“That’s consistent with the picture I got from her parents.”

“Her parents told you she liked to party?”

“Mostly her father did. He described her—and not kindly—as a party girl.”

“Unusual for him to admit that under the circumstances.”

“I have a feeling that he’s been miffed at her for a long time.”

“But she’s dead, Rabbi. For him to even hint at hostility…that’s weird.”

“People cope in all sorts of different ways. Maybe he figures if he can be mad at her, she’s really not dead. Anyway, there’s another sister in the family—Beatrice Blanc. She needs to be interviewed separately.”

“I’ll do it.”

“There are also two best friends of hers from high school: Sela Graydon and Crystal Larabee.” Decker spelled the names and gave Marge the phone numbers. “Lastly, we need to find out the name of the homeowner’s oldest son.”

“Did that. Trent Grossman. He’s twenty-six. He lives in Boston with his wife and was at a party last night. So he’s out of the picture. The two younger Grossman boys were home last night, according to the parents. For verification, they sent e-mails, IMs, and were on Facebook. I haven’t dug deeper, but I will if you want me to.”

“How old are they? Like fifteen and thirteen?”

“Yep.”

“Put them down at the bottom for now. Let’s go back to Adrianna’s peers—Crystal and Sela. Set up interviews with them because…okay…here’s the deal.”

Decker flipped through his notes.

“Adrianna called Sela Graydon this morning right when she got off of work. Find out what that was all about. Adrianna also made another call, but we don’t know the identity of that number. Each time I’ve called it, the mailbox is full. It’s a cell, so our backward directories aren’t going to work. We may need a warrant to find out who the number belongs to. Hunt around and see if you can find out if the number belongs to one of her friends.”

“Will do.” Marge asked him, “Any luck with the canvassing of the area?”

“I haven’t heard anything so far. How about we meet up later in the evening and compare notes?”

“Sounds like a plan. Talk to you later.”

Marge hung up her cell and started to dial Sela Graydon’s number, when a crime-scene tech started walking her way. The woman came up to Marge’s stomach. Maybe a little bit higher than her stomach, but she was definitely less than five feet. She was young and Asian and as delicate as a spiderweb, except she had a smoker’s voice. Her name was Rebel Hung.

“We’re just about done with what we can do here.” Rebel snapped off her latex gloves. “I called the truck. We’ll tow it to the lab and give it a thorough going-over.”