She put up another huge photograph on the bulletin board.

“Shoes?” Tremont said.

“Gold star, Frank.”

Cope’s glance told her to tone down the sarcasm.

“And hooker shoes,” Tremont continued. “Stiletto heel, do-me pumps. Look at those ugly puppies you’re wearing, Muse. You ever wear heels like those?”

“No, I don’t, Frank. How about you?”

That got a chuckle from the room. Cope shook his head.

“So what’s your point?” Tremont asked. “They’re straight out of the hooker catalog.”

“Look at the bottom of the soles.”

She used a pencil to point.

“What am I supposed to see?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. No scuff marks. Not one.”

“So they’re new.”

“Too new. I had the photo enlarged.” She put up another photograph. “Not one single scratch. No one has walked in them. Not even once.”

The room went quiet.

“So?”

“Good comeback, Frank.”

“Up yours, Muse, this doesn’t mean-”

“By the way, she had no semen in her.”

“So? Maybe this was her first trick of the night.”

“Maybe. She also has a tan that you need to examine.”

“A what?”

“A tan.”

He tried to look incredulous, but he was losing his support. “There’s a reason, Muse, why these girls are called street hookers. Streets, you see, are outside. These girls work outside. A lot.”

“Forgetting the fact that we really haven’t had much sun lately, the tan lines are wrong. They cut up over here”-she pointed to the shoul- ders-“and there’s no tan near the abdomen-the area is totally pale. In short, this woman wore shirts, not bikini tops. And then there’s that bandana found clutched in her hand.”

“Grabbed off the perp during the attack.”

“No, not grabbed off. It’s an obvious plant. The body was moved, Frank. So we’re supposed to believe that she clutched it off his head while she struggled-and they just left it there when they dumped her body? Does that sound credible?”

“Could be the gang was sending a message.”

“Could be. But then there’s the beating itself.”

“What about it?”

“It’s overdone. No one beats up someone with that much precision.”

“You have a theory?”

“An obvious one. Someone didn’t want us to recognize her. And something else. Look where she was dumped.”

“At a well-known spot for whores.”

“Exactly. We know she wasn’t murdered there. She was dumped there. Why that spot? If she was a hooker, why would you want us to know that? Why dump a hooker in a well-known hooker locale? I will tell you why. Because if she’s mistaken early for a hooker and some lazy fat-assed investigator takes the case and sees the easiest route-”

“Who you calling fat-assed?”

Frank Tremont stood. And Cope quietly said, “Sit down, Frank.”

“Are you going to let her-?”

“Shh,” Cope said. “Hear that sound?”

Everyone stopped.

“What?”

Cope cupped his hand to his ear. “Listen, Frank. Hear it?” His voice was a whisper. “That’s the sound of your incompetence being made obvious to the masses. Not just your incompetence, but your suicidal stupidity at going after your superior when the facts do not back you up.”

“I don’t have to take this-”

“Shh, listen. Just listen.”

Muse was trying hard not to laugh.

“Were you listening, Mr. Gaughan?” Cope asked.

Gaughan cleared his throat. “I heard what I had to.”

“Good, because so did I. And since you asked to record this meeting, well, I felt obliged to do so too.” Cope produced a small tape recorder from behind a book on his desk. “Just in case, you know, your boss wanted to hear exactly what happened in here and your recorder malfunctioned or something. We wouldn’t want anyone to think you’d slant the story in favor of your brother-in-law, would we?”

Cope smiled at them. They did not smile back.

“Gentlemen, any other comments? No, good. Back to work, then. Frank, you take the rest of the day off. I want you to think about your options and maybe check out some of the great retirement packages we offer.”

WHEN Mike got home, he looked at the Lorimans’ house. No movement. He knew that he’d have to take the next step.

First, do no harm. That was the credo.

And second?

That was a little trickier.

He threw his keys and wallet on the little tray Tia had set up because Mike was always losing his keys and wallet. It actually worked. Tia had called when she landed in Boston. She was doing some prep work now and deposing the witness in the afternoon. It could go a while but she’d grab the first shuttle she could. No rush, he told her.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Jill rounded the corner. When Mike saw her smile, the Lorimans and everything else just slid off him in a pure, easy groove.

“Hi, honey. Is Adam in his room?”

“No,” Jill said.

So much for the easy groove.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I thought he was down here.”

They started to call for him. No answer.

“Your brother was supposed to babysit,” Mike said.

“He was here ten minutes ago,” she said.

“And now?”

Jill frowned. When she frowned, her entire body seemed to get into it. “I thought you were going to the hockey game tonight.”

“We are.”

Jill seemed agitated.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“When did you see your brother last?”

“I don’t know. A few minutes ago.” She started biting a nail. “Shouldn’t he be with you?”

“I’m sure he’ll be right back,” Mike said.

Jill looked uncertain. Mike felt the same.

“Are you still dropping me off at Yasmin’s?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Let me get my bag, okay?”

“Sure.”

Jill headed up the stairs. Mike checked his watch. He and Adam had made a plan-they were supposed to leave here in a half hour, drop Jill at her friend’s, head into Manhattan for the Rangers game.

Adam should be home. He should be watching his sister.

Mike took a deep breath. Okay, let’s not panic yet. He decided to give Adam another ten minutes. He sorted through the mail and thought again about the Lorimans. No use stalling. He and Ilene had made a decision. Time to act on it.

He hit the computer, brought up their phone book, clicked on the Lorimans’ contact information. Susan Loriman’s cell phone was in the list. He and Tia had never called it, but that was how it was with neighbors-you had all the numbers in case there was ever an emergency.

This qualified.

He dialed the number. Susan answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

She had a warm, soft voice, almost sounding a little hushed. Mike cleared his throat.

“It’s Mike Baye,” he said.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I mean, nothing new. Are you alone right now?”

Silence.

Susan said, “We returned that DVD.”

He heard another voice-sounded like Dante’s-ask, “Who is that?”

“Blockbuster,” she said.

Okay, Mike thought, not alone. “You have my number?”

“Very soon. Thanks.”

Click.

Mike rubbed his face with both hands. Great. Just great.

“Jill!”"

She came to the top of the stairs. “What?”

“Did Adam say anything when he got home?”

“He just said, ‘Hi, squirt.’ ”

She smiled when she said that.

Mike could hear his son’s voice. Adam loved his sister, and she loved him. Most siblings fight, but they rarely did. Maybe their differences worked in that way. No matter how cold or surly Adam got, he never took it out on his little sister.

“Any idea where he went?”

Jill shook her head. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll take you to Yasmin’s in a few minutes, okay?”

Mike took the stairs two at a time. He felt a small pang in his knee, an old injury from his hockey days. He’d had it operated on a few months ago by his friend, an orthopedic surgeon named David Gold. He told David that he didn’t want to give up hockey and asked him if playing had caused the long-term damage. David gave him a prescription for Percocet and replied: “I don’t get a lot of ex-chess players here-you tell me.”