Her eyes flickered, as if now understanding his question. 'Oh. No. He might have been, but I wouldn't have seen him. I start from the other side of the building and run the perimeter of the neighborhood before cutting back through the park on my way back.'

'Did you see anyone else?'

'Only the other runners. I don't know any of their names. Officer Hopper might.' She looked toward her building. 'Where is Officer Rico? He went to check on Barb.'

'It looks like she's gone.'

Trask's gaze shot up to him, wild panic in her eyes this time. One slender hand grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip. 'Gone where? Gone dead?' she demanded and he immediately regretted the words he'd chosen.

'No, no,' he soothed, covering her hand with his. Her skin was like ice. He pulled her fingers from his sleeve and sandwiched her hand between his palms, rubbing them to warm her. 'It appears she left. The apartment is empty and her car isn't in the lot.'

Panic became disbelief and she stood there, her hand motionless between his. 'No. Barb would never leave him alone like that.'

'But she is gone.'

Jerking her hand free, she took a step back, the remaining color draining from her face. 'No. Absolutely not. She would not leave him of her own free will. Somebody must have taken her. Oh my God.'

'She unplugged all the kitchen appliances,' JD said and watched as his words penetrated her disbelief. 'Did she do that when she traveled?'

Trask nodded, numbly. 'Yes. But I won't believe she left him alone. She was devoted to him.'

'Sometimes people under stress do things they wouldn't normally do,' JD said carefully. 'Caring for a spouse with Alz-'

'No,' she interrupted, fury giving her voice authority. 'No. For God's sake, Detective, Mr Pugh couldn't even dress himself. He couldn't even tie his . . .' She faltered suddenly, her brows furrowing.

JD leaned in closer when she didn't finish the sentence. 'Tie his what?'

But she was already moving toward the body. 'His shoes,' she said over her shoulder. 'He's wearing shoes with laces.'

JD hurried after her, ready to pull her back if she got too close, but she stopped, crouching where he had minutes before. Something had clicked and she was no longer numb. Now there was an energy around her. The air all but hummed.

Fascinated, he crouched beside her, staring at her profile as she stared at the victim's feet. Color had returned to her face, her cheeks pinking up before his eyes.

No, he could never have forgotten her face.

'Mr Pugh hasn't worn regular shoes in five years,' she murmured, dragging his attention back to the dead man in the chair. 'He wears an orthopedic shoe with Velcro. Barb's fingers were too stiff to tie his laces.'

'Maybe he had two pairs,' JD said, but she shook her head.

'These are Ferragamos. Mr Pugh never had that kind of money, and if he had, he wouldn't have spent it on shoes.'

'What did he do for a living? I mean . . . before the Alzheimer's?'

She glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. Alert. And relieved. 'He was a high-school music teacher who bought his shoes from J.C. Penney's. This is not Jerry Pugh.'

She sounded utterly certain. 'What makes you so sure?' he asked.

'These shoes are the wrong size,' she said. 'These are size ten. Mr Pugh wore size twelve.' She closed her eyes, pursing lips that trembled. 'Oh God. Oh God. Wears. Wears a size twelve. He's still alive. This isn't him. This isn't him.'

'Are you all right, Dr Trask?'

She nodded, trembling, her hands clenched into fists. 'I'm fine.'

He wasn't sure about that, but hoped she'd know if she were about to faint. 'How do you know Mr Pugh's shoe size?' he asked, unconvinced.

'I see a lot of feet in my business, Detective. I know my sizes.'

He pictured the bodies in the cold room at the morgue, with just their feet sticking from beneath the sheet, tags on the toes. 'I guess you do. But how do you know his?'

She moved her shoulders a little uncomfortably as she stared at the victim's battered face. 'In February I found Mr Pugh sitting right here, in his chair. He'd left the house without his shoes and his feet were almost frozen. I called 911, massaged his feet and covered them with my coat. I know what size his feet are. This man's are too small. This man is not Mr Pugh.'

'That was very kind of you, massaging the feet of an old man,' he murmured.

'It was what anyone would have done.'

He doubted that. 'You call him "Mr Pugh", but you call her "Barb". Why?'

That took her aback, he could see. She hesitated. 'Old habits die hard, I guess,' she finally said. 'I didn't realize I did that.'

