“Are you so certain the body wasn’t moved?”

“No, that isn’t it. The corpse was in such bad shape, I couldn’t make any determination on that score. Not for certain.”

“Then what?”

Wilson closed her file. “The first thing I did at the crime scene was take decomposition readings to establish the time of death. Not that I enjoyed it. It was midnight, I was cold, and the joint had more posters of naked women than I’ve seen in my entire life. The DA was being an asshole and trying to tell me what to do and when. But I performed the tests, just the same. And the time of death was well after 9:30-more like 11:00, 11:15.”

Christina shook her head. “I don’t know. My client is pretty convincing.”

“Christina, if the beating took place in a vacant lot, don’t you think the police would’ve found traces?”

“The boys didn’t remember where it was. They said they were drunk and drove and drove-and stopped at a deserted place chosen at random. Of course, the cops never looked too hard, since they think Tony was killed in the frat house. And even if the vacant lot were found, it could’ve been cleaned up.”

Wilson dropped the file back in its drawer. “Christina, I realize you don’t know me, but I’m a straight shooter. If the DA’s case sucks, I’ll say so. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Scout’s honor. Girl-to-girl. Your client killed the poor kid. There’s simply no other possible explanation.”

“Hello, handsome.”

Mike sighed, eyes still glued to his desk. “Look, Baxter, if this is-”

He stopped short. Wrong voice.

“Special Agent Swift! What the hell are you doing here?”

Mike rose to his feet and crossed his office to greet her. Just like the last time he’d seen her, she was wearing a black turtleneck. And looking fine in it, too.

“I’m on special assignment. How ya been, you big teddy bear, you?”

“Oh, all right. Nothing to-”

“Don’t just stand there. Give me a hug.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. And did not let go.

“Hey, Morelli, shouldn’t we be leaving to-”

They both turned to see Sergeant Baxter standing in the doorway.

“Oh, excuse me,” Baxter said. “I didn’t know you had… company. I’ll come back later.”

“No, no,” Mike said, “come on in. We’re just…” What the hell were they doing, anyway? “Baxter, this is Special Agent Swift. With the FBI. I told you about her. We worked on the Metzger kidnap case together. Before your time.”

Baxter looked at the other woman levelly. “Right.”

Mike turned back to Agent Swift. “And this is Sergeant Baxter. She’s my partner. For the time being.”

Swift extended her hand. “Glad to meet you, Baxter. Got a first name?”

“Yeah. But I think Morelli is afraid of them.”

“I noticed that. I’m Danny. Short for Danielle.”

“Kate.” They shook hands, but Mike noticed that Baxter seemed very tentative. “What brings a Chicago white shirt out to our lowly cop shop?”

“Special assignment,” she explained.

“Anything I’d know about?”

“Well, yes, actually. The drill bit boy.”

“That’s a homicide. What’s the FBI interest?”

“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re going to be working with us. But you can’t say why?”

“For the moment.” She leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. “Don’t sweat it, Kate. I’ll spill something as soon as I can. I’m not much for the rule book-ask Mike. I just like to get the job done. And the best way to accomplish that is for us all to get along.”

“I think maybe we need to talk to Blackwell.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve just come from his office. He’s on board.”

Baxter frowned. “I won’t pretend I’m happy about this. These interjurisdictional things always turn out to be a headache. And I’ll be honest-I don’t much like working with Feebs. Neither does Morelli.” She paused. “Right, Morelli?”

Mike’s shoulders rippled. “Well, as a rule, working with the Bureau is not my idea of the good life. But I guess I don’t have any problems with this.” Baxter looked at him as if he’d just sold her into slavery. “At least I have some history with Agent Swift.”

“That’s right,” Swift said, jabbing him in the ribs. “And we got along pretty well, didn’t we, handsome?”

“Yeah. Except for the minor detail of the bad guys getting away.”

Baxter looked as if the top of her head were burning. “Just so you know, Swift, we don’t usually go in for that overly familiar flirtatious stuff.”

“Lighten up, Kate. We’re just joshing.”

“There’s nothing funny about inappropriate office conduct. Sexual harassment is not a joke.”

“Sexual harassment?” Swift looked at Mike. “Did I harass you? I don’t recall you complaining.” She helped herself to a chair. “Why don’t one of you tell me what you’ve got on this case so far?”

Mike wanted to sit behind his desk, but that would leave Baxter standing, and that was too rude, even for him. “We don’t know much about the victim. Not even his name. We checked the mug shots. Didn’t find a match.”

“Check the DEA records?”

An interesting question. “No. We’ve been interviewing people who knew him, neighbors and such, but there aren’t many. They say he mostly kept to himself.”

“But you’re not buying that, right?”

“Right. No man is an island, entire of itself.”

Swift turned to Baxter. “Don’t you get shivers when he does the poetry thing?”

“Love it,” Baxter deadpanned.

“I appreciate you two being so reasonable about this,” Swift said. “Sometimes local law enforcement just goes ape when we Feds come in. Get more territorial than most jungle primates.” She checked her watch. “Wanna go somewhere for a cup of java?” She smiled in a way that was uncommonly inviting. “We could catch up.”

“Yeah. I think I’m about finished here.” Mike fiddled absently with the stapler on his desk. “Baxter, care to join us?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. Why don’t you call me when you’re actually ready to work? Partner.”

“No problem.” Swift grabbed his arm. “So, isn’t there a Java Dave’s within walking distance?”

Ben came home from the office as depressed as he remembered ever being. That’s what you always say, he told himself. Which said something about his life. Something fairly pathetic.

He had stopped by Weber’s for takeout-cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate milk. Comfort food. With luck, he would make it up the stairs of his boardinghouse without being accosted by tenants complaining about the air-conditioning or explaining why they couldn’t possibly pay their rent this month. Sometimes both at once.

He entered the boardinghouse where he lived-which he now owned-and walked up the stairs to his room without interruption, dropped his food on the kitchen table, then stopped to check in on the felines.

A big wicker basket with a cushion was the current home of Giselle, the huge mama cat, and her kitten Melisande. Ben had eventually given away the rest of the litter, but he couldn’t bear to part with them all, regardless of what people said about two cats in a small apartment.

He opened several cans of Feline’s Fancy and scooped it into their individual bowls, stroked their fur, talked baby talk-then heard a sound coming from his bedroom.

He stiffened.

He removed his shoes so he could walk more quietly on the squeaky hardwood floors. He tiptoed across the living room, then slowly made his way down the corridor.

What he found in his bedroom was a beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a pink string bikini.

“I thought you’d never get home,” the woman said, brushing her curly brunette locks behind her round and radiant shoulders.

“Joni?” Ben said, almost choking on the words. Of course he’d seen her many times before. She did live here, and had been serving as his building superintendent to work her way through college. But she was normally wearing baggy overalls or jeans with holes in the knees.