Chapter One

Wednesday

NYPD Detective Chiara Corelli focused on her breathing as she and her partner, P.J. Parker, walked out of the final interview of the monthlong public relations extravaganza forced on them by the brass to exploit their successful takedown of a white nationalist plot against the government. Without regard for their personal needs, the department had scheduled multiple daily interviews and speaking engagements, leaving no time or energy for anything else. Being thrust into the spotlight, being flaunted as a super detective, triggered Corelli’s PTSD from her multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, heightening her anxiety, anger, and her feeling of danger. She was exhausted. Parker was dragging too.

“Free at last.” Parker unlocked the car. “And we even get to drive ourselves again. I never thought I’d hate being chauffeured everywhere.” She turned in the direction of the station house. “I sure hope Captain Winfry meant what he said about putting us at the top of the catch list.”

“He probably did. But even if he didn’t, I’ll take working cold cases over being talking heads any day.” Actually, she’d prefer to focus on cold cases for a while. In the ten or so months she and Parker had worked together, murders that had appeared simple at first had turned into major headline-grabbing cases that thrust them into the public eye. And danger. She’d been shot multiple times by a crazed serial killer of gays and lesbians, and a white nationalist killer had broken Parker’s arm and nearly strangled her to death.

Lost in thought, she hadn’t noticed their arrival at the station house until Parker turned off the car. Corelli stared at the unusually large crowd milling around in front of it. Was it due to the dramatic change from days of chilly rain to a bright sunny day? Or was she missing something? Parker seemed hypervigilant.

“What’s up, Parker?”

She shifted to face Corelli. “Are they forming a gauntlet?”

Shit. It hadn’t been that long since she was being ostracized by her brethren in blue for exposing a group of dirty cops. And though Parker had had nothing to do with that undercover operation, her commitment to watch Corelli’s back meant she endured the same harsh treatment. She could almost feel the kicks and punches, hear the screams and insults, and smell the sweat and cheap cologne of the pressing bodies as she and Parker had been forced to walk the gauntlet to get into the station. Was the blue wall going up again? Were she and Parker going to be ostracized once more? She studied the crowd. It seemed to her most were out to enjoy the sunshine. “I don’t see it.”

They got out of the car and walked toward the station house. Most of the crowd seemed unaware of them, but a group of detectives and officers lounging near the entrance were definitely interested. Corelli tensed. Next to her, Parker muttered, “Uh-oh.”

Not surprising that she saw it too; they were usually in sync. In her opinion, putting her together with Parker was the only positive thing Broderick had done since he became chief of detectives.

“If it ain’t Thelma and Louise,” Detective Pete Wyndowski said loudly from behind them. “Slumming with us mere mortals today?”

Damn. She was so in her head she hadn’t noticed him move away from his pals. The derogatory tone of the comment and the forced laughter that followed grated on her nerves like fingernails scraping a blackboard. Her hands clenched. She was tempted to smash his face but a fistfight was courting suspension and she needed to work.

Wyndowski suddenly pushed between her and Parker. They staggered. He tried to push Corelli down, but Parker shouldered him aside. He stumbled but caught himself. “Shouldn’t you girls be heading for a cliff?” He turned to his buddies with a sneer on his face.

Corelli made eye contact with Parker, and as if they’d rehearsed the synchronized movement for months, they pivoted toward him.

“Oh, oh, Wyndowski, you’re in deep shit now,” one of the men said, as his friends sidled away, leaving him alone in the crosshairs of Corelli and Parker.

His eyes widened. He extended his arms, attempting to ward them off, and backed up until he hit the brick wall. Corelli feinted toward his crotch. He lowered his arms to protect himself. She closed in and pressed her arm against his throat, pinning him to the station house. He clawed at her arm, then reached for her throat. She and Parker each grabbed an arm and held it against the wall.

“I’m not inclined to kill myself by driving over a cliff. Are you, Parker?”

“No way. Wyndowski, on the other hand, might find himself driving off the Palisades, if he isn’t careful.”

“Um, Cagney and Lacey?”

Corelli increased the pressure. “Wrong again. I know it’s a hard concept for someone as dense as you to understand, but Parker and I are real detectives solving real crimes, while Cagney and Lacey were actors pretending to be detectives. What say you, Parker?”

“I think Wyndowski meant to insult us. The misogyny is the same forty years later.”

His eyes wild, he scanned the rapidly growing crowd, probably looking for a savior. He struggled to push them away.

