“According to the wallet on the table . . .” The officer glanced at a small notebook, the likes of which most cops carried. “Marco Walker.”

“What?” The name was not that common, and given the law of averages . . . “Are you sure?”

“Face is bloated, but it matches the driver’s license picture.”

She reached in her pocket for latex gloves and a mask. “Let me have a look.”

Taking the stairs quickly to the third floor, she moved down the gray, dingy hallway covered with peeling paint. A door opened behind her, and her hand went automatically to the weapon on her hip as she pivoted. An older man with tousled graying hair, a stained tank top, and worn jeans glared at her.

“What the hell is going on? I can’t get any sleep.”

Jordan stepped toward him and introduced herself. “And your name?”

“Dan Lawson.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A couple of months.”

“You know the guy in 3-B?”

“He just moved in two days ago.”

Like pulling teeth. “He any trouble? Anyone have an issue with him?”

“He had a hooker in there yesterday. The two made a hell of a racket. But beyond that, I don’t know anything about him.”

“What about Alana Stone? You know her that well?”

He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We’ve had a few beers.”

“She must know the man in 3-B. I hear she partied with him, let herself into his place, and found him dead.”

“Alana ain’t shy about going through unlocked doors and grabbing what she needs. Where is she?”

“Hospital.” She scribbled his name in her notebook and asked him to stay away from 3-B. At the front door, she ducked under the yellow tape and stepped into the apartment. It was the furnished kind, with a drab, careworn sofa and two matching chairs, a small efficiency kitchen with a tiny refrigerator, a twenty-inch television, and a small café-style table with one chair. There were men’s clothes on the floor along with dozens of beer cans and a pizza box with three half-eaten slices remaining.

Hand on her weapon, Jordan moved toward the bedroom and stopped in the doorway when she saw Marco Walker’s body hanging in his room. The second café chair was lying on its side just behind his feet, which hovered several inches from the carpeted floor. The base of the light had pulled away from the ceiling.

He was dressed in jeans but wore no shirt, leaving his tattooed chest and belly bare. The bloating and contorted face staring back at her had little in common with the smirking one she remembered from the courtroom. A part of her was glad he was dead. And another resented him for taking his secrets to the grave and not spending the next twenty years in prison. Memories of Mr. Sanchez’s postcourtroom threat whispered in her ear.

“I hope you didn’t do anything stupid, Mr. Sanchez,” she muttered.