He was sitting at his desk, going through reams of computer printouts. Rock and roll played quietly from the radio on a bookcase, and he was drinking tangerine flavored mineral water. Stevens was young, smart, and boyishly good looking. He worked hard, and played hard in singles bars, so I had been UK. I was quite certain his job as my administrator would prove to be a short step on his way to someplace better.

“Maybe she unplugged her phone so she could sleep,” he said, turning on his adding machine.

“Maybe that’s it.”

He launched into an update on our budget woes.

Late afternoon when it was beginning to get dark out, Stevens buzzed my line.

“Susan called. She ill she won’t be in tomorrow. And I’ve got a John Deighton on hold. Says he’s Jennifer Deighton’s brother.” Stevens transferred the call.

“Hello. They said you did my sister’s autopsy,” a man mumbled. “Uh, Jennifer Deighton’s my sister.”

“Your name, please?”

“John Deighton. I live in Columbia, South Carolina.”

I glanced up as Marino appeared in my office doorway, and motioned forhim to take a chair.

“They said she hooked up a hose to her car and killed herself.”

“Who said that” I asked. “And could you speak up, please?”

He hesitated. “I don’t remember the name, should’ve wrote it down but I was too shocked.”

The man didn’t sound shocked. His voice was so muffled I barely could hear what he was saying.

“Mr. Deighton, I’m very sorry,” I said. “But you will have to request any information regarding her death in writing. I will also need, included with your written request, some verification that you are next of kin.”

He did not respond.

“Hello?”

I asked. “Hello?”

I was answered by a dial tone.

“That’s strange, “I said to Marino. “Are you familiar with a John Deighton who claims to be Jennifer Deighton’s brother?”

“That’s who that was? Shit. We’re trying to reach him.

“He said someone’s already notified him about her death.”

“You know where he was calling from?”

“Columbia, South Carolina, supposedly. He hung up on me.”

Marino didn’t seem interested. “I just came from Vander’s office,” he said, referring to Neils Vander, the chief fingerprints examiner. “He checked out Jennifer Deighton’s car, plus the books that were beside her bed and a poem that was stuck inside one of ‘em. As for the sheet of blank paper that was on her bed, he hasn’t gotten to that yet.”

“Anything so far?”

“He lifted a few. Will run them through the computer if there’s a need. Probably most of the prints are hers. Here.”

He placed a small paper bag on my desk. “Happy reading.”

“I think you’re going to want those prints run without delay,” I said grimly.

A shadow passed over Marino’s eyes. He massaged his temples.