'How long have you known Mr Pugh?'

'Twenty years. He was my teacher. In high school.' She said the phrases haltingly, as if reluctant to divulge the information. Briskly she rose, and he followed. 'This man is not seventy years old. If I hadn't been distracted, I would have seen that.'

'You had a right to be distracted,' JD began, but she waved his words away.

'He might be fifty, if that. He's taller than Mr Pugh too, by a good two inches.' She leaned over the dead man's head carefully. Dried blood was thickly crusted over the scalp. 'He's bald, like Mr Pugh. Or his head's been shaved. I'll let you know which when I get him on a table.'

'Okay, let's assume you're right and this man is not Jerry Pugh. What made you originally think he was?'

'First, he was sitting in Mr Pugh's chair.'

'You said that before. What do you mean, "his" chair?'

'When he wanders, he always comes here, to this chair. Before the Alzheimer's he was quite a chess player. He'd come here every day after school and there were always people waiting to take him on.' She shook herself lightly. 'Plus there was that.' She pointed to a tweed hat on the ground. 'Mr Pugh wears one just like it. It was pulled over his face, like he was asleep. It fell off when I touched his shoulder and he fell forward.' She paused, biting her lower lip. 'Mr Pugh has a similar trench coat, too.'

JD frowned, not liking that. 'Who knows that Mr Pugh wanders out here?'

Slowly she turned, looked up to meet his eyes. Hers were troubled. 'Everyone in our building. Everyone in any of the buildings nearby. He wanders out at different times during the night and day. Why?' She asked the question even though he thought she already knew the answer.

'Who knows you run every morning before dawn?'

'Other runners. Anyone who's up at dawn. Why?' she repeated.

'Because he wasn't killed here. Drew thinks he was transported by wheelchair from the front of your building. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to have him found.'

She looked back at the hat. 'You think someone wanted me to find him.'

He thought exactly that, but didn't want to jump to any conclusions. 'For now, let's leave it at someone going to a lot of trouble to have him found.'

'Hands are in his pockets,' she observed quietly. 'His face is destroyed. Someone wanted him found, but not identified. I think you'll find his fingertips are . . . altered.'

'Or gone,' JD said grimly.

'Or gone,' she repeated evenly. 'Rigor's passed. He's been dead at least two days. I'll get you a better time of death after the exam.' She leaned forward a few inches, studying the facial injuries. 'Blunt object was used. I'll have a better idea-'

'After the exam,' he finished. 'So let's get him transported. I want to check his pockets for ID, but I don't want to chance any evidence falling on the grass here. Can we check his pockets as soon as you unload him at the morgue?'

She studied him, clearly sizing him up. 'Either Stevie's been training you or you just have common sense. A lot of cops would want me to lay him out here.'

Her approval made him feel . . . good. Just as it had the other time they'd met. He didn't think she remembered it and he wasn't in any hurry to bring it up.

A door slammed behind them and as one they looked over their shoulders to see an ME tech pushing a gurney with a folded body bag lying on top. 'I'm just coming back from two weeks out of the office,' Trask said. 'I may have a heavy load, so I may not be able to do the cut today. But if you want to meet me at the morgue, we can do a cursory exam and go through his pockets right away.'

'I appreciate it. I'll work on locating the Pughs. I want to be sure they're all right.'

'Thank you. I'll suit up and get started.' She looked back at the body slumped over the chess table. 'I want to believe I came along by coincidence, that the placement of this man's body had nothing to do with me.'

'But you don't.'

'Do you?'

He wanted to put her mind at ease, but wouldn't lie to her. 'No.'

She sighed. 'Neither do I.'

Chapter Two.

Monday, May 3, 6.20 A.M.

Well. That had gone much better than he'd dared to hope for. He'd held his breath for a while, hoping Trask would come along, hoping she'd follow her usual path.

He needn't have worried. Lucy Trask was as predictable as the sun she hated so much. She'd found the cocksucker, just like he'd planned.

He'd enjoyed the precious minutes when she'd thought the cocksucker was the old man. Unfortunately she'd figured it out too soon. I should have changed his shoes. Stupid mistake. Could have drawn her torment out a lot longer. She truly loved that old man, Mr Pugh. Good to know.

