They were all waiting on Cherry.

The morgue wasn't meant to hold so many observers, so the space was cramped. They all wore masks, but only the doctors, Francois and Wassman, were gloved and gowned. The " 'temps," Brumm and Crew, had arrived together, but seemed uncomfortable talking in front of the Multinational Force personnel. They were obviously ill at ease in Mitsuka's presence, and Francois suspected they hadn't been too happy riding in the backseat while a couple of chicks drove the postmortem process, either. But the look of dismay on Dr. Brumm's face-at the array of unusual lab equipment-was reason enough to disqualify him from a hands-on role in the postmortem.

The naked bodies of Anderson and Miyazaki lay on stainless-steel benches in the middle of the room. The Japanese officer rested stiffly on the table nearest to Francois. His toes were pointed straight at the laboratory door, as if he were diving into a pool. Gravity had pooled his blood, giving the underside of his corpse a bruised appearance that contrasted with the waxy yellow color, turning noticeably to green, elsewhere on his body.

Anderson was posed more dramatically. One fist was clenched and her right leg was drawn up toward her stomach. Her left leg was bent backward at the knee. It had obviously been broken with great force. Her dark skin meant that the green tinge of putrefaction wasn't as immediately evident, but she still looked unreal, like a posed wax model. Everybody in the room avoided staring at her private parts. Something terrible had been done there.

Francois checked the clock again. Fifteen minutes late. She could feel her face coloring with anger. She didn't know either victim personally, but she always took this shitty sort of business personally. It was why she'd turned down so many requests to participate in other war crimes investigations over the years. It dredged up memories.

"Detective Cherry was shot in the leg last year," said ADA Crew. "He finds it hard to get around."

"And they couldn't send anybody else?" asked Francois, barely controlling her irritation.

Crew shrugged.

"They're shorthanded. A lot of cops joined up the day after Pearl. Cherry caught the case. It was his turf the stiff… the bodies washed up on."

Francois was about to snap a comment at Crew's indelicate choice of language when Detective Cherry came through the swing doors.

Jesus Christ, what a bag of shit, she thought.

"Sorry I'm so early," the cop said with a lopsided grin.

Francois had never seen a man so obviously teetering on the edge of a massive coronary, and a stroke, and liver failure, and God only knew what else, all at the same time.

His limp was pronounced, but that was the least of his problems. The man's fingers were yellowed with nicotine. He had a paunch that fell about nine inches over his belt. His breathing sounded like a something a dying animal might squeeze out when crushed to death by a boa constrictor. His face was livid, the color of bad blood and meat sickness. And he stank. She wasn't sure which was the worse, the sour sweat, or the stale haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes that followed him into the room.

"So," grunted Cherry, nodding at the bodies. "The happy couple."

"Buster, please," Crew said quietly.

Wassman and Mitsuka both stared at him, appalled.

Francois could feel the moment turning into a circus. Then she thought, Buster Cherry? Oh, for fuck's sake. She was going to find it real hard warming up to this asshole.

"If you're all right, Detective, we'll start. You can prop yourself up on that stool if you need to."

Cherry bristled at the suggestion. He folded his massive arms and shook his head.

"Don't you worry about me, Doc. I mighta slipped over my fighting weight, but I'm not about to feed the worms just yet."

"What the hell do you mean by that crack?" snapped Wassman.

Cherry shrugged, a slow movement that shifted a hell of a lot of shoulder meat around under his crumpled suit. "It's just an expression, sister."

Francois took a deep breath before speaking.

"Lieutenant Commander Wassman is a U.S. Navy combat surgeon, Detective. Not your sister."

Cherry smiled. His teeth were nearly as nicotine-stained as his fingers.

"Like I said, Doc. Just an expression. You ladies might want to lighten up, if you're gonna make a habit of this kinda work. Send you to the fucking nuthouse otherwise."

The atmosphere in the small theater was growing palpably worse. Captain Lunn pushed off the bench where he'd been leaning and said, "Why don't we get to work."

Dr. Brumm and ADA Crew nodded and mumbled their agreement. Francois held Cherry's gaze for a second, her eyes cold and level, before turning her back on him and flicking a control switch to power up the morgue's video cameras.

"This is Captain Margaret Francois, United States Marine Corps. I am about to begin the autopsy on Captain Daytona Anderson, formerly the commander of the USS Leyte Gulf."

Francois named everybody else present for the benefit of the recording before going on.

"I'll commence with a visual examination of the subject. Anderson was a forty-two-year-old female of African descent. DNA matching with U.S. Navy data has confirmed that she is the subject of this postmortem examination. For the benefit of local authorities, this information has been matched with dental and fingerprint records. The body has also been positively identified as that of Captain Anderson, by Lieutenant Commander Wassman, medical officer of the USS Leyte Gulf."

Francois paused. Brumm and Crew had been briefed on the role of DNA in forensic investigations. They were willing to take it on trust. Cherry had insisted on the dental work and prints. She couldn't quibble with his belt-and-braces approach, but it smacked to her of game playing.

The cop had leaned himself up against a bulkhead and was watching her intently. Francois bent back to Anderson's body.

"The head of the subject shows signs of trauma inflicted with a blunt weapon. The left eye has swollen closed, the skin is broken, and a small dent is visible in the forehead. The subject's jaw appears on initial examination to have been broken by a separate blow, delivered from the opposite direction, that is, from the right-hand side. Ligature marks are clearly visible on the neck. Two entry wounds from large-caliber bullets sit over the subject's heart. Her right hand shows signs of cadaveric spasm. The fist is clenched tightly and knuckles of the first two fingers appear to be displaced, possibly as the result of a defensive blow she delivered while extant. The subject is wearing a ring on the third finger of the right hand."

Francois reached up and pulled down a large, fluorescently lit magnifying lens on a jointed metal arm. She waved Brumm and Crew over to examine the ring, which loomed as large as a baseball in the looking glass.

"If you gentlemen would care to study the ring, you'll see that small shreds of meat have been trapped within the irregular facets. It's possible that she struck her attacker. If so, we can retrieve DNA from the sample."

Detective Cherry suddenly heaved himself upright.

"Whoa! How do we know she hit the guy who necked her? I hear they had a pretty willing fucking brawl on that ship of hers. She might have clocked half a dozen guys. Maybe your fucking crime labs are better than ours, but you still gotta get beyond reasonable doubt, don'tcha?"

Francois nodded. "That's right. I said it's possible that she struck her attacker. That's all, Detective."

Cherry subsided. "Okay," he said. "Because, you know, she could have gone upside the head of her boyfriend over there." He waved a meaty paw at Sub-Lieutenant Miyazaki's corpse. "The whole damn thing's probably a lovers' tiff."

"Hey, just a minute-," said Wassman.