Corelli’s smile was feral. “You’re on your own, Wyndowski. Nobody’s coming to save you.” She leaned into the arm on his neck.

“The Dream Team?” he squeaked.

“The operative word here is ‘team.’ Working as part of a team leads to success. You should try working sometime—and collaborating with colleagues.” She put a little more pressure on his neck.

His face was red. Sweat dotted his forehead. “Okay, okay. What should I call you?” He pushed the words out.

“How about Corelli and Parker? Or”—she side-eyed Parker—“Parker and Corelli.”

He kicked out at her but missed. She and Parker each pressed one of his legs against the wall, immobilizing him. “Just so you know, Wyndowski, my other knee is perfectly angled to place it where it will hurt the most if you try that again,” Corelli said.

“I can’t breathe.” He gasped. “Corelli and Parker.”

“Speak up. There’s too much laughter from the audience to hear what you said.” He struggled but pinned like a butterfly he couldn’t move. Corelli eased the pressure on his neck. “Let’s hear it.”

“Corelli and Parker.”

She pressed down again. His eyes bulged. “Say it loud and clear, Wyndowski.” She eased the pressure.

“Corelli and Parker,” he screamed. His friends and the large crowd of officers, detectives, and civilians that had gathered around them, hooted and cheered. Still pinned, he spoke softly. “I was only kidding, you know, since you two are in the papers and on TV so much it’s like you’re the stars of your own show.”

Corelli leaned on her arm again. His eyes widened and he gasped.

Ping.

Ping.

His eyes tracked to the pocket holding her phone. Corelli smiled. “Saved by the bell, Wyndowski. But for future reference, if you got off your lazy ass and did more than the absolute minimum on any case, you too could be a star.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “And if you ever touch me or Parker again, I’ll fucking kill you.” She eased the pressure on his neck as she and Parker pulled out their phones to check their texts. She nodded at Parker. They released him and turned back toward the parking lot.

“Bitches,” Wyndowski screamed at their backs.

Without turning to look at him, Parker and Corelli each gave him the finger and, followed by cheers from the onlookers, strode back to their vehicle. Corelli opened the rear door, grabbed several pairs of booties and nitrile gloves from the box on the back seat and stuffed them in her pockets. She pulled some more, got in the car, and passed them to Parker.

“That was fun.” Parker settled in the car, then double-checked her phone. “The call out is in Chelsea.”

“I don’t give a damn where the murder happened. I’m just glad to finally get back to work. I’m sick and tired of being used by the department.”

“Ooh, someone’s in a bad mood. But it was only a matter of time before those names caught on.” Parker started the car and headed for the West Side Highway. “You seemed happy pressing on Wyndowski’s neck. What’s going on?”

“Not the names. Just my usual gripe. Us being pimped out as the Dream Team isn’t healthy for the department. Or for us. All the interviews and talk shows have made us stars, to the detriment of the other dedicated detectives and uniforms and, as we just saw, it makes some of our colleagues jealous and hostile.”

“I agree. The brass has been using us to ride the wave of public approval, but we’ve made a point of emphasizing that it wasn’t just us, that we led the investigation, but we couldn’t have taken down the white nationalists without the members of our team, the NYPD/FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, and the local FBI office. The media focuses on the big cases and, unfortunately for us, since we started working together some of our cases have been huge. But our colleagues in blue, for the most part, understand that between the big ones we’ve closed cold cases and solved some less newsworthy domestics and one-on-one murders without fanfare. Darla made that point when she interviewed us this morning, so hopefully when it airs tonight, the interview will set the record straight and close the book on the white nationalist case.”

“Most may understand, but there’s still a healthy minority that would like to bring me down. And you with me.” Corelli side-eyed Parker. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this stuff.”

“I know,” Parker said softly. “But I don’t regret agreeing to watch your back.”

They stopped for a red light. Corelli looked up. The apartment building she owned and lived in was to their right. It felt empty without Brett. She’d been gone six weeks now, leading a team installing new management and instituting new processes and procedures in Winter Brokerage’s Asian offices. Her business trip couldn’t have come at a worse time for Corelli. Not only was Brett away and frequently out of touch, but her absence coincided with the absence of Corelli’s therapist and the monthlong PR campaign.

