“I’m suspicious when you’re too nice.”

“Nah, don’t be fooled. It’s part of my persona as the benevolent dictator.”

Decker and Marge accompanied Irv Fletcher up a flight of outdoor steps. The apartment building was an anonymous white box with sparkles in the stucco. The landlord was in his late seventies, short, slight, and bald, but with a spring in his step. “Her rent wasn’t due for another week, so I had no reason to contact her.”

“Good tenant?” Decker asked.

“The best kind: the one who pays her rent on time.”

Decker had a thought. He still had Solana’s postmortem picture in his pocket. “Did you know her well?”

“Never met her. Everything was done through an agent.”

So much for the quick ID. At the top of the stairs, Fletcher fished out a ring of keys. “You think something happened to her?”

“Maybe,” Marge said. “She hasn’t been at work for the last couple of days.”

As they got closer to the apartment, a faint stale smell wafted through the chilly air. “Here we go… number eight.”

“Do you mind if I open the door?” Decker asked. “Fingerprints, you know.”

“Sure, sure.” Fletcher handed him the master key. Decker put on a pair of latex gloves, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door. He groped around the wall until he found the light switch. It turned on two floor lamps, bathing the tiny living room in soft light.

A couch decorated with lacy pillows, and a coffee table, a chair and an end table, a set of bookshelves that held more DVDs than paperbacks, discount furniture, cheap but serviceable. The same space also held a dinette service for four and moribund flowers in a vase set in the middle of the table, dropping dead petals. The water stank of rotten eggs.

Marge and Decker exchanged looks. Marge said, “Mr. Fletcher, would you mind waiting outside?”

“Sure, sure. You mind if I sit in my car? It’s a little warmer in there.”

“No, sir, not at all. We’ll be down in a bit.” Decker walked around and peered into the kitchen, an out-pouching of the living area. It appeared clean and tidy. He went back into the living room and studied the floor, slowly walking toward the lone bedroom. Before he opened the shut door, he crouched down and stared at the joint where the jamb met the floor. “Looks like some blood here, mixed with hair. Our victim had a contusion on the side of her head.”

Marge said, “He was dragging her out and bumped her head on the doorjamb.”

Decker nodded. “I don’t see any smear tracks from the wound. He came back and cleaned up pretty good. But not all that good, if he left this. I’ll have the techs luminol the area tonight.” He got up from his squat and opened the door.

The room was orderly. The bed had been made; the night-stand held a lamp and a book. Framed photographs lined the dresser. Decker pointed to a pretty young woman with long flowing hair and full red lips. A glint twinkled in her brown eyes. She appeared around twenty. Decker took out the postmortem photograph. It was the same woman, but the two snapshots couldn’t have looked any more different.

Marge sighed. “Well, it looks like we’ve ID’d our victim.”

“And most likely found the crime scene.” Decker pointed to a corner of the room, at a blotch of something rusty brown. He bent down, sniffed it, and made a face.

“Blood?”

“More like excrement.” He stood back up. “Since she was choked, we wouldn’t expect to see a lot of blood. But victims piss and shit as they die. We’ll have the techs dust for fingerprints and take a look at this splotch under the scope.”

Marge said, “What should we do with Lombard?”

“We’ve got a witness who tells us he was in the open house that Sunday. And we know he worked with Solana. That doesn’t mean there was a relationship.”

“We could probably find that out easy enough. Should we bring him in?”

“Not yet. First let’s see if the techs can put him in her apartment by finding his fingerprints. In the meantime, Margie, he gets his cup of coffee from the same convenience store every day. Tell the store clerk to pour Lombard a cup from the dregs. Then, after he takes a sip, the clerk should offer him a fresh cup. When Lombard throws his cup away, you move in. Let’s get his DNA. If he’s the father of the kid, he can’t very well deny a relationship.”

It took little time for Decker to learn about Lombard ’s affair with Solana from several of her coworkers. Office gossip was rampant, though no one had anything damning to say about Solana other than she was having an affair with a married man. Lombard ’s fingerprints were on file, a requirement of his state license, and they matched dozens of prints found in Solana’s apartment. Though the DNA profile hadn’t come back, Decker decided it was time to bring in the young lawyer for questioning.

Dunn and Oliver caught up with Lombard during his lunch break-two hours at the Marquis Club, a posh private organization that catered to the downtown white-shoe firms and the multimillion-dollar corporations they represented. The young lawyer was accompanying the bosses. His job was to take notes and say nothing. The detectives waited until Lombard was done with his official business and discreetly moved in. The young lawyer reacted without dramatics. Wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and an ice-blue tie, Lombard was an average man in all respects, the only distinguishing mark being the mole over his right eye. The nevus was a dark, round spot, serrated at the edges and flush with his skin. At a quick glance, it resembled a bullet hole. After he made excuses to his bosses-an emergency at home-he willingly came down to the station house without a peep of protest.

Once in the interview room, Decker expected Lombard to lawyer up. Instead, the man sat stoically in his chair, waiting for the cops to make the first move. Oliver and Marge were behind the one-way mirror.

Decker said, “You know why you’re here?”

“You tell me.”

“We’re investigating the murder of a woman named Solana Perez.”

Lombard nodded. A moment later, a single tear leaked from his right eye. He quickly blinked it away.

“How long were you two involved with each other?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Lombard answered, “A while.”

Decker tried to hide his surprise at the admission. “Could you be more specific?”

Lombard rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t kill her.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Matt. I asked how long you two were involved with each other.”

“Two, three years.”

“A long time.”

Lombard didn’t answer.

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

There was a pause. Then the lawyer nodded. “She told me.”

Again he had talked freely. Decker gave himself a microsecond to collect his thoughts. “Solana told you she was pregnant with your child?”

“Yes, she told me.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“Surprised.”

“Just surprised?”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“Since you’re married with two kids, I could imagine it wasn’t planned.”

Lombard said nothing, exhibiting none of the usual bodily reactions that most suspects had. No sweating, blushing, random movements, or fidgeting. It was as if his nervous system had shut down.

Decker said, “How’d you feel about her condition after the surprise wore off?”

“Maybe a little nervous… maybe excited.”

“Excited?”

Lombard shrugged.

“Did you tell your wife?”

“No.”

“Did you intend to tell your wife?”

Again Lombard shrugged. “I don’t know what I intended to do. I was thinking long and hard about it. I was at a crossroads. Then Solana…” He paused. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Am I under arrest?”

“So, here’s the story, Matt, and it isn’t looking very good for you. Your mistress is dead, and you, by your own admission, know that you’re the father of her unborn child. We’ve got forensic evidence that puts you in her apartment. We’ve got an eyewitness who puts you in the house where we found the body.”