"Yes, you over there. Thanks for stopping in. Catch you later."

Rebuked for interrupting, Mike nodded and closed the door.

"He's still using the same case," April remarked as they took the elevator up to Fernando Ducci's dust and fiber lab, with the million-dollar equipment that could help identify particles of just about anything except the wet stuff.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Mike touched April's hand and they moved out. As they started down the wide deserted hall, a deep voice thundered out at them.

"Fee fi fo fum, I hear steps of the pretty one."

"Oh, Jesus," April muttered.

"Fee fi fo fum!" The disembodied voice came again, sounding like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the giant in Jack in the Beanstalk.

April glanced at Mike. Fernando Ducci was not amusing even in small doses. He believed with complete certainty that he was at the very top of the food chain: the king of forensic magic, a true giant among men, maybe the most important man in the entire department. In fact he was small, shorter than April, and beefy from too many years of consuming half a dozen candy bars a day in addition to three sizable squares. Despite the weight, he was always dapper with his full, round choirboy cheeks, his fancy dress shirts in myriad combinations of blue and white, and his full head of slicked-down silver hair. If he wasn't already sixty, he was close to it.

"Pretty one, get in here and give me a kiss to brighten my day."

"What an asshole," Mike muttered. But pretty one smiled and shot back a response.

"Hey, Duke, stop that carrying on. You're going to ruin my reputation."

"You sound terrible. What's wrong with you?"

He didn't get up from his chair until she had passed through the outer room and was all the way into the inner sanctum. Then he was on his feet with open arms, blue-striped shirt with white collar, sleeves rolled up.

"Nothing catching." April crossed the space between them and gave him a quick hug.

"Is that all I get?" he complained. "Hey, Mike, thanks for stopping by." He thrust out a paw, and the two men shook.

"You're looking good, Duke. How's it going?"

"This is a terrible thing. Bernardino was a good man. What do you know?" Ducci tossed the hot potato right back.

"You first."

"Look, I don't know nothing. I get the clothes in a freaking box. Nobody says nothing about it. I have no death report. No briefing on what happened. What do you expect, miracles?" He lifted his arms with exaggerated exasperation.

"Absolutely. What do you have?"

He shrugged. "Not a lot. Dog hair mixed with the lint in his pants cuff. One grease spot and two coffee stains on his tie. Six grease spots on his jacket, shirt cuff, pants-right thigh. He must have been one messy eater. Or never changed his clothes.

"Let's see, oh, and a lipstick smudge on his shoulder. Might be yours, April. It's that Chinese red. I'm working on what kind. I think it's Revlon. His socks didn't match; that doesn't sound like him-"

"What kind of grease spots?" April interrupted.

"What happened to your manners, Pretty? I'm not finished." Ducci looked offended. "There's a long list here."

"We don't have a lot of time," Mike apologized for her.

"Bull-oney." He reached over and opened a drawer, then grabbed three Mars bars from the collection of candy bars stored in there. "Here, relax, have a snack. Didn't anybody tell you're going to have a stroke one day if you don't slow down?"

"Bernardino was my rabbi," April said. "And red is out this season. Nowhere near my color." Especially with the purple dress she'd been wearing. But why was she arguing? Ducci was playing with himself. Bernardino hadn't been killed by a woman.

"Go on, take. I insist."

"Thanks." Mike palmed the candy bar, opened the wrapper, and bit in.

April frowned at him. Ducci stared at her until she relented.

"I'd prefer one of those," she said meekly, pointing to a Baby Ruth. She wasn't a fan of sugar but she was a sucker for those peanuts.

"Sure, sure. Whatever you want. Keep both, I have plenty… Now, what do you want to know?"

"The grease stains. Where and what were they?" April watched Mike devour his Mars bar. Then she handed him hers. There you go, piggy, her face said.

"Marinara sauce on the underside right sleeve near the cuff of his shirt. Matching stain on the shirt cuff. He must have put his arm in it. Splatters of olive oil here and here." He touched his chest where his tie would have been, then lower down on the stomach.

"Tiramisu." Right shoulder. "Oil of spearmint." Left shoulder. Ha ha. He was making the sign of the cross.

"What about that oil of spearmint? Where did that come from?" Mike asked, deadpan.

"I'm still analyzing it. My guess is Tiger Liniment."

April caught her breath as the long-winded explanation began.

Two hours later, April and Mike joined the large, sober group that had gathered around an open coffin in the white-painted colonial funeral home to which Bernardino's body had been released late Friday by the medical examiner's office. Many of the mourners looked like neighbors. Some were clearly cops with their spouses. It was always a tragedy when a cop was killed, but this group was still in mourning for Bernardino's wife, Lorna. Everyone who'd known Bernardino had expected him to remain a fixed figure in their firmament, a grumpy but steady friend, for years to come. There were some teary faces.

Kathy broke away from the family group as soon as she caught sight of April. She looked better today. She'd cleaned up for the company, was wearing a crisp white blouse under a dark gray suit that showed off her figure. Her hair was shiny and brushed, and her makeup had been carefully applied.

"Thanks for coming." She kissed Mike and April on both cheeks, very polite, then asked, "Are you working or paying your respects?"

"Half and half," Mike replied, already surveying the crowd.

"Well, thanks for helping out with the funeral. He would have appreciated it." She followed his eyes and helped him put names to faces. "A lot of Mom's family is here. That group is her sister's family." She pointed to an ancient woman with a stoical expression. "And that's her mother, my grandma.

"Dad's family is over there. His brother, nieces, and nephews. A lot of people are coming tomorrow. The cops you know." She turned to April. "How are you doing? Your voice better?"

"Much better," April croaked. She was watching Bill deal with a six- or seven-year-old girl who was hanging onto his leg. A cute kid. He was talking over her head and patting her on the shoulder at the same time. Kathy caught his eye. He detached from the child and stepped over.

"Thanks for coming up," he said, and then closed his mouth to discourage any further conversation.

"We need to talk," Mike told him.

Bill gave him a look. "How about later tonight? I'm busy now."

"Sorry, it can't wait."

Bill made an impatient noise and looked around for his wife, a pretty, worried-looking blond. Her eyes were already locked on his. He gave her a signal, then detached the child. "Okay. Let's go outside."

Mike and April followed him out of the room, out of the somber lobby, out of the building, and he didn't say a word until they hit the sunshine. Then he blinked as if he'd come into another world.

"Look, I'm sorry if I was rough on you the other day." He looked them straight in the face. Man-toman. And woman.

"No problem," Mike said smoothly.

"Well, it is a problem. Somebody's causing trouble for me. I've been put on leave from my office. You people are hounding me. It has to stop." He marched down the sidewalk so fast and furious that April almost had to skip to keep up.

Mike glanced at her, but all that showed was her stone face. All expression had gone to ground while she studied the subject.