Behind the body was a bed dominated by a mattress and box spring covered with rumpled sheets. There was a nightstand, and on it were an empty money clip, a handful of coins, and a ring of keys. The two bedroom windows overlooked a brick wall. No sign of a suicide note.

To her right was a bathroom. The plastic trash can contained several used condoms, and a faint line of white powder dusted the gray countertop. Water dripped from the showerhead.

The clank of footsteps, rattling equipment boxes, and muffled voices signaled the arrival of the forensic team. She greeted Andy Lucas and Marsha Brown, who, like her, were pulling long days.

Lucas set down his box and looked up at the body as he knitted his gloved fingers together. “The fun never stops, does it?”

“No, it does not.”

“What do you know about our boy here?” Lucas asked.

“I saw him alive and well in court two days ago. He made bail.”

Lucas studied the man’s face closer. “Charged with killing his girlfriend, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Only a lucky bastard would have made bail so fast.”

“His good fortune came wrapped in an expensive suit. But looks like his attorney wasn’t here to save him this time,” she said.

Lucas opened his bag and removed a digital camera. He clicked a couple of test shots, checked the exposure. “You’re welcome to stick around.”

“I’ll let you do your thing. I’m headed to the hospital to talk to the woman who found him. Let me know if you find a suicide note.”

Once she talked to Alana Stone, she would return to Walker’s building to knock on doors. And a visit would have to be paid to Mr. Sanchez.

She waved to the uniformed officer and stripped off her gloves and mask. In her vehicle, she pulled away and reached for her cup of coffee. What remained was cold.

Minutes after 10:00 a.m., Jordan arrived at the hospital and went to the main reception desk, showed her identification, and asked for Alana Stone. The woman had been transferred from the ER to a room on the third floor.

As she crossed the lobby to the elevator, the familiar scents and sounds of the hospital coiled around her. As a uniformed officer, she had followed her share of ambulances to the ER and seen the blood pool at the emergency-room staff’s feet as they struggled to save a gunshot victim. The facility’s surfaces had been cleaned to the point of gleaming, but she always had the urge to bathe after being here.

The elevator door opened, and she pressed the third-floor button with her knuckle. When the doors closed, she inhaled slowly, reminding herself it was a short ride.