I thanked Hal for his time, and headed back to the reception desk to pay his outrageous $300 consultation fee. As I wrote out a check, I heard one of his patients say, “Dr. Kingsley says I have the face of a twenty-year-old.”

Better give it back, I felt like telling her. You’re getting it wrinkled.

After saying goodbye to the receptionist and my three hundred dollars, I walked out into the main corridor. But instead of going to the elevators, I took a detour and wandered over to the stairwell. I opened the door and poked my head in.

It was deserted, the way stairwells usually are. Personally, I find stairwells creepy; whenever I use one, I’m convinced there’s a sex pervert lurking in a corner waiting to pounce. And I’m probably right. Hadn’t Kandi said something about how people were seven times more likely to be attacked in a stairwell than in an elevator?

But for someone who wasn’t scared of random perverts, it was an excellent way to leave the building without being spotted. True, Hal’s office was on the sixteenth floor, and that was a lot of stairs, but Hal was in good shape. I could easily picture him—or Denise, for that matter—clomping down those steps on the day of the murder.

I wasn’t about to try them myself, though; so I shut the door and headed over to the elevators. Just in time to see Denise getting on.

“Hold the elevator,” I shouted.

She looked up and saw it was me, then hurriedly pressed a button. Something told me she was trying to avoid me, because immediately the door started to close. I stuck out my hand, risking elevator door amputation. But fortunately the door sprang back open, and I stepped inside. I was happy to see that Denise and I were alone in the elevator.

“Hey, Denise.” I shot her a friendly smile, as if she hadn’t just tried to ace me out of her elevator. “Sneaking off work early?”

“No, I’m not sneaking off work,” she said, très pissy. “I’m going down to the coffee shop.”

“I was only kidding,” I said. “I know you wouldn’t sneak off work. You seem like a very devoted nurse.”

“I am,” she sniffed, somewhat mollified.

“That Dr. Kingsley,” I said. “What a dreamboat. He must be so much fun to work with.”

“Our relationship,” she said, like a bad actress reciting her lines, “is strictly professional.”

Yeah, right. If your profession happens to be call girl.

“I really was kidding before,” I said, trying to ignore her icy vibes. “I didn’t think for a minute you were sneaking off from work. Besides, if you were going to sneak away, you’d be crazy to take the elevator, not with the stairwell so close to your office. That would be the perfect way to leave the building without being spotted.”

I watched her closely for a reaction. But she just stared straight ahead, expressionless. Damn. I was hoping she’d look nervous or worried, something that would confirm my stairwell theory. But her face was a mask. When the elevator door opened, she got out, without bothering to say goodbye.