Coyle watched Frames waving the phone. “Do we know it’s the victim’s blood?”

“For chrissakes, man, they just got the car. But I fucking guarantee it’s hers. It’s like that scene in Pulp Fiction, you know, where Jules and Vincent have to clean the car because Vincent shot the guy in the back seat.”

“What kind of car does Bennett have?”

“Lexus ES. White exterior. Leather seats and bamboo trim on the dash. Man, I love it when it’s a guy with a car like that.”

“So you figure Bennett strangles the victim in the front seat of his car, somehow cuts the back of her head, wraps the body in a blanket, drives to the park, and carries the body to the bench?”

“Why not? Guy’s a dentist. They have strong fingers. Natural stranglers.”

“But why’s he do all that?” Rivas asked. “Why go all the way to the park? Take some balls to drive through town with a dead woman sitting next to you.”

“Techs find any blood in the trunk?” Coyle asked.

Frames sighed. “I don’t know. I told you they just started searching.”

“What about the old, dark-colored Mercedes in the surveillance footage and the guy in the hoodie?”

“Maybe he had a friend and switched cars. I don’t know.”

Rivas leaned back in his chair. “Always risky involving a second person, and now you’re moving the body twice.”

“Maybe he knew about the surveillance camera,” Frames said. “Didn’t want his car seen.”

“Nobody knows about the surveillance camera,” Coyle said.

Frames looked back and forth at the other two. “But Alvarez said Elise Durand was afraid of breaking up with someone. This has to be the guy.”

Coyle shrugged. “We don’t know that.”

“What? So now you think she’s breaking up with two guys in one week?”

“Even if it’s the victim’s blood, we don’t know it got there Monday night. Alvarez told me she saw blood on Elise Durand’s sweater a week earlier, last Tuesday.”

Frames turned to Mahler. “Help me out here, Eddie. Aren’t we making this too complicated?”

Mahler, who had been leaning against his spot on the squad- room wall, straightened and moved to the center of the room. “Bennett has an hour unaccounted for Monday evening. Ten to eleven. When you asked him what it was, he called his lawyer.”

“So, Sherlock, is an hour enough?” Coyle aimed the question at Frames. “Is it possible to meet up with the hoodie guy, switch the body, drive to the park, and get back home to kiss the wife goodnight?”

Frames shrugged. “Everything goes right, it’s not impossible.”

“What’d his wife say?” Mahler asked.

Rivas looked at his notepad. “Confirms he was gone at that time. Doesn’t know where.”