"I just made a fresh pot," Decker said. "Help yourself."

Marge walked over to the table and poured coffee into a paper cup. Decker always provided fresh coffee for anyone who walked into his office. It made him popular with the rank and file. "Lombard works at a large firm, one of those chichi downtown places that have a million names, like Cratchet, Hatchet, and Patchet." She checked her notes. "The actual name is Frisk, Taylor, Pollin, Berman, and Pope. They have almost fifty partners. Lombard isn't one of them."

"How long has he worked there?" Decker asked.

Marge put down her coffee and flipped through her notepad. "I don't know if I have that . . . Oh, here we go. Five years. Stable guy."

Decker raised his eyebrows. "Way back, I was a lawyer for about six months."

"I didn't know that," w.a.n.g said.

"It's something he doesn't advertise," Marge said, "but it makes him handy around the PDs."

Decker smiled. "The point is, when I started out in law, it was well known that ambitious people don't stick around in big firms if they don't make junior partner by year two or three."

w.a.n.g said, "Maybe Lombard's just not that ambitious."

"Or maybe the firm offered other benefits, like a certain lady," Decker said. "Did you talk to anyone in the firm to see if our vic worked there?"

"That was my next step," Margie said.

w.a.n.g said, "If we start showing a postmortem picture of our victim, we're going to arouse interest at the firm. Are you worried about Lombard bolting?"

"It's always a possibility." Decker thought a moment. "Body's still in the crypt?"

"Unless corpses can walk, I would say yes," w.a.n.g answered.

"Wise guy," Decker muttered. "Okay, let's do this. Put a little makeup on her, fix her hair, and dress her. Then have someone take another picture of her gussied up. Do you think we could convince someone in Human Resources at Cratchet, Hatchet, et cetera, that she's still alive?"

"Pshaw, Loo, nothing's impossible," Marge said. "This is Hollywood!"

The young clerk's brown eyes first squinted, then widened with surprise. The HR office of Frisk, Taylor, and friends was tucked into a corner of the fifteenth floor in a twenty-three-story chrome and gla.s.s building. The firm took up not only floor fifteen but sixteen and seventeen as well, anonymous corridors of Berber carpeting and white walls. Sitting in his little cubicle, the clerk studied the picture, his eyes traveling from the picture to Marge's face. "Is that Solana?"

Marge played along. "Yes, of course."

"She doesn't look so healthy."

The clerk's comment gave Marge a better ruse than the one she had originally invented. "That's why I need to see her. She's a diabetic."

"I didn't know that. It wasn't on her medical form when she applied for the job." The clerk suddenly looked suspicious. "Why are you talking to me instead of Solana?"

A logical question: Luckily, Marge was good at thinking on her feet. "Our pharmaceutical company has come out with some very important new drugs, and she was one of our subjects. But she hasn't shown up for the last couple of days. I tried calling her at home, but no one answers. She put this place down as her employment. I hoped I might catch her here, but I don't know what department she works in."

The clerk gave Marge a strange look. Then he reluctantly checked his files, jotted down some numbers, and picked up the phone. Marge could hear the voice mail kicking in-Solana's voice.

The victim had a voice.

The clerk said, "Hi, Solana, it's Jack from HR. Can you give me a call when you get in?" He hung up. "She's not at her desk."

"Can you call someone else to find out if she's even at work? We're a little concerned."

He sighed heavily but cooperated. This time he actually spoke to a human on the other end of the line. "Hi, Terry, it's Jack." He smiled and dropped his voice. "Yes, I'm in, what do you think? Do you want me to bring the wine?"

At this point Marge cleared her throat. Jack looked miffed and held up a finger. "Okay, I'll do the reds, let Randy do the whites . . . Right, right, right. Okay, it's a deal. Terry, before you hang up, I've got someone from . . ." He looked at Marge.

"Taykell and Company Pharmaceuticals."

"Someone from a drug company looking for Solana Perez. Do you know where she is? . . . I did call, and all I got was voice mail. Do you know if she's in today? . . . Of course I'll hold." He glanced at Marge. "Someone's hunting her down."

"Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. I can't believe she actually let someone take her picture when she looked so awful. The poor thing is as white as chalk."

"She wasn't feeling very well."

"You know, she should have listed her illness on the application. Our health insurance has to know- Hi . . . oh? For how long? Okay. Okay. Okay, I'll see you Thursday. Bye." The clerk exhaled. "She hasn't been at work for three days." He frowned. "Do you think something's happened to her?"

