When the door shut behind the G.M., Stacy swung to face her partner. "What the h.e.l.l did you think you were doing?"

"Defusing the situation."

"Screw that. You folded. Good police work-"

"He didn't have to give us the tapes, Stacy. He could have made us cough up a subpoena."

"I want it all. A little more pressure and-"

"He would have booted us out of his office. And we would have had to wait. You know as well as I do

that every minute counts."

He was right. He knew it and so did she. It p.i.s.sed her off.

"Fine. Whatever."

He frowned. "I don't get you, Stacy."

"That so?" She folded her arms across her chest. "And I should be bothered by this?"

"What do you get out of being such a hard-a.s.s? Is your goal alienating everybody you work with?"

"I'm a good cop. I'm tough and thorough. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the captain."

"I don't have a prob-" He bit the words back, expression frustrated. "I like the way you work. How

seriously you take it all. I admire your mind, the way you sift through the facts, then put them together in a logical way."

"A male who's perceptive. I guess I got the pick of the litter."

He shook his head. "What's the deal, Stacy? Why can't I admire something about you? Why all the att.i.tude?"

"Because that admiration wasn't free. It came with strings. You want something in return. What?" He paused a moment. "Okay, I do want something. To be treated like a human being. Or maybe an equal partner. Your partner."

"As opposed to what?"

"A stupid lackey. A pain-in-the-a.s.s kid. A rookie." He leaned toward her. "I may be new to Homicide,

Stacy, but I've got more time on the force than you do. You're a d.a.m.n good cop, but I might have something to bring to the party."

"You think so, do you? We'll see."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He returned it. "Okay, then. We'll see."

Rick Deland returned then, interrupting the exchange. He was accompanied by another man whom he

introduced as Hank Barrow, La Plaza's head of security. A large man with a thick mane of snow-white

hair, he cut an impressive figure.

"Detectives." The man shook both their hands. "I understand we've agreed to allow you access to our security tapes."

"That's right." Mac smiled. "We appreciate your cooperation."

"I've got a bit of bad news, I'm afraid." The man glanced at his general manager, then back at Mac and

Stacy. "The elevator tapes are no problem, but the eighth floor surveillance tape is blank. Or as good as blank."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h. What happened?"

"We do our best to minimize the presence of the cameras. On the eighth floor we placed a large, potted

ficus in that corner. It appears that during cleaning, the artificial ficus was placed in a way that the foliage covered the camera lens. Frankly, it's happened before."

Stacy frowned. "And you only just discovered the mistake now?"

"We tape strictly for liability purposes. We don't monitor for criminal activity."

"How long do you save the tapes?"

"Forty-eight hours."

If their guy was smart, which Stacy was beginning to feel he was, he would have known where the cameras were located, how long the hotel hung on to them, that they didn't monitor.

If she was correct, this hadn't been a crime of pa.s.sion, but a premeditated murder.

"I do have some good news. We have tapes of all the stairwells. I've brought them as well."

Eliminating the opportunity for the killer to bypa.s.s the elevators and the cameras he hadn 't been able to disable.

"You understand, of course, that these tapes are strictly visual. No audio."

"Of course."

"I need to warn you that you may see a few shocking things on the tapes. Many guests don't realize the

cameras are there and-"

"And some perform because they do know," Stacy said dryly.

"Thanks for the warning, anyway."

FOUR.

Monday, October 20, 2003.

2:00 P.M.

The Crimes Against Persons division of the DPD was located in the Munic.i.p.al Building on Commerce and Harwood Streets, downtown. The building was cla.s.sic urban public services, gray and grim but serviceable. On the first floor traffic fines were paid, traffic court dates arranged. The upper floors housed traffic courts, police headquarters and the offices of a number of city officials. Crimes Against Persons was located on three. The MB, as Stacy called the Munic.i.p.al Building, never lacked for business.

She and Mac wound their way through clots of people, heading for the elevators. s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation, some in Spanish, others English, reached her ears.

"Hijo de una perra! "

Living in Texas all her life, she had a working knowledge of Spanish. That gentleman, judging by his vocabulary, was having a particularly bad day.

Of course, the MB and bad days went hand in hand. If you darkened its doors, you were in for some inconvenient s.h.i.t. Or in the case of those who worked under its roof, you were putting up with someone else's inconvenient s.h.i.t.

In her and Mac's case, that s.h.i.t was murder.

d.a.m.n inconvenient, indeed.

Stacy caught a whiff of an expensive perfume; it mingled unpleasantly with body odor and the stench of a multi-pack-a-day smoker. Dallas, home to the rich and poor, the glamorous and toothless. And eventually, in one way or another, sooner or later, they all ended up here.

Nodding in greeting to the officer standing beside the information desk, they stepped into the elevator alcove. The stainless steel doors, with their vertical row of gold stars, slid open.

Stacy stepped on and Mac followed. He turned to her. "What are you thinking?"

"We fill the captain in, ask for some help with the tapes. Our guy's on one of those tapes and I want him."

The car rumbled to a stop, and they alighted on the third floor. A sign hanging from the ceiling warned:

Authorized Personnel Only. Along the wall opposite the elevators stood a row of bent, broken and listing desk chairs. When one gave up the ghost, the detective simply rolled it out to the graveyard, as they called this stretch of hallway, and there it sat.

They entered the division and collected their messages. Stacy flipped through hers. "Captain in?" she asked the secretary, not lifting her gaze from the message slips.

"Yup," the woman, named Kitty of all things, said. She snapped her gum and Stacy noted it was the same pink as her angora sweater and lipstick. "He's expecting you. Hi, Mac."

At the invitation in the young woman's voice, Stacy glanced up.

"h.e.l.lo, Kitty. You having a good day?"

"Great."

She drew out the gr to a purr. Stacy rolled her eyes.

"Glad to hear that. Gotta go."

They turned and headed back toward their captain's office. When they were out of the secretary's

earshot, Stacy leaned toward Mac. "Hi Mac," she murmured, imitating the other woman. "Grrreat."

"She's just young."

"So why're you blushing, McPherson?"

"Killian! McPherson! We got a bone to pick with you."

The playful challenge came from Beane, one of the other detectives. His partner, Bell, stood beside him.

The two, affectionately known as B & B around the department, looked as if they'd had a rough morning.