The large group of tourists passing in front of the car interrupted Corelli’s reverie. She watched them cross the highway on their way to Little Island, the floating park in the Hudson River. When she inherited the building from her uncle Gennaro years ago, the whole strip along the river had been barren, unwelcoming, and dangerous. The transformation to the people-friendly park that spanned the four miles from Battery Park City to West Fifty-Ninth Street, took time, but now the neighborhood people, including her, and tourists enjoyed hanging out in the shaded areas and/or jogging, biking, or walking along the river. Little Island, the multi-use park gifted to the city by a rich couple, was a nice addition. Parker turned onto Fourteenth and then made a quick left onto Tenth Avenue.

“Have you visited Little Island, Parker?”

She moved the car into the right lane, turned onto Twentieth Street, and stopped behind a double-parked police car. “I have.” She shot a glance at Corelli. “The woman I’m dating took me to a concert there.”

Corelli’s feet were already on the ground, but she glanced quickly at Parker. “I’d love to hear about her, really, but right now we have a murder to investigate.” She slammed the car door, surveyed the area, and focused on the brownstone with an officer posted at the front door at the top of a flight of steps and another officer at the door to what was probably a basement apartment. A few people, probably neighbors drawn by the police presence, stood on the sidewalk gazing at the building.

Parker hurried to her side, and they briskly walked up the steps. Damn. If the uniform standing at the entrance was any more focused on them his ears would be rotating. Corelli bit back the anger she knew was irrational, a product of her PTSD. But the recent PR blitz had made them targets, inside and outside the department. She’d feel safer out of the spotlight. Guys like Wyndowski who were up-front about their jealousy didn’t worry her. It was the homophobes, the closeted white nationalists, the misogynists, and those who still lurked, quietly seething about the group of dirty cops she’d exposed during her three months undercover last year, who were worrying. She and Parker would have to be careful.

The eyes of the officer widened as they approached. “Detectives,” he said, holding the door open for them. Corelli was relieved he didn’t greet them by name or attempt to talk to them, but they didn’t need a doorman. “Call for some barricades and keep everyone except police personnel on the other side of the street,” she ordered.

He jumped, probably responding to the anger she hadn’t attempted to hide. “Yes, ma’am.”

Damn, didn’t they teach them anything at the academy? She glanced at her partner, expecting to be chastised for her tone, but Parker didn’t comment. Maybe she was annoyed, too. Or maybe the thought of being the target of Corelli’s free-floating anger yet again exhausted her. They stepped into the building.

“Corelli, Parker.” Officer Enrique Hernandez greeted them as they moved into the foyer. Corelli nodded, relieved to see Hernandez. Many uniforms tried to impress the detectives by telling them all about the victim and the scene, but he and his partner, Phyllis Shaunton, knew to give them the bare minimum, allowing them to see it through their own eyes the first time.

A bouquet of fresh flowers still in its paper wrapper, a bowl with a set of keys, and a soft leather briefcase was on a table behind the officer. To his right was an antique oak hall tree chair with a mirror. A blue windbreaker and a green rain slicker hung side by side on two of its hooks. Bright green galoshes and a pair of hiking shoes were on a rubber mat on the floor. To the left, an oak banister surrounded an open staircase that appeared to lead to the basement as well as up to the higher floors. So probably a house, not an apartment.

“Where do the stairs lead?” Parker pointed to the staircase.

“Downstairs there’s a kitchen, an office, a small living room, a bedroom, and a sliding glass door to the fenced-in backyard. Shaunton is down there with the witness who found the body. The formal living room and dining room are on this floor. An office/library and three more bedrooms are on the top two floors.”

“What do we have?” Parker said.

Hernandez hesitated, then leaned in and whispered, “A hot one, I think. A stabbing. A woman. She’s in the living room straight through that door.” He extended the crime scene log.

“Hot?” Corelli fumed. She entered the time, her shield number, and other identifying information, then passed the log to Parker. “Hot means of high interest to the media. Just what we need.” She pulled on paper booties and nitrile gloves.

“This appears to be a single-family home. If we’re lucky, it’s a domestic.” Parker slipped into booties and snapped on a pair of gloves. “Ready?”

They paused in the doorway and scanned the living room. The comfortable-looking sofa, two easy chairs, colorful throw pillows and area rugs, and the paintings hung on the wall would have felt homey and artistic under normal circumstances. But today was far from normal. The coffee table was overturned and the books and other objects that must have been on it were scattered, a ceramic bowl was shattered, and one of the chairs was on its side. At the far end of the room, the body of a woman lay in a circle of blood. Everything near her, including the wall near the body, looked as if it had been sprayed with red paint. A shattered wineglass still contained some red wine, but most of it blended with the blood that stained the area.

