“Whoa! Nobody ignored anything. The initial stuff, doorknobs, crap like that—that was all responded to by uniformed patrol. Did we run out and dust the loose knobs for fingerprints? We’d have to be nuts to do that. We live in a real city here with real problems. But procedures were followed. I’ve got the incident reports in the case file. The later blood complaint was referred to us by patrol. My partner and I took a look, samples to the lab, knife to fingerprints, et cetera. Turned out the only fingerprints on the knife were Ms. Corazon’s. Tiny drop of blood on the floor was beef blood. You know? Like steak.”

“You questioned Meese?”

“Of course we questioned Meese.”

“And?”

“He isn’t admitting to anything, and there’s zero evidence of his involvement. He’s sticking to his story that Corazon’s a vindictive bitch who’s trying to get him in trouble.”

“So what’s the current theory here?” asked Gurney incredulously. “That Kim is crazy enough to be doing this stuff herself? So she can blame her ex-boyfriend for it?”

Schiff’s stare seemed to communicate a willingness to believe exactly that. Then he shrugged. “Or some third party is doing it, for reasons yet to be discovered.” He glanced at his cell phone for the third time. “Got to go. Time flies when you’re having fun.” He started moving toward the open interrogation-room door.

“How come no cameras?” asked Gurney.

“Say again?”

“The obvious response to repeated trespass and vandalism complaints would be to install hidden security cameras on the premises.”

“I made that suggestion strongly to Ms. Corazon. She refused. Characterized it as an intolerable invasion of her privacy.”

“I’m surprised she’d react that way.”

“Unless her complaints are bullshit and a camera would prove it.”

They walked in silence back to the reception area, past the desk sergeant, to the main door. As Gurney was about to exit, Schiff stopped him. “Didn’t you say a few minutes ago that you’d discovered fresh evidence in her apartment that I ought to know about?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So? What was it?”

“You sure you want to know?”

There was a flash of anger in Schiff’s eyes. “Yeah, I’d like to know.”

“There are drops of blood leading from the kitchen to a chest in the basement. There’s a sharp little knife in the chest. But maybe that’s no big deal, right? Maybe Kim just squeezed the juice out of another steak, dripped it down the stairs. Maybe she’s just getting crazier and more vindictive by the minute.”

Gurney’s drive home was an uncomfortable one. He kept hearing the echo of his own sarcastic parting shot at Schiff. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it appeared to fit a pattern—the pattern of petty combativeness that had dominated his thinking and behavior since his injuries.