At this hour, it was quiet, the furnace rumbling a soft but constant background noise. The arrests for drunk driving, bar fights, and domestic violence usually having tapered off, and few cars on the road, so not so many accidents—this was usually Rivers’s favorite time of day, far before dawn, when his mind was fresh and the rest of the world slept.

The day shift wasn’t due to arrive for a couple of hours, only a few cops on the graveyard shift hanging out at their desks or rummaging around in the lunch area. The phones too were quiet, the fax machine stilled, no personal cells playing ringtones.

Rivers ditched his coat in his locker, then headed directly to the basement, where it seemed five degrees cooler and was much more silent. The air here wasn’t fresh, dust evident despite the overriding odor of a cleaning agent used on the floors. He made his way through the labyrinth of corridors until he came to the evidence room, where Neville Dash was singing under his breath, his smooth baritone a reminder of his claim to fame: appearing on American Idol and “making it to Hollywood” years before. Of course, he’d been cut from the show, made a stab at a career that didn’t get off the ground, and eventually joined the force here, but he kept right on singing.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful—” He looked up as Rivers approached. “Well, hey, Detective,” he said, flashing a mouth full of straight white teeth. “How’s it hanging?”

“It’s—going,” Rivers said as Dash chuckled.

“Whatever you say.” In uniform, he was seated at a desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, his naturally curly hair receding so that it was little more than a black fringe around a shiny mocha-colored pate. “What’s up?”

“Need to get into the evidence locker. Double-checking the victim’s things.”

“You got it. Which one?”

“Victim is Willow Valente. I think all of her items have been processed.” Rivers knew they had been, but had double-checked.

“Oh, yeah.”

So he wouldn’t be messing with any evidence.

Dash asked, “You taking anything out?”

“No. It’ll just be a sec.”

Dash eyed Rivers above the tops of his half-glasses. “Good. Less paperwork that way. Just sign in.” He waved to the board sitting on the counter separating the evidence lockup from the hallway, even though Rivers already had the pen in hand. He’d been through the same drill hundreds of times.

“Did we get the items from Megan Travers’s car?” he asked.

“Coming in later, once they get everything off the phone and computer. The lab and tech guys are still processing.”

“Let me know. I’d like to take a look.”

“Whatever you say.”