"Wanda Beautemps and Lee w.a.n.g," Marge said. "Scott Oliver is talking to the people who were in the house when the body was discovered. We got an angry mob out there, Loo. They're furious that the open house was canceled."

Decker smiled. "Go tell the agent that I want a list of everyone who has a key to the place and a list of every Realtor who has shown the house."

"I think it's a brand-new listing."

"Good. That'll make our jobs easier."

"Petechiae in the eyes, deep bruises around the neck that look like finger impressions . . . no overt ligature marks." The investigator was a woman in her fifties named Sherelle Holland. She and her partner wore black uniforms covered by black jackets with CORONER'S INVESTIGATOR in yellow lettering on the back. Sherelle had slid the body out of the blue plastic bag and onto the coroner's white plastic sheeting while the police photographer snapped pictures. "There's a contusion on the right side of her head."

"Blunt-force trauma?" Decker asked.

"No, more like she just hit her head. It's certainly not deep enough to cause her death. There aren't any bullet or stab wounds. Manual strangulation would be the logical guess. There's lividity . . . rigor is just starting to set. Ordinarily, I'd say less than twenty-four hours, but it's cool outside."

"Anything under the nails?"

"At a quick glance, it looks like she fought back. Or maybe the blood is hers." Sherelle started bagging the hands. "We'll clip them. Once we get her onto the table, the doc can tell you more. Any idea who she is?"

"No."

Sherelle shrugged. "Maybe she's a real estate agent. People are getting pretty angry about the housing situation."

"That's a thought."

"Good luck, Lieutenant. You'll need it."

Decker called over a tech from the CSI unit. "You can evidence the garbage bag. Turn it inside out and see if you can't find something. This is desperation time." He signaled to Oliver, who was checking himself out in a full-length door mirror. He was over fifty, with mostly dark hair and a gut that hadn't gone to fat, but he was as vain as a schoolgirl. Decker didn't like Oliver because his own daughter once had. That was way in the past, and Cindy was now happily married to a more age-appropriate guy, but some things remained stuck in one's craw. "What's going on, Scottie?"

Oliver tore himself away from the mirror and walked over to Decker. "Not much. Just calming down a bunch of freaked-out people."

"Did the agent recognize the corpse?"

"Never saw her nor any other corpse in her life. Her name is Sarah, and I offered to take her out for coffee to calm her down after this is all over."

"Out of the goodness of your heart," Decker said.

"I'm just that kind of sensitive guy."

"She's not only young enough to be your daughter, she's young enough to be your granddaughter."

Oliver smiled. "What can I say? Some people can't adjust."

Decker wasn't sure if Oliver was referring to Decker or himself. "Did Margie or you get a list of brokers from her?"

"Not much of a list, Loo. She told me this was only the second time the house has been shown."

"When was the first showing?"

"Two days ago . . . last Sunday." It was Marge Dunn who responded. She checked her notes. "From two to five. Sarah Atacaro, that's the agent for this showing, told us that the only ones with keys were her, her boss, and the owners, who are now in Denver."

Oliver added, "This was Sarah's first time inside the house. She was just helping out her boss, Adele Michaels, who was in San Diego for a wedding."

"Get Michaels on the phone. We need to talk to her."

"I already did," Oliver told him. "She's en route, and the cell reception was iffy. For what it's worth, she told me she'd checked out the house yesterday afternoon in antic.i.p.ation of today's showing, and she was adamant that there were no dead bodies anywhere. I think it would have been something she'd remember."

"Did she specifically remember checking out the broom closet?"

"She said she checked out everything."

"All right. Then, a.s.suming her information is correct, that would mean the body was placed no more than a day ago. Did any of the neighbors see or hear anything?"

"Nothing that would point us in the direction of the murderer."

"I doubt the killer just stumbled on the house. He must have known that the house was going to be empty between Sunday and today."

"Someone in real estate."

"That's what Marge and I have been thinking. We have pictures of our vic now. Why don't you show them around? Maybe someone's housekeeper didn't show up for work. And if the two agents were the only ones with a key, let's recheck the doors and windows for pry marks. Maybe we missed something because this wasn't the crime scene, and as sure as h.e.l.l, the body didn't walk in on its own accord."

The cigarette smoke didn't bother Decker, but Marge was less tolerant and kept fanning her face. Eventually, Adele Michaels got the hint and stubbed out the b.u.t.t with her foot. They were in the house's backyard outside the kitchen door. The body was gone, but a pall remained.

