Uniformed officers buzzed around like random bees. The call came through around twenty minutes ago, someone told Decker. A nurse phoned Decameron in as a missing person to Dispatch. Hospital had been calling Decameron all morning. No one had picked up.

Decker heard his name being called and turned around. Marge coming toward him, Oliver at her heels. They both looked grave.

Oliver’s eyes swept over the crime scene. “Shit,” he whispered. “Just when I was starting to like the guy.”

Marge said, “We were waiting for him, Pete. He never showed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Decameron,” Oliver said. “He was supposed to meet us for a late lunch. Two o’clock. He never showed. Now I know why.”

Marge said, “He was bringing us Fisher/Tyne’s trial data of Curedon.”

“Oh Christ, that’s right!” Decker said. “Either of you call the hospital when Decameron didn’t show?”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver said. “They paged him. He didn’t answer. I tried to get a location out of them, but they were closemouthed. Thought it was just an extra security precaution.”

“When did you call?”

“About forty-five minutes ago.” Oliver shook his head. “Who’s the second stiff?”

“I don’t know,” Decker said. “I just arrived. Phone it in to the coroner’s office, then clear the area of excess uniforms and we’ll get to work.”

Oliver said, “Mind if I glove and go through John Doe’s pockets?”

“Go ahead,” Decker said. “Double glove, guy. Lots of glass. Be careful.”

The broken bits crunched underneath the soles of Oliver’s shoes as he walked over to the dead blond man. Carefully sifting through razor-sharp shards, he reached into the body’s pants pocket.

“Damn!” Oliver pulled out his hand, a trickle of red running down the latex. He stuck it in his own coat pocket.

“Cut yourself bad?” Decker asked.

“Nah, just a poke.”

Marge said, “You’re going to fuck up evidence.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

With his clean gloved hand, Oliver reached into the other pants pocket. Carefully, he fished out the dead man’s wallet, slowly making his way back to Decker and Marge. She gloved and took the wallet from Oliver. Her eyes zeroed in on the driver’s license.

“Kenneth Leonard.” Marge’s fingers sorted through the wallet. “He’s a doctor—”

“What kind of doctor?” Decker asked.

“Doesn’t say. His home address is in Laguna Nigel.”

“So he’s probably not from New Chris,” Oliver said. “Too long a commute.”

Marge said, “Money’s here…about a hundred bucks. So are his credit cards. Strike robbery as a motive.”

“Unless someone was interested in stealing something else,” Oliver said.

Decker looked at him. “The Fisher/Tyne data?”

“Loo, you should have seen the squirrelly look on Shockley’s face when we asked if we could see it. I think someone really didn’t want Decameron showing us the numbers.”