“Female Caucasian, name of Nijinsky,” Dino told the night man. “You got one of those?”

The man consulted a logbook. “Nope.”

“You got a Caucasian Jane Doe?”

“I got three of them,” the man replied. He pointed. “They’re still on tables.”

Stone walked into the large autopsy room, the sound of his heels echoing off the tile walls. “Let’s look,” he said.

The first was at least seventy and very dirty.

“Bag lady,” the attendant said.

The second was no older than fifteen, wearing a black leather microskirt.

“Times Square hooker, picked up the wrong trick.”

“Let’s see the third,” Stone said.

The third fit Sasha Nijinsky’s general description, down to the hair color, but she had taken a shotgun in the chest.

“Domestic violence,” the attendant said smugly.

Stone couldn’t tell if the man was for it or against it. “It’s not she,” he said.

“Don’t talk like that,” Dino whispered. “It’s not her.”

“It is not she,” Stone said again. He produced a card and wrote his home number on the back, then handed it to the attendant. “This is extremely important,” he said. “If you get a Nijinsky in here, or a white Jane Doe in her thirties, call me. And please pass that on to whoever relieves you. If someone overlooks her, heads will ricochet off these walls for days to come.”

“I got ya,” the man said, and he stapled Stone’s card to his logbook. “They won’t miss it here.”

In the car, Dino, who was usually the most cheerful of souls, sighed deeply. “I got a feeling,” he said.

“Oh, God, don’t get a feeling,” Stone whimpered. “Don’t get Italian on me.”

“I got a very serious feeling that this one is going to be a fucking nightmare,” Dino said.

“Thanks, Dino. I needed that.”

“And, Stone,” Dino added, “never say, ’It’s not she’ to some guy at the morgue. He’ll think you’re a jerk.”

Chapter

4

When Stone and Dino got to the precinct, the two detectives who had been at the Nijinsky apartment were sitting at their desks, cataloging evidence.

“So?” one of them asked. “Is she alive, or what?”

“Or what,” Dino said.

“So she croaked, then, or what?”

“Or what.”

Stone tugged at his partner’s sleeve. “Let’s see Leary.”

Lieutenant Leary, the squad’s commanding officer, was in his tiny, glassed-in cubicle, reading Sasha Nijinsky’s diary. He looked up and waved the two detectives in. “Well, it took a fuckin’ celebrity swan dive to get you back on the street, didn’t it, Barrington?”

“I saw it happen,” Stone said. “From the street.” He took Leary through everything that had happened at the apartment.

“So, where’s Nijinsky now?” he asked.