"I don't know what more I can tell you guys. The body wasn't here yesterday afternoon." Adele's voice was deep and hoa.r.s.e. A face-lift had stretched her leathery skin over cheekbone implants. "I checked every closet and cabinet. I turned on and off every tap, flushed every toilet, and opened and closed every window. The house was in tip-top shape."

"And you have no idea who she is?" Marge asked again.

"No, for the tenth time. I don't know who she is. Why would you think I'm holding back on you?"

"Just trying to prod your memory," Decker said.

"There's nothing to remember!"

"And you're sure that no one besides Sarah Atacaro, the owners, and you has a copy of the key?"

"Positive."

Marge said, "What if someone made a copy from your key and you didn't know about it?"

"Two sets of keys besides the owners in Denver, guys: Sarah and me. And both sets are accounted for. You think I'd allow someone access to my listing without my permission? This hasn't gone to caravan. The house is going to be sold in a couple of days, body or not. It's a fair price." She paused and looked Decker up and down. "Are you in the market?"

Decker smiled and shook his head. "What about Sarah's key? Could she have left it on a desktop or in her drawer-"

"Not a chance! She'd guard it with her life." Adele was losing patience. "Can I go run a business now?"

"Just bear with me for a couple of minutes. You said this was the second time you've shown the house."

"Yes. The first time was on Sunday. When can I start letting people see the place again?"

"Not today," Decker said. "We're still dusting inside. You're probably a good judge of character after dealing with lots of different people all these years, right?" Adele looked at Decker with suspicion on her face. She was short and very thin. There was well over a foot of difference in height between the two of them. "I mean, that's your job, to read people, correct?" Decker said.

"What are you getting at, Sergeant?"

Marge said, "I'm the sergeant, he's the lieutenant."

Decker said, "You can probably tell serious buyers from those who don't belong. Maybe you remember someone from Sunday who looked like he or she didn't belong? Take your time before answering."

"I need a smoke," Adele said. Before she pulled out her cigarette, Decker was there with the match. She blew out a plume of vaporized tobacco and wrinkled her brow-as best she could wrinkle her brow. Botox was doing its job. The agent sighed. "The place was a mob scene."

"How about right before you were ready to lock up?" Decker said. "Anyone walk out of the place with you?"

The agent paused. "Now that you mention it, there were a few people hanging around. You know, trying to sweet-talk me into looking at their offers. One couple in particular . . . wait, wait . . . there was this young guy . . . I almost locked him in the house."

Decker nodded. "Could you describe him to a police artist for a sketch?"

"Yes, I think I could. And I might even be able to do you one better. He might have signed my sheet. I don't know if it's his real name and phone number, but it's better than what you've got right now."

"What we've got is nothing," Decker said.

"That's why what I've got is better."

Over the phone, Medical Examiner Dr. Charles Angelo told Decker that he had extracted sc.r.a.pings from under the nails. "I'll try to get the material into the lab sometime this week. How long the lab takes to get you a genetic profile is anyone's guess. They're backlogged over a year."

"Maybe you can put a rush on it?"

"I can try, but you haven't even ID'd the vic yet, let alone have a perp to match it to. This isn't going to be high priority."

How right he was. Decker said, "Do the best you can."

"I do have other news for you. The vic was pregnant."

Decker cursed silently. "How many months?"

"It wasn't an embryo, but it wasn't as far along as a fetus, either. Maybe a little over three months. Interesting to see if the genetic material under the nails matches to the father of the baby."

As he pa.s.sed out copies of the composite drawing, Decker regarded the sketch and winced. It featured a nondescript man in his thirties. Adele had told the police artist that he had a young face but a receding hairline; dark eyes, thin lips, average build. She remembered that he had a mole over his right eyebrow, and that was about the only distinguishing mark on him. Decker supposed he should stop b.i.t.c.hing. Every little bit helped.

The detectives were sitting in the conference room in the Devonshire division of the LAPD. Five of them around the table, drinking cold coffee while comparing notes. Not much to talk about, but still the theories abounded.

Decker said, "So this is what I think happened. This guy came in on Sunday, looking the place over, acting like a prospective buyer. That way he could open and close the closet doors and look around without arousing any suspicion. He waits until the agent has locked up, then surrept.i.tiously unlocks the back door. Then he pretends that he didn't know she was about to leave and says something like, 'Hey, wait for me!' They walk out together. She's not going to go back and check all the doors. She just a.s.sumes he was entranced by a toilet or something. So they just walk out together. Then he comes back on Monday night to dump the body."