"Yes, I think something's happened to her," Marge said. "I'd like to see her personnel records."

Again Jack frowned. "Those are confidential."

Marge drew out her shield. "Don't make me get a subpoena."

The clerk's mouth dropped open. "You're police? Why didn't you just say so in the first place?"

"Because if Solana was here, I could just talk to her, clear up this mess, and you'd be none the wiser. But she isn't here and hasn't been here for three days. That's why I'm asking for her records."

"What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything, Jack. It's what was done to her."

Jack whitened several shades. "Oh my G.o.d! That picture! Is it . . . Is she . . ."

"I'm afraid so."

Jack quickly excused himself and made a mad dash down the hallway. Marge heard some retching and hoped he had made it to the bathroom in time.

The Homicide group was stuffed into Decker's office. Lee w.a.n.g, Wanda Beautemps, Marge Dunn, and Scott Oliver were devouring several takeout pizzas. Decker was wolfing down one of his wife's famous roast beef sandwiches. It was past seven, and they all had appet.i.tes worthy of a pack of hyenas. "First thing we've got to do is positively ID our victim as Solana Perez. What do we know about her?"

Marge said, "No husband, according to her application. She's from a border town in Texas. Her parents are Ana and Jorge Perez, but contacting them has been hard. There's no address or phone number. Nothing in Texas directory information. Scott and I are thinking that she's from immigrant parents."

"That's not good," Decker said. "We've got to get the body ID'd. Let's bring someone from her office down to the morgue."

"Not Lombard," Oliver said. "He'll deny knowing her, if he's smart."

"No, not Lombard, or any other lawyer, for that matter. I don't want anyone charging the department three hundred and fifty an hour. Round up a secretary." Decker looked at Beautemps and w.a.n.g. "Lee, set something up at the crypt, say around ten tomorrow. Wanda, you go to the firm and find someone who knew Solana and can identify her. The two places aren't too far apart. You should be in and out in an hour, especially if Lee sets up the body for camera viewing beforehand."

w.a.n.g said, "I was going to work on the city's Missing Person files. I only got through a quarter of them this afternoon."

"You can do that afterward. Besides, it won't be necessary if we get a positive ID." Decker turned to Wanda. "If you don't get a positive ID, you help go through the MP files in the city."

"No problem," Wanda answered.

"Great," Decker said. "Now, if our body is Solana, it's really tempting to jump to conclusions about Lombard, but let's keep an open mind. We know Solana is missing. And we know that Lombard was in the house where the body was dumped. We know that Solana and Lombard worked in the same department."

"You forgot to mention that our vic was three months pregnant and he's a married guy," Oliver put in. "Ask the guy for a blood test. We can see if he's the father."

"Even if Lombard is the father, it doesn't mean he killed her," Decker said.

Marge said, "Everything's circ.u.mstantial except him showing up at the house two days before some poor devil finds our body stuffed in a closet. With that, Lombard's painting a nice picture for the DA."

"Sure would be nice to find where the vic was killed," Oliver said.

"Funny you should think of that, Scottie," Decker said. "I just got off the phone with Solana's landlord. He's meeting me at her apartment in forty minutes."

Marge asked, "Where did she live?"

"Reseda. Who wants to join me?"

There was resounding silence.

"Okay, let me rephrase that. Who's on call?"

"I think that would be Oliver and me," Marge said.

w.a.n.g stood up. "Thanks for dinner, Loo." He looked at Wanda. "See you tomorrow at ten."

"Wait, I'll walk you out." Wanda threw away her paper plate and picked up her purse. "See you tomorrow."

After they left, Decker spoke to Oliver. "You look like you swallowed quinine."

Oliver sighed heavily. "I was planning to meet someone for drinks. She's gorgeous and in her forties. You'd approve."

"Don't start, Oliver. I outrank you."

"I'm serious, Pete. I'm trying to act somewhat age-appropriate."

Marge added, "Especially because forty now seems young to him."

Decker smiled. "All right, Oliver, go on your date. Margie and I can handle this. If the apartment turns out to be the crime scene, I'll page you."

"I'm suspicious when you're too nice."

"Nah, don't be fooled. It's part of my persona as the benevolent dictator."

Decker and Marge accompanied Irv Fletcher up a flight of outdoor steps. The apartment building was an anonymous white box with sparkles in the stucco. The landlord was in his late seventies, short, slight, and bald, but with a spring in his step. "Her rent wasn't due for another week, so I had no reason to contact her."

