Dietz looked up from his paper. "Which reminds me. Dr. Palchak called at seven thirty this morning with the autopsy results. She wanted you to call her whenever you got up."

"That was fast."

"That's what I thought. She says she likes to get in at five when she's got a post."

I dialed the number for St. Terry's and asked for pathology. I'd dealt with Laura Palchak maybe twice before. She's short, plain, heavyset, competent, hardworking, thorough, and very smart, one of several pathologists under contract to the county, handling postmortem examinations for the coroner's office. "Palchak," she said when she came on the line. "Hi, Laura. Kinsey Millhone. Thanks for responding to my note. What's the story on Agnes Grey?"

There was a brief pause. "The coroner's office will be contacting Mrs. Gersh a little later this morning so this is just between us, okay?"

"Absolutely."

"The autopsy was negative. We won't have the toxi results back for weeks, but the gross came up blank."

"So what's the cause of death?"

"Essentially, it was cardiac arrest, but hell… everybody dies of cardiac or respiratory arrest if you want to get right down to it. The point is there was no demonstrable organic heart disease and no other natural findings that contributed to death. Technically, we have to list the cause of death as undetermined."

"What's that mean, 'technically'? I don't like the way you said that."

She laughed. "Good question. You're right. I have a hunch about this one, but I need to do some research. I've talked to the hospital librarian about tracking down an article I read a few years back. I don't know what made me think of it, but something about this situation rang a little bell."

"Like what? Can you fill me in?"

"Not yet. I'm having my assistant set up some tissue slides that I can probably take a look at by this afternoon. I have sixteen cases lined up before this one, but I'm curious."

"Do you need anything from me?"

"I do have a suggestion if you're open to this. I'm very interested in what happened to this woman during the hours she was missing. It would be a big help if you can find out where she was all that time."

"Well, I can try," I said, "but it may turn out to be a trick. Am I looking for anything in particular?"

"She had what looked like rope burns on her right wrist, torn and broken nails on her left-"

"Oh yeah, I saw that," I said with sudden recollection. "The knuckles on her left hand were scraped, too."

"Right. It's possible she was held someplace against her will. You might see if anybody has a potting shed or a greenhouse. I took some soil traces from her fingernails and we might find a match. She also had superficial abrasions and contusions across her back. I saw a kid just last week with similar marks on his thighs and buttocks. He'd been beaten with a coat hanger… among other things."

"Are you saying she was beaten?"

"Probably."

"Does Lieutenant Dolan know about this?"

"He and the police photographer were both present for the post, so he saw the same things I did. The truth is, there was no internal trauma and the injuries were too minor to be considered the cause of death."

"What's your theory then?"

"Unh-unh. Not till I do a bit of checking first. Call me this afternoon, or better yet, let me call you when I've seen what we've got here. By then you may have something to report yourself."

She hung up. I settled the receiver in the cradle and sat there, perplexed.

Dietz was watching me. From my end of the conversation, he could tell there'd been a shift. "What's wrong?"

"Let's pick up your car and go by Irene's. I'd like to talk to Clyde." I made a quick call to let them know we'd be stopping by and then called a cab.

I detailed the situation on the way over to the hotel, Irene's carton in my lap. When we reached the Edge-water, Dietz took his time with the Porsche, inspecting the engine and the electrical system. This wasn't the same car-park attendant we'd dealt with the night before and while the kid swore no one had been near the car, Dietz didn't want to trust him.

"I doubt Messinger knows his ass from his elbow when it comes to bombs, but this is no time to be surprised," he said. I waited while he stretched out on the driveway, inching partway under the car so he could scrutinize the underside. Evidently, there were no unidentified wires, no visible blasting caps, and no tidy bundles of dynamite. Satisfied, he got up and brushed himself off, then ushered me into the passenger seat. Dietz started the car and pulled out of the lot.