“Whatever, dude. This level of bling, call me Hussein and circumcise me with a dull knife and no anesthesia.”

“The first time didn’t hurt enough?” said his buddy.

Another officer said, “Heard they didn’t leave much to work with.”

“You heard wrong, dude. Ask your wife.”

Laughter.

The first cop said, “What’s with the hybrid, looks like a zit on the Roller’s butt.”

“Probably got a solid-gold engine block, dude. Or maybe some serious tuning—can I pop the hood, Loo?”

Milo held up a restraining palm. Circled the cars, gloved up. Smoked windows on each vehicle, but unlocked doors. He opened the Prius’s driver’s door and stopped.

We rushed over.

A cop said, “Oh, Jesus, that’s rank.”

Two skeletons took up the rear of the hybrid, huddled, embracing, a duet of interlocking bones. To my eyes, not a staged pose; the natural instinct to draw together when faced with the worst news of all.

Milo aimed his flashlight on the bones and I peered around his bulk. Cottony blond tufts fuzzed the smaller skull, darker strands greased the other.

Femurs and tibias pressed together, fingers entwined.

Eternal lovers.

Milo said, “Two bullet holes in each skull, forehead and under the nose.”

“Execution,” said the cop who’d asked for a look under the hood. “And they made ’em watch.”

Milo continued to work his flashlight. “There’s some skin, mostly at the lower extremities, looks leathery.”

“Mummification,” said another cop. “This place is humidity-and temperature-controlled, probably slowed the decomp but didn’t block it.”

“Whoa, dude, someone’s been watching Forensic Files.”

“Loo, how long do you think they’ve been there?”

Milo said, “We’ll wait for the coroner on that but my guess is a couple of years.”

“Makes sense, Loo. Security guy didn’t remember seeing anyone here and he’s been on the job eighteen months. As opposed to the next one over, that’s Larry Stonefield’s little Porsche garage, Larry likes to drive a different car every day, his crew’s in and out all the time.”

“Fifteen? Gimme one, dude, I’m happy.”

“Gimme one of those boxes, my girlfriend would kill for a millionth of what’s inside.”

“Good choice of words, dude.”

Milo aimed his flashlight at the skeleton’s feet, poked his head in deeper, emerged. “All sorts of crust and stains on the carpet. If they weren’t done in the car, they were done nearby. Okay, let’s get this place roped off.”

Mitochondrial DNA comparison of bone marrow from the blond skeleton and Helga Gemein’s corpse confirmed that Dahlia Gemein had never made it to Sranil.