They stepped into the room, avoiding the pile of vomit near the body, and crouched just outside the ring of blood surrounding the woman. Covered in blood from head to toe, she lay face up, dark eyes staring vacantly, arms extended, legs open. Her long black hair had been chopped off and strewn on and around her. Despite what appeared to be a horrible death, the beauty of her pink-stained creamy skin, large dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and full lips was not diminished. She was wearing what was probably a black and white vest over a white tailored shirt tucked into black slacks, but the shirt and vest were tinted pink. She was barefoot, but one shoe peeped out from under the sofa and the other was near the broken wineglass. Her clothing was in shreds and soaked in blood. Judging by the extent of the blood spatter she did not go down easily. And judging by the violence of the scene, her killer had been in a rage and totally out of control. The lack of bloody footprints in the room, on the other hand, suggested the killer had been in control enough to take care where he stepped.

“I’m guessing the streaks of blood near the vomit and the footprints in the bloody circle belong to the witness.” Corelli blew out a breath. “She looks familiar. Do you recognize her?”

Parker stared at the bloodstained face for a few seconds. “I know I’ve seen her, but her name escapes me.” She glanced around the room. “No purse or photos or any obvious way to identify her.”

“Based on the condition of her clothing, I’d say she was stabbed multiple times.” Corelli leaned toward the body. “It’s hard to tell but the amount and reach of the blood suggests her carotid arteries were slashed. I expect the killer was pretty bloody and needed to wash up before leaving so, hopefully, we’ll get some DNA from the drains. But it’s strange that there are no bloody footprints leading away from that circle. He must have wiped his feet to avoid leaving prints. How would you characterize it, Parker?”

“Not your run-of-the-mill stabbing during a domestic argument. Based on the blood spatter and the multiple wounds, I’d say we have a frenzied killer. Maybe crazy. Possibly on drugs. On the other hand, it appears he had the wherewithal and took the time to cut her hair, pose her, and wipe his feet, all of which contradict frenzied.”

“That Occam guy says that the simplest solution is usually the right one. What do you think happened here?”

“Occam guy? You mean Occam’s Razor?” Parker grinned. “You continue to surprise me, Corelli.”

“Just because I didn’t go to Yale and Harvard Law like you, Ms. Former ADA, doesn’t mean I don’t know things.” She elbowed Parker. “I have credits toward a PhD in criminology, you know.” She stood.

“I do know.” Parker got to her feet and surveyed the room. “To answer your question, he either broke in and surprised her or she knew the killer and let him in. It’s not likely she’d let someone in a drug frenzy in, so maybe he wasn’t so crazed when he arrived, and they did drugs together. But the contradiction between frenzied and controlled is puzzling. Perhaps he was here long enough after the murder to sober up and arrange the body. It’s not obvious to me, what the display of the body means to the killer.”

Corelli gazed at the woman. “She’s so small and slender it could just as well have been a crazed woman who killed her.”

Parker studied the body. “My gut says a man perpetrated this horror.”

Corelli scanned the room. “You’re probably right. Call your buddy Dietz and ask him to send Watkins, if he’s available, and a team to canvas the area. I’ll get the details from Hernandez.”

Parker greeted Dietz on the phone as Corelli walked back to the entry hall.

“What time did you get here, Hernandez?”

“We got the call at 12:07. We were about ten minutes away. By the time we arrived the EMTs had confirmed she was dead and were on the way out. Levertov and Michaels, the first officers on the scene, were in there”—he pointed to the living room—“arguing about what to do next while the witness was crumpled on the floor near the body, hysterical. By the way, that’s the witness’s vomit and her footprints in the blood. She’s covered in blood, so I assume she tried to help her or slipped and fell on her. While Shaunton calmed the witness, I immediately cleared the dining room and the bathroom on this level, then sent the other two officers outside to prevent any further contamination of the scene. I cleared the downstairs, the three bedrooms, the office/library, and two bathrooms on the two upper floors, then called it in as a homicide. Everything was locked except the front door, and I found no visible sign of forced entry.”

“So she let him in,” Parker said.

Corelli turned, unaware that Parker had joined them during Hernandez’s report. The warmth and the gentle squeeze of her partner’s hand reminded her to breathe as she’d learned in her Yoga for Warriors sessions. Slowly her desire to rip to shreds the inept first officers on the scene dissipated. She needed to focus on finding the killer. She’d leave the training of uniformed officers to Captain Winfry.

“Did the witness make the 911 call?” Parker asked.

