No sign of the female victim’s purse. Generic gold hoops in her ears, three similarly nondescript silver bangles around one slender wrist. Light makeup.

He got down close to her right ear, as if wanting to impart some secret. “She shampooed recently, I can still smell it.”

The C.I. said, “I also smelled it. Suave. I use it myself.”

“Expensive?”

She chuckled. “With my pay scale?” Growing solemn as she took in the dead woman’s pale face.

Even degraded, an extremely nice-looking woman with a taut, full-breasted, somewhat low-waisted body, a smooth, oval countenance, and huge eyes, slightly down-slanted. Brown in life, filmed the color of dirty pavement by death.

Pink gloss on slack lips. Clean nails, no polish. The C.I.’s probing had revealed no bullet holes anywhere on her body, but the sclera of the woman’s eyes were marbled and speckled by hemorrhage and her long neck was swollen and bruised and bisected by an angry magenta line.

The C.I. pointed out the crusty, milky blotch on her thigh. Checked fingernails. “Doesn’t look like anything under there. Poor thing. Is it okay if I pull her dress down?”

“Do that,” said Milo. “Soon as our techies get here and print them and the room, you can transport.”

“Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“You in a hurry?”

“We do have another call, but no problem, Lieutenant.”

“Your drivers are paid by the hour.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Nothing comes to mind, Ms….” Squinting to make out her I.D. badge. “Rieffen.”

“Lara. You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I’m open to suggestions, Lara.”

“Well… I’m just feeling my way around, don’t want to miss anything.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Okay, then.” To me: “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a consulting psychologist.”

“Psychologist,” she said. “For a profile?”

Milo knows I rate profiling just below reading tea leaves and political polling. “Something like that.” Glancing at the rickety spiral framework that led down to the second floor, he said, “We’re okay here, Lara, go take your next call.”

C.I. Rieffen gathered up her stuff and hurried down.

When her footsteps had stopped echoing, he pulled a panatela from a pocket of his forlorn, lint-colored windbreaker, jammed it in his mouth but didn’t light up. As his jaw bunched, the cigar tilted upward. He stared at the bodies some more. Got on the phone and searched for Desmond Backer’s registered vehicle.

Five-year-old BMW 320i. He put a BOLO on it, with instructions to transport but not search until processed forensically.

Pocketing his cell, he said, “Caught in the act but maybe staged to reconstruct.” Half smile. “The little death followed by the big one.”