Ben crossed lanes, got out his PikePass, and took the right-hand ramp onto the turnpike. “I did. He doesn’t care. He thinks Erin Faulkner is going to be his savior.”

“Oh.” The line fell silent for several moments. “This relates to my news.”

“Something about Erin?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she drop by to give a formal statement?”

“Not hardly.” The crackling of static on the line gave Christina’s next sentence an eerie resonance. “She’s dead.”

“Erin Faulkner.” Mike sat at his office desk, poring over the file. “Why do I know that name?”

“Apparently,” Baxter replied, reading over his shoulder, “she was the only survivor of a fairly hideous home invasion a few years back.”

Mike snapped his fingers. “Of course. How could I forget? Horrible tragedy. My pal Ben represented the perp. Not that that prevented us from sending him on a one-way rendezvous with the Big Needle.” He thumbed through the file. “Ben stills calls the case his greatest failure. But the truth is, he never had a chance. His client was buried by the evidence. Particularly the testimony from this girl.”

“Young woman, don’t you mean?”

“She was fifteen at the time, Baxter. Don’t get all PC on me. I’m an English major and I won’t tolerate anyone policing my language.” He continued working through the file. “Looks like suicide.”

“Yes…” Baxter said slowly. “It looks that way.”

“Not surprising, I suppose. After what she’d been through.”

“How do you mean?”

Mike continued reading, not looking up. “Ever heard of the sole-survivor syndrome? She must’ve had it big time. Eight family members killed. I’ll wager her life has been a nightmare of psychological recrimination. Guilt, anxiety, loneliness. Inability to connect with others. Most likely she never married. I’ll bet she had few close friends, if any.”

Baxter arched an eyebrow. “Speculating in advance of the facts? Not exactly standard detective procedure, is it?”

“Understanding people is what detective work is all about, Sergeant. If you can figure out the people, the rest of it is easy.” He closed the file. “Too bad.”

“That’s it? Too bad?”

“I suppose Blackwell wants us to take a look at the scene, then sign off on the certificate of self-inflicted death.”

“He wants us to investigate the crime.”

“Yeah. All violent deaths have to be investigated. It’s departmental policy. But I can guarantee you he doesn’t want us to expend a lot of time and manpower on an obvious suicide.”

“You haven’t been to the scene. You’ve barely looked at the file. How can you know that it’s a suicide?”

“Because I didn’t just join the department yesterday, Baxter.” He stood and grabbed his trench coat. “Let’s get this over with. But first I think it would be best if I established some ground rules, right at the start.”

If there had been a wall between them before, Mike sensed it had just become titanium-reinforced. “What did you have in mind?”

“Like, first of all, I’m in charge. I outrank you, I’ve got more seniority, and that means I’m the boss. I’m not going to put up with a partner who doesn’t do what she’s told, or is constantly challenging or second-guessing me.”

“Is that all?”

“No, I’m just warming up. Second, I’m not your buddy, your friend, your counselor, or your father, so don’t for a minute get the idea that I am. We work together. Period. End of story.”

Baxter’s voice was positively icy. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I drive. Don’t bother asking if you can drive my Trans Am. You can’t. So, now that we’ve established our rules, let’s-”

“Wait a minute. We’re not done.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t heard my rules yet.”

“Your rules? You don’t get to-”

“First, I’m not putting up with any sexist crap. I don’t care where we are or who we’re with. At the scene of a crime or in the locker room. Doesn’t matter. I won’t put up with any salacious remarks, crude innuendos, or chauvinistic character slurs. If I hear anything like that, I’ll report you in a New York minute.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That’s a promise, buster. Second, if you have any thoughts about trying to snuggle up to me or playing grabass in your Trans Am, forget it. I’m your partner, not your playmate. I’m not attracted to you and I never will be.”

Now, that was a bit harsh. “Fine. Let’s just-”

“I’m not done. You haven’t heard my third rule yet.”

“And that would be?”

She jabbed her blunt-nailed finger into his chest. “I do not, under any circumstances, want to hear any of your goddamn poems! I hate poems!” She folded her arms across her chest. “Any questions?”

“No,” Mike said through clenched teeth. “I think we understand one another quite well.”

“Good. Let’s go!”

Mike unclenched his fists and jaw, wiped the grimace off his face, and started out the door. This was never going to work. Never. Never in a million trillion years!

There are constants in the universe, Mike mused. Our echoes roll from soul to soul / And grow for ever and for ever, as Tennyson said. Or, A kiss is still a kiss, as Dooley Wilson sang. The point was, some things never changed. And one of them, he realized as he trudged into the small house on Indianapolis, was that he hated crime scenes.

Something of a handicap for a homicide detective, but he’d managed to deal with it, over the years. He’d circumvented it. But he hadn’t conquered it. And he supposed he never would.

A patrolman on duty pointed a finger. “Upstairs, Major.”

Mike nodded and started up, Sergeant Baxter close behind.

She’d been discovered when the cleaning lady came in this morning. Rigor had already set in. Her naked body had an ashen green color, and the smell-well, there was one. Mike tried not to focus on it.

Absolutely beautiful, in a chilling way. Except for the head, of course. Because that had exploded all over the bed.

Spatters of blood and brain tissue were very much in evidence. Other than the mess on the bed, though, there were no signs that anything was amiss. Water still in the bath. (Evidently not a very soothing soak, Mike noted.) Phone on the hook. No sign of other persons. Just one little girl-or young woman, if Baxter insisted. One very sad young woman.

On the far side of the bed, Mike spotted a familiar figure looking away, toward the bathroom. He was thin, medium height, with straight brown hair and an increasingly sizable bald spot on the back of his head.

“Freeze,” Mike said. “You’re under arrest.”

As he turned around, Ben Kincaid’s face was wide-eyed with astonishment, followed by a moment of recognition, followed by a grimace. “Very amusing.”

Sergeant Baxter looked concerned. “You know this man, Morelli?”

The corners of Mike’s mouth crinkled. “He turns up a lot. Kind of a murder junkie.”

Baxter approached Ben, all business. “This is a restricted crime scene, sir. Unless you’re with the department-”

“I’m a lawyer,” Ben tried to explain.

“Is that supposed to count for something?”

Mike proved once and for all that he really did have a mean streak. “To be precise, Sergeant-he’s a defense attorney.”

Baxter’s hand slid inside her jacket, touching her weapon. “What are you doing here?”

“Tomlinson waved me up. I just wanted to have a look around.”

“Why?” Baxter said, her face cold. “So you could rearrange things? Walk off with some incriminating evidence? Taint the scene so you can later allege police incompetence? This is my case, asshole, and I’m not going to let any legal crapola screw it up.”

Ben adjusted his gaze wearily. “Mike, who is this woman?”

Baxter answered for him. “I’m Major Morelli’s new partner. Sergeant Kate Baxter. And you’re trespassing on a crime scene in violation of-”