“So today of all days, you just happen to run into her, and then boom, she’s dead? Is there something you want to tell me, Derek?”

The boy’s face flushed with horror, and his mouth dropped open. “What? No. I didn’t do anything to her. We just talked. Shared a bowl. That’s it.”

“So you admit to doing drugs with the decedent?”

The kid nodded, his head moving vigorously on its slender stalk. “Yeah. But I promise, that’s all we did.”

“I think you should probably come down and talk to me a little more, Derek. Okay?”

The bowed shoulders straightened and the tears stopped. His voice grew cold. “Am I under arrest?”

“Not right now. We’re just going to have a little chat.”

“I know my rights. You can’t detain me unless you have cause.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes at the boy.

“Don’t give me a reason, kid. I’m not in the mood. We can do this hard or we can do this easy. You just admitted to using an illegal substance on state property. You want to go down on a drug charge, I’m happy to make that happen for you. Or you can come in and have a nice friendly chat. Your call.”

She stepped back a foot and fingered her cuffs. Rucka swallowed and shoved his hands in his pockets, head cast downward in defeat.

“Okay then. Come with me.” Taylor led the kid to her car, put him in the back seat. “I’ll be back in a minute. You just hang out.”

Of course, one of the reporters saw this, and shouted across the tape at Taylor frantically. “Lieutenant, do you have a suspect in custody?”

Taylor ignored her. She wasn’t about to get in a conversation with a reporter, not when the chief was on his way. She returned to the body, watched as Keri McGee took samples and bagged the girl’s hands.

“Anything?” Taylor asked.

“Not really. Nothing that’s leaping out. I have hairs that don’t match the body, debris, but that’s not a surprise, considering she’s out in the crowd like this. She’s wrapped up like she’s wearing a sari. I’ll get her back to the morgue, and we can get her peeled down to her skin, run everything and see what’s out of place.”

One of these things is not like the other ...

Oh, great. Now she was going to be singing that stupid song for the rest of the night.

Taylor didn’t blame Keri for wanting to get the girl out of the limelight as quickly as possible, especially with the chief making an appearance. It was practically record speed for a homicide investigation, but Keri was a stellar death investigator. Taylor trusted her to know when it was time to move on to the next step.

Go-Go would be posted in the morning along with any other unfortunates who found their way to the tables of Forensic Medical. In the meantime, Taylor had a job to do. She started toward the perimeter when Keri shouted to her.

Taylor turned and saw Keri waving her back.

“What’s up?”

Keri handed Taylor a small leather wallet. “Found it under her layers of blanket. Don’t know why I didn’t see it when I rolled her.”

“Hers?”

“Not unless her name is James Gustafson.”

Taylor flipped the wallet open. It was all the standard stuff: a driver’s license and a few credit cards, plus some cash. The photo showed a pale man, forty-one, blue on brown, five foot ten inches. His address showed him to be from Virginia.

“Keri, tell me if I’m crazy. Maybe we just caught a break and this is our killer’s wallet. Go-Go tried snatching it, he got pissed and stabbed her, then was spooked and ran before he retrieved it?”

“Would you leave your wallet if you had just stabbed someone?”

“No one said these guys were geniuses.”

Keri laughed, then a frown crossed her face. She had her hands in the grubby folds of Go-Go’s blankets. “Now that’s weird.”

“What?” Taylor asked.

Keri produced three more wallets, all very similar to the first, and four cell phones.

“Well, well, well,” Taylor said. “Our Go-Go is quite the little pickpocket.”

“Bet there’s some folks up on the plaza who will be happy to get their stuff back.”

“No kidding. Good job, Keri. I’ll have Parks Jr. do some canvassing, see which phone and wallet belongs to which person. They can all come in and have a chat. At least we have some suspects. Maybe we can crack this one tonight. Later, ‘gator.”

Taylor headed back to the perimeter tape, planning out the evening, and trying to formulate exactly what she was going to say to Go-Go’s father about his wayward, now dead daughter.

What a damn shame.

“Whoo-eeeee!”

Stover had decided to ride the mechanical bull at the Cadillac Ranch. He was spinning in circles, whooping and hollering and generally making an ass of himself. Two bleached blonde bimbos had attached themselves to him about an hour earlier, and they gazed adoringly at their man for the evening, salivating over his generosity and the size of his wallet.

JR couldn’t stand this much longer. He glanced at his watch, it was past midnight. When had that happened? Granted, he’d been drinking, keeping up with Stover was a challenge for a man who generally didn’t allow himself to indulge more than the occasional adult beverage as a reward. Funny, he’d broken his own rules twice in a month. What did that say? Was he getting lax? Tired? Old?

No. Never old. Not in that way. He was certainly aging, like any normal person would, but he was far from staid and predictable.

Stover, now he was predictable. Out of town, away from his wife, and his mistress, looking to grab the first piece of tail that would bite, throw back as much drink as his protruding gut would allow, then fuck and pass out in a strange room without a second thought.

JR was better than that. Cleaner. Seemlier. And certainly more temperate. Stover drew attention to himself like a five year old throwing a tantrum — everyone around was aware of him. JR never could handle that level of attention from strangers. Not that he wanted to, my God, if he were this indiscreet, he’d have landed in a jail cell years ago. No, prudence and moderation were the keys to his longevity.

Almost as if Stover could read his mind, the man started yelling in a drunken slur. “JR.” The name came out Jar. “Ca’mere. Get yer bony ass up here.”

The blonds twittered and simpered.

JR waved him off, then realized how incredibly intoxicated Stover was. After his invitation, he’d closed his eyes and started to slide off the back of the bull.

It was time to go.

He turned and walked to the bar to settle the bill. Stover had given the bartender his credit card to hold to keep the tab open. JR asked for the tab, and told the bartender to keep it on the card. He figured Stover might as well pay for the drinks, considering how inconsiderate he was being.

But the bartender came back and told JR the card had been declined. Cursing silently, he reached for his own wallet. He’d just give the man some cash, and be done with it.

His back right pocket was empty.

Son of a bitch.

He glanced over to the women who’d latched on to the pair but couldn’t see either of them in the crowd.

Fury began to build in his chest, so hard and fast that the bartender reared back when he saw the look on JR’s face. He’d been ripped off. The worthless bitches had stolen his wallet and run.

He went to Stover, who’d just tripped off the bull, and grabbed him by the shirtfront.

JR hissed the words. “They stole my wallet, you fat fuck.”

“Sucks for you.” Stover began to laugh, the hysterical giggles of a drunken hyena, which just pissed JR off more. He dragged the man to the bar, pushed him roughly against the wooden rail.

“Your card was declined. Pay the tab.”

Something in JR’s voice registered with Stover. He obeyed immediately, pulled his wallet out — he still had his, the shit — and paid for their drinks with two crisp $100 bills.

Satisfied, JR stalked away. He needed to find those women. The last thing he wanted was his name getting out. Granted, it wasn’t his real name on the license and credit cards, but a variation, a pseudonym, if you will, something he used to assure his anonymity as he cruised the country. He’d adopted the name when he failed out of med school. Employers wouldn’t be inclined to hire a man who they perceived wasn’t even competent enough to finish school. That wasn’t it, wasn’t it at all. He could have done the work if he wanted to, but he’d found another hobby, one that satisfied him in ways being a doctor never would. He made a show of struggling with the work so his classmates would think he was just incapable, and he could fade away from their lives.