“Yes. She’s—”

The sound of the front door opening, accompanied by the echo of car doors slamming and multiple voices out on the street caught their attention.

“Detectives, officer.” Medical Legal Investigator Rob Willis, from the Medical Examiner’s office, was the first to enter. Lou Bullard, the head of the CSU team, and Serena Lopez, the crime scene photographer, were right behind him. Lopez smiled. “Good to see you two back.” The three newcomers signed the log and quickly suited up.

Willis picked up his bag. “What have you got, detectives?”

“Through that door. Watch out for the vomit near the body,” Parker warned. The two men and Lopez stepped into the open door and viewed the scene. Corelli and Parker hung back, giving the group time to take in the devastation.

“Oh, wow,” Lopez said, then looked embarrassed. “Sorry. The violence is…shocking.” She squared her shoulders, put her camera to her eye, and moved into the room.

Willis followed the photographer. Bullard stayed back and studied the bloody furniture, the blood-spattered wall, and the large circle of blood with the woman arranged on her back, her arms and legs spread out as if marking her as the bull’s eye in a target. “I’ll say it’s shocking,” he muttered. He walked closer, marked the vomit and the footprints, and stared down at the woman. He turned to look at Corelli and Parker. “What’s with the hair?”

Corelli stepped next to him. “It appears the killer took the time to chop it off, so it probably has some personal meaning for him. Or her.”

“You think a woman did this, Corelli?”

“We’re trying to keep an open mind. She’s so small it’s possible that a woman, especially one on drugs, could do this.”

The CSU chief shook his head. “What a mess. I’ll brief my team, then we’ll get started. Anything in particular you need from us?”

“Keep your eye out for the knife and possibly scissors. And, if you can, test the wine for drugs.” Parker pointed to the broken glass.

Lopez circled around to the other side of the body, stood outside the blood spatter, and looked through her lens. She snapped a few photos, then hesitated. “Hey. I’m not sure how clear it is, but there’s a handprint in the blood next to her.”

That would be a lucky break. Corelli and Parker followed Bullard and Willis to the other side. Lopez pointed. “Near her hip.”

Bullard got down on his knees, lowered his face to the floor, and studied the blood spray. He pulled himself to his knees. “This floor is varnished, so we probably can’t lift a good print. Let me get my team up here, and after we’re done, Lopez can walk in to capture closeups of the print.” Parker held out a hand and helped him stand. He pulled out his phone and explained what he needed, then turned to Corelli and Parker. “Based on the size of the handprint, I’d guess the killer is a man, a large man.”

“Thanks, Bullard.” Parker pointed to the open door opposite them. “Let’s check out the rest of the floor while we’re waiting.”

“Good idea.” Corelli followed Parker into the hallway and stopped next to her to peer into a small bathroom. Parker turned on the light. “No shower or tub.”

“Yeah,” Corelli said. “It’s obviously designed for use by visitors. It looks undisturbed, no damp towels or visible blood, but the sink drain should be checked.”

They returned to the hall and walked to the sliding glass door at the end. It led to a deck and was locked. They walked back to the open door and stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway to the dining room. The Tiffany-style cut-glass lamp with its multihued blue-and-gold-tone design and the pecan wood furniture set were classy and expensive. The room appeared undisturbed and the contrast with the violence in the living room was jarring. The woman and her killer probably hadn’t made it this far. They returned to the living room.

Apparently, the technicians had finished because Lopez was photographing the side of the body closest to them. Bullard was all smiles.

“We were able to use a leucocrystal violet solution to transfer the blood impressions. The transferred images are laterally reversed, but there are no prints. He must have been wearing gloves.”

Corelli gave him a thumbs-up. “It was worth a shot. You know, with all this blood, I’m thinking the killer might have washed up or even showered before leaving, so check the drains in the bathrooms. There’s one in the basement, one for guests through that door, and, according to Hernandez, two upstairs.”

He made a call. “Some of the techs will start in the upstairs bathrooms while Willis is checking her out.”

Lopez signaled she was done photographing the body in its current position and started on the rest of the room. Willis stepped in to examine the woman.

Parker started her sketch of the scene.

“Can you give me a hand turning her over, Parker?” Willis gripped the woman’s shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” Detective Ron Watkins said as he walked into the room. He helped Willis roll her to her stomach, then greeted Corelli and Parker. “Dietz sent me, Kim, Forlini, and Greene to search the house. A team from the academy is coming to search the neighborhood. The others are outside waiting for instructions.”

