“I’ll make some calls,” he said, “and we’ll see what we can find out.”

In the end, Murdoch took Dagmar to the FBI’s blue glass tower on Wilshire, where Dagmar talked to a special agent named Landreth, a woman with perfect makeup, an immaculate gray suit, and a Tidewater accent. She seemed completely comfortable with the idea that Charlie was a terrorist who had blown himself up with his own bomb. When Dagmar pointed out that Charlie was a multimillionaire entrepreneur with no ideological ax to grind, Landreth gave her a green-eyed look that made her realize that it was her credibility, not Landreth’s, that was in question.

A fact that pointed to Charlie’s guilt, Landreth was convinced, was that he had checked into the hotel under a false name, Neville Longbottom. Dagmar pointed out that this was a character in the Harry Potter books. Landreth didn’t seem to think that mattered.

Dagmar didn’t tell her about the patch. Landreth would probably have confiscated it as a possible tool in Charlie’s terrorist plot, and Dagmar wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

After the futile interview, Dagmar was tasked to identify Charlie’s body. Charlie’s other associates suddenly seemed unavailable, and Karin had refused.

It would probably sour her breast milk, Dagmar thought. Sourly.

Murdoch, who seemed to be doubling today as her chauffeur, took her to the morgue. The attendants weren’t yet ready with Charlie’s body, and Dagmar waited with Murdoch in the corridor. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Air-conditioning efficiently suppressed any odor: the place smelled like nothing at all.

“Harlem Nocturne” began to chime from Dagmar’s belt. She looked at the display and saw that it was Helmuth.

“Dagmar,” she said.

“We need to know what to do about the Banana Split mix-up,” Helmuth said.

“Jesus,” Dagmar said. “Do you know where I am?”

“We know that Charlie’s been killed,” Helmuth said. “But even if he has, we still can’t update till the players solve the Banana Split puzzle.”

She mashed her free hand against her forehead, then scrubbed her palm over her face, as if she were hoping that might help her mind to jump from one track to another.

“I can’t think,” she said. “You’ll just have to handle it yourselves.”

“Should I call Boris?”

“Sure. Why not? He’s devious.”

“He can’t hold his liquor very well.”

Dagmar didn’t remember that about him. It seemed to her that BJ had been pretty good with alcohol-better anyway than Dagmar.

“He and I went out clubbing last night,” Helmuth said. “My God! He turned into some kind of rampaging disco monster.”

Dagmar remembered the email BJ had sent her at four in the morning. Oh hai…

“You were with someone named Beverly?” she asked.

“Yes. Boris seemed…fond of her.”

“He didn’t pass out or anything?” she asked.

“No. He just… had more fun than the situation called for.”

“Well, he’s had good news lately. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure. And we’re very sorry about Charlie, by the way.”

“Yes,” she said. “So am I.”

Dagmar put her phone away. To give her privacy, Murdoch had turned away and taken a few steps down the corridor, just as he had during the phone call at the North Hollywood Station that morning.

“Someone from work,” she said.

Murdoch turned around and gave her a diffident look.

“Do people at your office pass out very often?” he asked.

A reluctant laugh bubbled like champagne up her nose.

“They do when they’re drinking with Helmuth,” she said.

Murdoch nodded.

A door opened and an attendant came out. He had glossy black skin, was dressed in pale green surgical scrubs, and had shaved his head.

“We’re ready, ma’am,” he said. “I should tell you a few things first.”

Dagmar nodded dumbly. Her insides were trying to climb up her throat.

“The victim’s face,” said the attendant, “has been badly damaged.” Then, speaking quickly as he gauged Dagmar’s horrified expression: “We’re not going to show you the face. We’re going to show you as much of the body as we can, so that maybe you’ll recognize the hands or feet or a birthmark or something.”

“Okay,” Dagmar said.

“The victim has also been autopsied. There is a large Y-shaped incision on the trunk. It has been sewn up and has nothing to do with the accident.”

Accident. Indeed.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Dagmar had expected a scene from the movies, with a wall full of sliding trays with bodies in them, but the viewing room wasn’t like that. It was small, with subdued light, and the body was actually in an adjacent chamber, with glass in between. A woman attendant, also in scrubs, was in the room with the body.

The body was very white, and naked except for a cloth covering the face, and a towel folded over the genitals. The front of the torso had been blackened, and there were deep circular wounds dished over the arms and torso. The Y-shaped incision of the autopsy had been closed with large stitches.

Only the legs seemed normal.

Dagmar felt a lightness wash over her, a floating sensation as if she were on the very edge of sleep. She continued walking toward the body, but her feet felt as if she were walking on pillows, reaching a long way before they met the ground.

The shaven-headed attendant stayed behind her, quite close. To catch her if she fainted dead away.

She came up to the glass and stopped. She looked at the wounds on the arms and torso. It looked as if someone had gone into the flesh with a melon baller.

“What are those?” she said, pointing.

Murdoch understood her vague question.

“Shrapnel wounds,” he said. “The bomb was packed with nails, probably dipped in rat poison.”

Dagmar looked at Murdoch in utter surprise. The bomb wasn’t enough? she thought.

“Rat poison prevents clotting,” Murdoch said.

“Ma’am?” The woman attendant’s voice came through a speaker. “Can you identify the victim?”

Dagmar felt herself sway. She turned to the body again, flesh the color of raw dough except where it had been burned or wounded, and realized that this was the only time she had seen Charlie without his clothes.

It was clearly Charlie. The tall, thin body reeked of Charlieness. But she didn’t know how she knew this.

“I can’t really tell,” she said. “But I’m sure it’s him.”

“We need a definite identification, ma’am,” the male attendant said.

“In that case,” Dagmar said, “I can’t.”

The woman attendant took a step closer to the body. Dagmar noticed that she was wearing surgical gloves.

“The face is badly-there really isn’t a face left,” she said. “But if I remove the cover, maybe you can identify the shape of the face or the-”

“No,” said Dagmar. “No, I won’t look at that.”

She turned and walked out. Her vision seemed to have narrowed; she felt as if she were walking down the length of a telescope.

The intensity of the light in the corridor startled her. She stood blinking on the green and white tile floor. Murdoch stood at her elbow. The fact of his presence was shocking-it was as if he hadn’t walked there but had somehow materialized at that instant.

“Do you think you might want to sit down?” he asked.

“Just get me out of here,” Dagmar said.

Murdoch’s Crown Victoria smelled of leather and gun oil. Hissing voices spoke inscrutable ten-codes from the police radio. Dagmar closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest as he accelerated onto I-5.

“Damn,” he said in his mild voice. She opened her eyes and saw the flashes of taillights, long rows of them.

Rush hour had commenced. They were probably going to spend the next hour trapped on the freeway.

“Don’t worry about the identification,” Murdoch said. “They can do a DNA with hair from his bathroom at home or something. Though that will take a while.”