The call had come at high noon, cutting short lunches. A few of the guys had simply packed up their meals and brought them along-a greasy combination of burgers and fries or sandwiches from home. They now stood just beyond the established perimeter, finishing them off. A few looked p.i.s.sed. The others, resigned.

Murder victims had no sense of timing at all.

The scent of the food hung heavily in the hallway, and with perverse enjoyment Stacy imagined the hotel management holding their noses in outrage and offended sensibilities. A stiff in a guest room was one thing; fast food in the hallway quite another.

Stacy had zero patience with the stratosphere-sucking set.

Several people nodded in her direction as she stepped into the room. She returned their greeting and started toward her partner, her feet sinking into thick, putty-colored carpeting.

Stacy moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details: the fact the heavy drapes were pulled tightly shut; the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries and split of champagne on the small Queen Anne-style desk near the window; the spray of fresh flowers beside it.

The arrangement of irises and lilies couldn't compete with the scent of death. The body sometimes voided with the cessation of life, particularly when that end came suddenly and violently. Stacy wrinkled her nose, though she didn't try to avoid the smell, a common mistake of rookies. Within a few minutes, as her olfactory glands fatigued, she would become accustomed to the smell.

At the worst scenes, ones where the body was in an advanced stage of decomposition-or even worse, when the body had been submerged in warm water-the smell was so intense it could not be overcome, even with the help of a smear of Vicks below the nose. The smell of those corpses inundated everything, even the hair shafts. Every homicide detective kept lemon shampoo and a change of clothes in their locker.

She stopped at the closet. She took a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket, fitted them on, then slid open the mirrored door and peered inside. A taupe-colored woman's suit and white silk blouse hung there. Very stylish. Very expensive. She checked the label. Armani. On the upper shelf sat a pair of brown-suede, low-heeled pumps. Also very expensive.

"Hey, Stacy."

She turned to Mac and nodded in his direction. In his early thirties, Mac had a quick smile and puppy-dog eyes. He had transferred over from Vice a few weeks ago and been a.s.signed to partner her.

One of the most perilous and dreaded a.s.signments on the force, according to her former partners. They and a number of the other guys referred to her as a ball-busting, frigid b.i.t.c.h. The biggest one in the DPD.

That t.i.tle had long since lost the power to bother her. Fact was, in the boys club that was the DPD, women were tolerated. At best. A woman had to fight to establish her place within the ranks. She did it by being smart, tough and a hard worker. And developing a thick skin, fast. To most of these cowboys, women fell into four categories: vies, perps, pieces of a.s.s or ball-busters.

Given the choices, she was more than happy to be labeled the latter.

Besides, she was a good cop who got the job done. Even her ex-partners would agree with that.

Mac ambled across to stand beside her. "Where've you been? Party's in full swing already."

"She was waiting for her nails to dry," called one of the crime scene techs, a jerk named Lester Bart. "Happens all the time."

"f.u.c.k off," she replied, unfazed.

"Truth hurts, babe."

"What's going to hurt is me kicking your a.s.s. And if I break a nail doing it, then I'm really going to be p.i.s.sed."

Snickering, the tech went back to dusting for prints. Mac motioned to the taupe suit. "Nice threads."

Stacy didn't reply. She turned and crossed to the bathroom. He followed.

"You don't talk much, do you?" he said.

"No." She moved her gaze over the interior. A single travel tote sat on the counter. None of the towels

had been used; the complimentary bath products sat untouched on a small mirrored tray.

Stacy crossed to the bag and carefully thumbed through the contents. Lotions, creams, perfume.

Lubricating jelly. Condoms. Vibrator. A couple of long silk scarves, probably for bondage games.

Definitely a girl who liked to have fun. And one who came ready for anything.

"I see Boy Scouts aren't the only ones who are always prepared," Mac said.

She glanced at Mac, annoyed that his thoughts so closely mirrored her own. He stood in the doorway,

broad shoulders nearly filling the s.p.a.ce. She frowned. "Is that a joke?"

"Gotta laugh or you'll cry, right?"

"So they tell me."

"You don't agree?"

Stacy motioned to the doorway. "I'd like to pa.s.s, please."

He hesitated, then stepped aside. As she slipped past, Mac caught her arm, stopping her. "You always

have to be such a hard-a.s.s, Killian?"

"Yeah," she said, looking pointedly at his hand. "You don't like it, request a change."

"I don't want a-" Mac bit the words back and removed his hand. "Fine, we'll play it your way."