“Have Kim and Forlini canvas the neighbors to see if anybody saw anything and have Greene help you with the house. When the cadets get here have them search the area for a knife, scissors, bloody clothing, wet towels, and anything they think is suspicious.”

Watkins left the room and Willis stepped back to allow Lopez to photograph the woman on her stomach. There was less blood dried on her back and the stab wounds were easier to see. Corelli had seen many stabbing victims, but this was an unusually brutal attack.

“Do you think there was more than one assailant?”

Willis looked up. “Could be.”

Corelli waited, but he didn’t offer anything else. Where was Ndep when they needed her? Willis was an efficient MLI, but he didn’t have Gloria’s analytic skills. She thought and functioned like a member of the investigative team, seeing things from a different perspective and willing to share her observations. She was a positive. He was a neutral. Unfortunately for them, she had left the ME’s office to return to Nigeria to get married and attend medical school.

Willis pulled the woman’s pants down and inserted the anal thermometer. He inspected the wounds on her back, her arms, and legs, then recorded her temperature on his tablet.

“Detective?” He tilted his head toward the floor. Parker put her notebook down and helped him roll her onto her back again. He knelt and examined her neck and each of her hands, paying particular attention to her nails, polished blue.

“Many of her nails are broken,” he said, bagging her hands to protect any evidence under her fingernails. “Defensive wounds on her hands, arms, and legs.” He lifted her shirt and scanned her chest and abdomen. “The killer focused on her breasts and the area between her hip bones, likely aiming for her vagina or uterus.” He stood. “An extraordinary number of stab wounds, definitely more than necessary to kill.”

“It seems like more than rage. Do you think the killer was on drugs?” Parker asked.

Willis shrugged. “Could be.”

“Was she raped?”

“With all the blood, it’s impossible to see traces of semen, but we’ll determine that during the autopsy. Her carotids were sliced, so she likely died of exsanguination. And before you ask, based on the level of rigor and her temperature, my best guess is that she was killed somewhere between nine last night and three this morning.” He did a quick sketch on his iPad, then packed his things. “Whenever you’re done, I’ll have the body removed.”

Corelli looked at Parker’s nearly complete rough sketch. She smiled. Their first day working together Parker had wanted to use her phone to record the scene, but she’d insisted she draw it by hand on paper. Parker grumbled but, in the end, agreed that hand drawing forced her to really look at the scene and was a valuable tool. Corelli took out her phone. “I’m going to take a few more pictures, but we’re just about done. You can take her.”

Watkins returned. “What do you need from me?”

“Stay with the CSU. Keep an eye out for the knife and maybe scissors and anything that would help us identify her.” Corelli made eye contact with Bullard, who was lurking in the doorway, anxious to get started. “It’s all yours.”

Watkins and the other detectives he’d brought with him would do a complete, detailed search after the CSU finished in the room.

“Okay, we’re going to take a look at the rooms on the two floors above, then we’ll be downstairs interviewing the witness if you need us.”

They went out to the entry hall and walked up the stairs to the next floor. The front room appeared to be the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and the rest of the room looked undisturbed. They did a quick check of the night tables and the dressers but didn’t find anything to identify the woman.

“We can leave the walk-in closet and the thorough search of the room to Watkins and the team, but let’s take a look at the bathroom,” Corelli said, stepping in. The warm glow of teak wood against the turquoise and white tiles in the large en suite was inviting. And though Corelli wouldn’t give up the huge industrial bathtub her uncle had left in her duplex apartment during the conversion of the factory building to living space, the towel warmer, the glass-walled double shower, and the large jacuzzi here were tempting.

“If the killer showered here, he took the wet towels with him and cleaned and dried the sink and the shower before he left. The CSU team will check the drains for trace evidence.”

The third room on the floor appeared to be a library/office with a desk, an easy chair, a love seat with a warm throw draped over it, and bookcases filled with books ranging from medical texts and medical journals to philosophy, to history, and literary and popular books, including various genres from lesbian publishers. The books were orderly and the files on the desk neat.

“If I lived here, this is where I’d spend most of my time,” Parker said. “But I’d guess the killer never made it this far.”

They climbed the stairs to the top floor. The two bedrooms there were neat and seemed untouched. The bathroom between them, smaller and not as luxurious as the one attached to the master bedroom, also seemed unused. “Our team and the CSU will confirm, but it appears the killer wasn’t up here either.” Corelli turned toward the stairs. “Let’s interview the witness.”