"Used to be alarmed," Boyd told us. "But when they did the renovation, it was made into a common space, so the tenants got keys."

"Right. So there's no real security from downstairs," I said. "Did you see anyone or anything suspicious in the building today?"

Boyd's laugh was tinged with hysteria. "Did I see anyone suspicious? In this building? This is the first day in a month that I didn't."

THE UNIFORMED OFFICER standing at the door to apartment 5J was a rookie – Officer Matt Hartnett, tall guy, looked a little like Jimmy Smits. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his face was pallid under his dark eyes.

"The vic is Mrs. Irene Wolkowski," Hartnett said, handing the log to me. "Last seen alive this morning in the laundry room around eleven. The husband isn't home from work, and we still haven't been able to reach him. My partner and another team are interviewing the tenants on the street."

I nodded, signed my name and Conklin's into the log. We ducked under the tape that was stretched across the doorway, walked into a scene already crawling with the CSU and the current ME, who was snapping pictures of the victim.

The room stunk of gas.

Windows on two sides were wide open to vent the room, making it seem colder inside the apartment than it was on the street.

The deceased was on her back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs akimbo, a pose that made her defenseless against both the original attack and now the poking and prodding of strangers. The woman appeared to be in her early sixties.

There was blood coming from the back of her head. I saw that it had soaked into the pale gray carpet, the stain parting around a leg of the piano.

And the piano was wrecked!

What was left of the keyboard was blood-smeared and smashed. Keys were dislocated and broken, and many were scattered on the floor as though someone had hammered at the keys repeatedly.

Dr. Germaniuk had set up portable lights to illuminate every corner of the room. It was both well-lived-in and recently furnished. I saw a scrap of plastic wrap still clinging to one of the sofa legs.

Dr. G. said hello to me, pushed his glasses up on his nose with the back of his hand, and put his camera away.

"What have we got?" I asked him.

"Very interesting," Germaniuk said. "Except for the piano and every gas jet on the stove being turned on, nothing else looks disturbed."

The crime scene was organized – that is to say, neat – which nearly always meant that the crime was planned and the killer was smart.

"The victim suffered trauma to her head, front and back," said Dr. G. "Looks to me like two different implements were used. The piano was one of them.

"I'll give you more after I get Mrs. Wolkowski on my table, but I'll tell you this much right now: She's got no rigor – she's warm to the touch, and blanching lividity is just starting. This lady's been dead only a couple of hours, probably less. We just missed the killer."

I HEARD CINDY'S VOICE at the doorway and broke away from the murder scene long enough to throw my arms around her in the hallway.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she murmured. "I just got your messages."

"Did you know the victim?"

"I don't think so. Not by name anyway. Let me see her."

The crime scene was off-limits and she knew it, but it was a battle I'd fought and lost with Cindy before. She had that look in her eyes now. Stubborn. Intractable. Canny.

"Stand to the side. Don't touch."

"I know. I won't."

"If anyone objects, you have to leave. And I want your word you will not write anything about the cause of death."

"My word," she said, giving me lip.

I pointed to an empty corner of the room, and Cindy went there. She blanched at the sight of the dead woman on the floor, but as one of the swarm of people in 5J, she went unquestioned.

"That's Cindy?" Conklin asked, tipping his chin toward where she stood on the fringes.

"Yeah. She's trustworthy."

"If you say so."

I introduced Rich to Cindy as Irene Wolkowski's body was wrapped in sheets, zipped into a body bag. We talked over our theories of the crime as the cold wind blew through the apartment.

I said to Conklin, "So let's say the killer is someone she knows. Guy who lives in the building. He rings the bell. Says, 'Hi, Irene. Don't let me interrupt you. That sounds really nice.' "

"Okay. Or maybe it was her husband," Conklin said. "Came home early, killed her, and split. Or maybe a friend. Or a romantic interest. Or a stranger."

"A stranger? I don't see that," Cindy said. "I wouldn't let a stranger into my apartment, would you?"

"Okay, I get that," Conklin said. "But anyway, she's sitting at the piano. The music covers the sound of the door opening, and this nice, thick carpet absorbs the sound of footsteps."

"Right," I agreed.

"Is that her handbag?" Cindy asked.

A woman's shiny black purse rested on a slipper chair. I opened it, took out the wallet, showed Conklin the wad of twenties and a full deck of credit cards.

"So there goes the robbery theory," I said.

"I was there when one of those dogs was found," Cindy said, sketching in the story.

Rich shook his head, hair swinging in front of his eyes. "Sign of a potential psycho killer escalating to… this? Talk about overkill. So on the one hand we have the beating and the trashing of the piano. But why bother with the gas?"

"He either wanted to make sure she was discovered," I said, "or he wanted to make sure she was dead." I looked at Cindy. "Not one word of this in the Chronicle."

YUKI COULDN'T STOP THINKING about Len's face, twisting with pain as his heart attack tried to kill him. She'd left him in the hospital last night, stabilized but incapacitated, and called David Hale's answering machine at home. "There's been an emergency. Meet me at the office at six a.m. and be ready to go to court."

Now Yuki sat across from David in the grungy, pine-paneled conference room, her notes and instant coffee in front of her, bringing her fellow ADA up to speed.

"Why aren't we getting a continuance?" he asked her. David was presentable today, in a tan herringbone jacket, blue pants, striped tie. Needed a haircut, but that couldn't be helped. Of all the people available to her at short notice, she'd get the best work from Hale.

"Three reasons," Yuki said, tapping the table with a plastic spoon.

"One, Leonard doesn't want to lose Jack Rooney as a witness. Rooney is frail. He was on vacation when the shooting occurred. We might not be able to get him back when we need him, which means his tape might be excluded."

"Okay."

"Two, Len doesn't want to chance losing Judge Moore."

"Yeah, I get that, too."

"Len says he'll be in court in time to do the summation."

"He said that?"

"Yep, when they were prepping him for surgery. He was lucid and adamant."

"What did his doctor say?"

"His doctor said, and I quote, 'There's a reasonable possibility that the damage to Leonard's heart is reversible.' "

"Did they have to crack open his chest?"

"Yes. I checked with Len's wife. He came through the surgery fine."

"And so he'll be doing a summation in a little more than a week?"

"Probably not. And he won't be doing the tarantella, either," Yuki said. "So that brings me to number three. Len said that I'm as prepared as he is, that he's confident in us. And we're not to let him down."

David Hale stared at her, openmouthed, before finally saying, "Yuki, I don't have any trial experience."

"I do. Several years."

"Your experience is in civil cases, not criminal."