fired from very close range, and there was a volume of blowback. Also, even visually, I can detect powder residue on the victim's left temple. That means--"

"I know what it means." I asked, "Have we confirmed if the pistol belonged to the victim?"

"Not yet. The serial number is un.o.bservable until we turn it over. We don't rearrange the evidence until after I've finished my site inspection."

I pointed at the silencer on the end of the pistol. "Have you ever seen a suicide where the victim used one of those?"

"Uh . . ."

I remembered to specify, "Yes or no?"

"No."