Week three, the nightmare repeated itself when fifty-two-year-old Cary Luby visited from Atlanta. West was discussing his case over the phone when Brazil appeared in her doorway. West did not notice him. She was too busy shuffling through large, gory scene photographs as she continued arguing with an assistant district attorney.

“That’s not correct, I don’t know where you got that, okay? He was shot multiple times in the head, contact. A .45 loaded with Silvertips. . . Yeah, yeah, exactly. All within several blocks of each other.” She was beginning to get annoyed. “Jesus Christ. Of course I’ve got people down there undercover, hookers, pimps, trolling, hanging out, whatever it takes. What do you think?”

She switched the phone to her other hand, wondering why she ever wore earrings, and irritated that anyone might question her ability to do her job. Checking her watch, she looked through more photographs, pausing at one that clearly showed the painted hourglass, which was rather much a solid orange figure eight. The base was over the genitals, the top over the belly. It was weird. The A.D.A. continued asking questions about the crime scene, and West’s patience was deteriorating. So far, this day had been shit.

“Just like the others,” she told him emphatically. “Everything. Wallet, watch, wedding band.” She listened. “No. No. Not credit cards, anything with the victim’s name. . . . Why? Because the killer’s smart, that’s why.” She sighed, her head beginning to throb. “Jesus friggin’ Christ. That’s my point, John. If we’re talking carjacking, then why wasn’t his rental Thunderbird taken? Not a single car has been.”

She swiveled around in her chair and almost dropped the phone when she saw the young male volunteer cop standing in her doorway, writing as fast as he could in a reporter’s notepad. The son of a bitch was looking around West’s office, taking down every confidential word being said about the most sensational, scariest murders the city had ever known. So far, sensitive details had been kept out of the press as political pressure gathered and darkened and swarmed.

“Gotta go,” West abruptly said.

She slammed down the receiver, hanging up on the A.D.A. She pinned Brazil with her eyes.

“Shut the door,” she said in a quiet, hard way that would have terrified anyone who worked for her or was about to get arrested.

Brazil was unflinching as he got closer to the desk. He was not about to be intimidated by this big-shot bureaucrat who had sold him down the river. He dropped Webb’s stolen offense reports in front of her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” West demanded.

“I’m Andy Brazil with the Observer,” he said with cool politeness. “Webb’s swiping reports out of the press basket. In the off chance you might care. And I’m going to need to check out a radio. I was supposed to meet you at four.”

“And what? Eavesdrop?” West shoved back her chair, got up. “Looks to me like you already got your story.”