I had an idea. If we moved fast, it might work.

“Charlie? Let’s superglue her right here.”

CSU was setting up a fuming tent, when a portly man, red-faced and furious, pushed through the mob and got into my face.

His name tag identified him as “Patrick Leroy, Show Manager,” and he was yelling, “You can’t shut us down. Are you insane?”

Spit flew as he shouted questions without answers: did I know how much revenue was going to go down the crapper? How I was turning great publicity into dog crap? How much shit was going to rain down on me personally because of it?

It was one long, scatological rant, and I didn’t like any part of it.

“Someone’s been murdered, Mr. Leroy, understand? I have to preserve what’s left of the crime scene and catch a killer. So while you act like a jackass, people are stampeding up and down the stairwells and spreading DNA around the bathrooms.

“The quicker your security staff helps us empty this place out and submits to interviews, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”

“And when do you think that will be?” he asked, breathing hard.

“We’ll be done when we’re done.”

“Give me a break! I have to tell people something.”

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Figure at least twelve hours,” I said.

“An entire day? You’re canceling out Saturday? Millions of dollars shit-canned. Millions,” he said, stabbing the buttons on his cell phone. “You have no idea.”

“There’s a dead woman in that Ferrari,” I said.

Then I turned my back on him as Jacobi appeared at my side, saying that he’d collected the security tapes, including those that had been trained on the loading docks.

We paused to watch cops usher paying customers through the promotional glitz and out the door. Nobody was very happy, to put it mildly.

“If we don’t nail these psychos,” Jacobi said, “I’m taking early retirement. Without a party. And you, Boxer, you’re going to be busted down to meter maid.”

“You know what I’m wondering?” I said to my old partner. “How the hell did they get that girl in here?”

Chapter 81

Chapter 81

I KEPT RUBBING MY ARMS against the chill inside the morgue as I took in the pitiful sight of our latest Jane Doe lying nude on a steel table.

She looked as innocent and as vulnerable as a sleeping child.

Claire greeted me from her stepladder, where she was shooting the victim from above, while at ground level, nonessential personnel ogled the naked, pretty woman.

“Hey,” Claire barked. “Everyone, get out. Out! Not you, Lindsay. Bunny! Bag and tag the shoes. Give everything to Loomis and don’t forget the necklace. It’s right there on the table.”