He took stock of the two detectives talking. The man had been first on the scene. The woman had just arrived. Now that he knew who was investigating, he could put Plan B in place setting up a distraction in the unlikely event that things went sour and he needed to get away fast. Cops had families and he had no qualms about using theirs. Just like they used mine.

He'd get his justice, one body at a time. His mouth curved in a satisfied smile. The next name on his list was already taken and stowed. He couldn't wait.

Monday, May 3, 6.35 A.M.

Lucy drew a steadying breath as she leaned against the morgue rig, stepping into a pair of coveralls. Her heart was still pounding. It isn't him. Not Mr Pugh.

Then who is it? And why had he been left there, in Mr Pugh's chair?

For me to find? A shiver raced across her skin as she zipped the coveralls up over her running clothes. It was already seventy degrees, but she was freezing cold. Shock, she thought. She'd come close to hyperventilating, especially there at the end.

Rubbing her hands together, she remembered Detective Fitzpatrick doing the same thing. That had been kind. And effective. The man had hands like a furnace.

She wondered if he made a habit of warming the hands of those who discovered the bodies. She imagined he hadn't had many opportunities to do so, not yet anyway. Stevie Mazzetti's former partner had retired only three weeks before and this new partner hadn't been in Homicide before. He'd come from Narcotics, and-Oh.

'Narcotics,' she said aloud. The little girl. Two years ago. He alone had come to witness the autopsy of a child, the victim of a stray bullet in a drug-related shooting.

That's where I saw him. She'd been trying to remember while he'd intently studied her face as she'd studied the victim's shoes. He'd been trying to remember too.

'You got that right,' murmured the woman standing to her right. 'That man can addict me any time.'

Lucy looked up and immediately rolled her eyes. ME Tech Ruby Gomez was openly ogling Detective Fitzpatrick as he stood several vehicles away, engaged in a serious conversation with Stevie Mazzetti, who'd just arrived on the scene.

'Ruby,' Lucy hissed. 'Put your eyes back in your head.'

Ruby didn't move. 'Why? You're the one who said he was a narcotic.'

'I said "Narcotics". He came from Narcotics.'

'I know. In fact, I know everything there is to know about that man.'

'Like what?' Lucy demanded, sounding petulant even to her own ears.

'Like he's hot.' Ruby shot her an amused look. 'What more do I need to know?'

'That it's time to work. We've got a dead man slumped over a chess table. Focus.'

'I am. On the live hot cop who has a very nice butt,' Ruby replied tartly, then swung around with a resigned sigh. 'Fine. Let's go get the dead guy.' She closed the back doors of the rig, taking a last look at Fitzpatrick. 'That is one fine-lookin' man.'

Lucy shook her head, although she privately agreed. JD Fitzpatrick had tall, dark and handsome all sewn up in very tidy package, and there was something about the way he moved. He was lean where a lot of cops were bulky. Still, he filled the space around him, his air confident. Almost dangerous. That he was kind made him more so.

The handsome, arrogant ones were easy to spot. Easy to avoid. The kind ones snuck under your radar, then . . . bam. She hefted her field exam kit and started walking. 'Men that look like that are invariably a lot more trouble than they're worth.'

'In the long term, absolutely,' Ruby said, her very red lips twitching. 'I sure as hell wouldn't marry one. But short term, their brand of trouble is well worth it.'

Red was Ruby's trademark because she was anything but subtle. She wore it on her lips and on the long fingernails that she pressed on at the end of each shift. Men buzzed around her like bees to a queen and Ruby proudly held court.

Lucy liked her. They had a business-hours friendship that left most people shaking their heads. Oil and water, the others would say. It didn't take a rocket scientist to get which was the water. Ruby was flashy and vivid where Lucy was contained. Bland.

Or so they all thought. Not even Ruby knew what Lucy did when she left the office. None of them did. And if Lucy had her way, they never would.

'Well, make trouble on your own time,' Lucy said briskly. 'I promised Detective Fitzpatrick we'd process this guy as soon as we got him back to the morgue. How many cases do I have today, anyway?'

'Maybe four,' Ruby replied absently, stealing looks over her shoulder. 'He's coming. Detective Hot Cop. Stevie Mazzetti's with him.'