“Guess so, I’d be lost without my cell—couple more things, L.T., might as well end on a positive. Coroner’s willing to commit to an approximate time of death, based on dead maggots and tissue deterioration and assuming the room temperature didn’t fluctuate wildly. Eight to fourteen days. No tox screens so far, because they’re having trouble finding viable tissue, apparently decomp messes up the results. But apart from that unopened bottle of wine, there were no intoxicating substances in the residence.”

“Any sales slips or labels on the weird stuff she collected?”

“A few,” said Reed, “but they were old, like she bought the stuff used. A lot of the taxidermy came from Montana and the Dakotas, makes sense they’re into hunting. Some of the phone numbers even had letter prefixes but I tried anyway. Nothing, sorry, L.T.”

“Start compiling a list of thrift shops and flea markets near her residence and her work, say a half-mile radius for each. The amount she was hoarding, she had to be a regular customer somewhere. If no one admits to knowing her and you get a feeling, follow up with face-to-face. You need help, I’ll scrounge up a couple of ambitious uniforms.”

“Sure,” said Reed, “but just to remind you, I do surveillance on Fellinger this evening.”

“I’ll take that, Moses. You look for oddity dealers.”

“Will do. She’s an interesting person, no? Keeping dead freaks for company.”

“Unfortunately,” said Milo, “she met a live one.”

He checked in with Binchy.

“Nothing plus nothing, Loot. I trade surveillance with Moe soon.”

“Moe’s busy, I’m heading over there myself, Sean. Look for Dr. Delaware’s spiffy Caddy.”

“That’s a nice car,” said Binchy. “My grandfather had a Sedan de Ville.”

This time Milo left his unmarked in the staff lot and we traveled together. As I drove, he called DMV, got a quick answer and wrote down the information.

Tag number of Flora Sullivan’s white Porsche Cayman S.

I drove down the ramp leading into the building’s sub lot. Milo said, “Keep going all the way to the bottom level and work your way up.”

That led to a series of slow-mo revolutions that took me past the spot where Ursula Corey had been executed. He didn’t ask me to slow and I kept going.

Despite a healthy number of high-end vehicles, the Porsche was easy to spot. Whiter than fresh notepaper, tricked out with smoke-gray windows, and chrome wheels sporting red brake calipers. A small spoiler sprouted from the rear end.

Ski Aspen sticker on the rear bumper. Milo pointed to a spot ten yards up, diagonal to the Porsche.

“Back in over there.”

The slot was narrow, sandwiched between an Escalade and a Navigator. Neither driver had shown much respect for the painted lines. I slid in and cut the engine.

He said, “Nothing like a buddy with good spatial perception.”