"Good tenant?" Decker asked.

"The best kind: the one who pays her rent on time."

Decker had a thought. He still had Solana's postmortem picture in his pocket. "Did you know her well?"

"Never met her. Everything was done through an agent."

So much for the quick ID. At the top of the stairs, Fletcher fished out a ring of keys. "You think something happened to her?"

"Maybe," Marge said. "She hasn't been at work for the last couple of days."

As they got closer to the apartment, a faint stale smell wafted through the chilly air. "Here we go . . . number eight."

"Do you mind if I open the door?" Decker asked. "Fingerprints, you know."

"Sure, sure." Fletcher handed him the master key. Decker put on a pair of latex gloves, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door. He groped around the wall until he found the light switch. It turned on two floor lamps, bathing the tiny living room in soft light.

A couch decorated with lacy pillows, and a coffee table, a chair and an end table, a set of bookshelves that held more DVDs than paperbacks, discount furniture, cheap but serviceable. The same s.p.a.ce also held a dinette service for four and moribund flowers in a vase set in the middle of the table, dropping dead petals. The water stank of rotten eggs.

Marge and Decker exchanged looks. Marge said, "Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting outside?"

"Sure, sure. You mind if I sit in my car? It's a little warmer in there."

"No, sir, not at all. We'll be down in a bit." Decker walked around and peered into the kitchen, an out-pouching of the living area. It appeared clean and tidy. He went back into the living room and studied the floor, slowly walking toward the lone bedroom. Before he opened the shut door, he crouched down and stared at the joint where the jamb met the floor. "Looks like some blood here, mixed with hair. Our victim had a contusion on the side of her head."

Marge said, "He was dragging her out and b.u.mped her head on the doorjamb."

Decker nodded. "I don't see any smear tracks from the wound. He came back and cleaned up pretty good. But not all that good, if he left this. I'll have the techs luminol the area tonight." He got up from his squat and opened the door.

The room was orderly. The bed had been made; the nightstand held a lamp and a book. Framed photographs lined the dresser. Decker pointed to a pretty young woman with long flowing hair and full red lips. A glint twinkled in her brown eyes. She appeared around twenty. Decker took out the postmortem photograph. It was the same woman, but the two snapshots couldn't have looked any more different.

Marge sighed. "Well, it looks like we've ID'd our victim."

"And most likely found the crime scene." Decker pointed to a corner of the room, at a blotch of something rusty brown. He bent down, sniffed it, and made a face.

"Blood?"

"More like excrement." He stood back up. "Since she was choked, we wouldn't expect to see a lot of blood. But victims p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t as they die. We'll have the techs dust for fingerprints and take a look at this splotch under the scope."

Marge said, "What should we do with Lombard?"

"We've got a witness who tells us he was in the open house that Sunday. And we know he worked with Solana. That doesn't mean there was a relationship."

"We could probably find that out easy enough. Should we bring him in?"

"Not yet. First let's see if the techs can put him in her apartment by finding his fingerprints. In the meantime, Margie, he gets his cup of coffee from the same convenience store every day. Tell the store clerk to pour Lombard a cup from the dregs. Then, after he takes a sip, the clerk should offer him a fresh cup. When Lombard throws his cup away, you move in. Let's get his DNA. If he's the father of the kid, he can't very well deny a relationship."

It took little time for Decker to learn about Lombard's affair with Solana from several of her coworkers. Office gossip was rampant, though no one had anything d.a.m.ning to say about Solana other than she was having an affair with a married man. Lombard's fingerprints were on file, a requirement of his state license, and they matched dozens of prints found in Solana's apartment. Though the DNA profile hadn't come back, Decker decided it was time to bring in the young lawyer for questioning.

Dunn and Oliver caught up with Lombard during his lunch break-two hours at the Marquis Club, a posh private organization that catered to the downtown white-shoe firms and the multimillion-dollar corporations they represented. The young lawyer was accompanying the bosses. His job was to take notes and say nothing. The detectives waited until Lombard was done with his official business and discreetly moved in. The young lawyer reacted without dramatics. Wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and an ice-blue tie, Lombard was an average man in all respects, the only distinguishing mark being the mole over his right eye. The nevus was a dark, round spot, serrated at the edges and flush with his skin. At a quick glance, it resembled a bullet hole. After he made excuses to his bosses-an emergency at home-he willingly came down to the station house without a peep of protest.