"But the agent came on Monday afternoon and checked out the closets," Marge reminded him. "I'm sure she locked all the doors, Loo."

"Maybe he came through a window?" Oliver suggested. "The agent would check the doors but not the windows."

"I like that," Decker said. "You'll notice I'm using 'he' for the murderer. It could have been a she. It's just a pain in the a.s.s to say 'he or she' every time."

Wanda Beautemps spoke up. She was in her fifties and the newest member of Homicide. "If he was looking for a place to dump the body, then are we thinking that the girl was already dead on Sunday?"

"Not necessarily," Decker said. "The deputy coroner thinks that she was murdered about twenty-four hours before we found her, which would put her death sometime on Monday."

"So he finds the dump spot before he kills the girl?"

"Perhaps," Decker said. "That would imply premeditation. We're checking everyone on the sign-in sheet, but so far we don't have a hit. Adele's description to the police artist is the best we have so far. If anyone identifies the guy, don't go over and confront him. Don't even talk to him. Let's just identify him, find out who he is, where he lives, where he works. He could be a completely innocent schnook. Let's try to avoid a lawsuit." He looked at Lee w.a.n.g. "Are we anywhere close to identifying the vic?"

w.a.n.g checked his notes, written in a sloppy hand. He always claimed his Chinese handwriting was much better than his English penmanship, except that Lee was a born-and-bred American. "Nothing from our canva.s.sing yesterday. I've been checking Missing Persons in the Valley-LAPD. That's been a fat zero. I haven't checked Burbank or San Fernando or Simi or the city. I'll keep working on it."

"Good," Decker said. "Go out and canva.s.s the area for this guy. And good luck."

"Matthew Lombard," Marge said. "He's thirty-one and lives about four miles away, married with two kids. He works as a junior lawyer at a downtown firm."

"You canva.s.sed four miles from the house?"

"One of the clerks at the local 7-Eleven says Matthew comes in every day for coffee and a doughnut before he goes to work. He said it could be him. The face, he wasn't so sure, but the mole, maybe. The guy doesn't have any kind of a sheet."

"All right, Margie, this is what I want you to do. Go get a black-and-white snapshot of him, put it in a six-pack, and see if Adele can pick him out. You can probably pull something off Google-yearbook graduation picture, something like that."

"Not a problem. Some of the search engines have a 'show me an image' feature. No privacy anymore. Not that anyone wants privacy, judging from the moronic reality shows on TV."

"That's for certain. You tell the grocery clerk to keep quiet?"

"I told him if he didn't, I'd check out his green card. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

The interview room had a table and four chairs. Adele Michaels sat on one side, Detective Scott Oliver across from her. She was playing with her pack of cigarettes, looking nervous. Oliver laid the photo spread-six front-face pictures, five stooges and Lombard, matched for age, race, size, and features. It took the real estate agent approximately twenty seconds.

"That's him!" Adele hit the black-and-white of Lombard. "That's the guy I almost locked in the house. He kept asking me questions."

"Thank you, Ms. Michaels," Oliver said.

"Do I get to pick him out of a lineup now?"

"No, ma'am. As far as we know, the man hasn't done anything wrong except stay too late at your open house. If you see him again, don't mention anything about this, okay?"

"Why would I see him again?"

"Maybe he was a legitimate buyer." Oliver shrugged. "Or . . . not accusing anyone, but sometimes people who do nasty things enjoy returning to the scene of the crime."

"No chance of that," Adele said. "Body or no body, the house sold."

"After going through the recent Missing Persons files in the Valley, San Fernando, Burbank, and Glendale, I came up with a dozen possibilities," w.a.n.g told Decker. They were sitting in the Loo's office. Decker was in his chair, w.a.n.g standing over the desk. "Unfortunately-or happily, for the families-nothing panned out."

Decker said, "Sure it wasn't denial?"

"They showed me pictures of their daughters. They didn't appear to be our vic, but if you want, I could bring them in and show them the body."

Decker thought a moment. "Why put them through something that awful when you're pretty sure it's not their loved ones? Besides, you still have the city MP to check out."

"I'll start on those this afternoon."

w.a.n.g was about to leave when Marge walked into the room, dusting a speck of dirt off her black jacket lapel. She wore beige pants and had on flat shoes with rubber soles. "That's what I love about dark colors. They never show dirt. Lord only knows why I put on light pants. I'm just asking for trouble. Do I smell coffee?"