Stacy exited the bathroom and crossed to the bed. She stopped beside it and gazed down at the vie. The

woman was white. She was dressed for bedroom games: slinky black satin robe; black thong panties and bra; garter belt and stockings. The robe lay open; the killer had used the sash to strangle her. Her once-pretty face was congested with blood and dark red in color, her eyelids and lips speckled with petechiae, small hemorrhages caused by pressure on the blood vessels.

She appeared to have been thirtyish, though she could have been older. She looked to have been well maintained: skin smooth; hands manicured; nails painted a delicate frosted pink; hair stylishly cut and highlighted. Real cla.s.sy. Even dead, the woman all but shouted wealth.

Stacy would expect no less from someone able to float two hundred-fifty bucks a night for a room.

"Party b.o.o.bs," Mac offered, using a crude euphemism for breast implants.

Stacy nodded, accustomed to such talk, and moved closer to the bed. Opening her investigative

notebook, she made a quick sketch of the scene. Mac, she knew, would have done one as well. On the sketch, she noted details, everything from those present to positioning of the body. She noted the time as well.

That complete, she looked at Mac. "What do we have so far?"

"Name was Elle Vanmeer. Housekeeping-"

"Her ID confirm that?"

"Yes, ma'am. Checked in under that name. Solo."

She pretended not to notice his irritation. "Go on."

"Housekeeper found her when she came to clean the room. Thought she'd checked out. She notified the

G.M., he called it in."

"Purse? Wallet? Jewelry?"

"All accounted for. Plenty of cash in the wallet." He glanced at the woman, then back at Stacy. "Robbery

wasn't a motive."

"No s.h.i.t. She knew her killer. Trusted him. They'd planned to meet here. For s.e.x, obviously."

She swept her gaze over the interior. "He would have been someone who fit in here, in this world.

Someone who traveled in similar circles to hers."

"Drivers license lists her address as Hillcrest Avenue. That's the heart of the nosebleed section."

Highland Park. The most prestigious neighborhood in Dallas. As old money as Dallas got. She pursed

her lips. "My bet is, one of them was married. Maybe both."

"No ring."

Mac was right. Her left-hand ring finger was bare, not even sporting the telltale cheater's tan line. "Then

I'll bet he was."

"Maybe they were rug munchers."

This came from Lester. Stacy swung to face him. "Excuse me?"

"You know, lesbos."

"You're disgusting, you know that?"

"Got a soft spot for those types, Killian? Anything you'd like to share?"

She could hear the rumor already, spreading through the department: Stacy Killian's a d.y.k.e. Finally, the

reason she'd rather bust their b.a.l.l.s than fondle them.

Just great.

"I find certain labels offensive. You would, too. If you were human."

"Why don't you shut up, Lester," Mac snapped. "We've got a job to do here."

The other man's face flooded with color. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it. A few of the others chuckled and Stacy figured Mac hadn't heard the last of this.

But that wasn't her problem.

Mac brought her attention back to Elle Vanmeer. "I'm not saying you're wrong about the infidelity thing, but here's another scenario. Lovers celebrating something special. An anniversary or birthday. Landing a big contract. Rendezvousing here is part of the celebration."

"Could be," she conceded. "But it doesn't feel that way to me."

"If the guy was married, could be his wife beat him here. He arrives, finds her dead and runs scared."

She played that scenario over in her head. "It takes a lot of strength to choke the life out of someone. But it could be." She looked at the coroner's deputy. "Jump in anytime, Pete."

Pete Winston, a smallish, balding man who looked more like an accountant than a forensic pathologist, glanced at her from his position at the head of the bed. "She's been dead ten to twelve hours. Judging by the hemorrhages in her eyes and lips, what you see is what you've got. 'Course, the autopsy will tell the whole tale."

"She have intercourse before she was killed?" Stacy asked, hopeful. s.e.x meant sperm or pubic hair, which in turn meant DNA.

"Don't know yet. Panties are in place, but that doesn't mean no." He stood and came around the bed to stand beside them. "Take a look at these."

With a gloved finger he indicated a series of small scars, at her bikini line, hips, inner and outer thighs. "Liposuction," he said. "And look here." He indicated small scars at her hair- and jawlines. "She's had a face-lift as well."

"Chicks today," said Lester. "You date someone and find out later you were f.u.c.king a grandmother."

A couple of the guys hooted in amus.e.m.e.nt; Stacy sent the man an annoyed look. She returned her attention to the pathologist. "What else can you tell me?"