Amanda said, “Mr. McGuire, I hope you’ll excuse us?”

The man looked like he would prefer to kick Will in the teeth.

Mimi offered, “I’ll get you some ice.” She put her hand to McGuire’s elbow and escorted him from the room. The two other cops followed.

“Well.” Amanda let out a long sigh. “Dr. Linton, can you estimate time of death?”

Sara didn’t move. She was looking at Will. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t disgusted. There was a slight tremor to her body. He could tell she wanted to help him. Longed to help him. That she did not made him love her with a piercing clarity.

Will pushed his hands to the floor. He stood up. He straightened his jacket.

Amanda said, “The last time anyone saw him was approximately seven last night. He called room service to remove his tray. He put the breakfast card on the door.”

Room service. Penthouse suites. Dying peacefully in his sleep.

“Dr. Linton?” Amanda said. “Time of death would be very helpful.”

Sara was shaking her head even before Amanda finished her request. “I don’t have the proper tools. I can’t move the body until it’s photographed. I don’t even have gloves.”

Amanda unzipped her purse. “The thermostat was set on seventy when the first unit arrived.” She offered Sara a pair of surgical gloves. “I’m sure you can give us something.”

Sara looked at Will again. He realized that she was waiting for his permission. He nodded, and she took the gloves. Her face changed as she walked over to the bed. He’d seen this happen many times before. She was good at her job. Good at separating who she was from what she had to do.

Will had witnessed enough preliminary exams to know what Sara was thinking. She noted the position of the body—he was lying prone on the mattress. She noted that the sheet and bedspread were neatly folded down at the foot of the bed. She noted that the victim was dressed in a white, short-sleeved T-shirt and white boxer shorts.

And that beside him on the table was a black velvet manicure kit.

The tools were neatly laid out: nail clippers, a tiny pair of scissors, a nail buffer, three types of metal files, an emery board, tweezers, a clear glass vial that held the white, crescent-shaped clippings of his father’s fingernails.

Will had never seen the man in the flesh. His mugshot photo showed swollen features marred by dark bruises. Months after his arrest, a newspaper photographer had managed to snap a blurred image of him leaving the courthouse in shackles. Those were the only two photos Will knew of. There was no background information in his file. No one knew where he was from. No friends came forward. No parents. No neighbors claimed that he had always seemed so normal.

The AJC had been two newspapers back then—The Atlanta Journal and The Atlanta Constitution. Both editions covered the court proceedings, but there was no trial. His father had pleaded guilty to kidnapping, torture, rape, and murder. With the death penalty rendered illegal by the Supreme Court, the only enticement the prosecutor could offer in exchange for not having to prove his case at trial was life with the possibility of parole. That everyone assumed that possibility would never roll around was understood.

So, in the scheme of things, Will supposed his father was lucky. Lucky to miss the ultimate punishment. Lucky the parole board finally released him. Lucky to die on his own terms.

Lucky to kill one last time.

Sara began the examination with his face. That was where rigor always started. She tested the laxity of the jaw, pressed against the closed eyelids and mouth. Next, she checked the fingers, flexed the wrist. The nails glinted in the sunlight. They were trimmed down to the quick. The cuticle on his thumb had bled before he died.

Sara said, “My best guess—and it’s only a guess—is that he died sometime within the last six hours.”

Amanda didn’t let her off that easily. “Care to hazard a cause of death?”

“Not really. Could be a heart attack. Could be cyanide. I won’t know until I get him on the table.”

“Surely, there’s something else you can tell me about him?”

Sara was visibly annoyed by the question. Still, she answered, “He’s in his mid-to-late sixties. He’s well nourished, in good shape. His muscle tone is appreciative, even in rigor. His teeth are false, obviously penal-system quality. He has what looks like a scar on his chest. You can see it in the V-neck of his undershirt. It looks surgical.”

“He had a heart attack a few years ago.” Amanda frowned. “Unfortunately, they managed to save him.”

“That might explain the trach scar on his neck.” She indicated the metal bracelet on his wrist. “He’s diabetic. I’m not going to move his clothes until after he’s photographed, but I imagine we’ll find injection sites on his abdomen and legs.” She took off the gloves. “Is there anything else?”

Faith stood in the doorway. “I have something.” She had a computer disc in her hand. She wouldn’t look at Will, which told him that the victim’s identity came as no surprise. She was a better liar than he’d thought. Or maybe not. At least he understood why she’d been so quiet on the drive over.

Amanda said, “We can watch it in the other room.”

The three of them stood in a half circle as they waited for Faith to load the DVD player. Amanda was between Will and Sara. She took her BlackBerry out of her purse. Will thought at first that she was reading her emails, but it was easy to look over her shoulder. The screen was shattered like a spiderweb. He recognized the news site.

Amanda read the headline, “ ‘Recently paroled con dies in Midtown hotel room.’ ”

“They were hoping for somebody famous.” Faith picked up the remote control. “Idiots.”

“The story isn’t dead yet.” Amanda kept scrolling. “Apparently, a hotel employee tipped them off to a heavy police presence over the last few days.” She told Will, “This is why we try to make friends.”

“Here we go.” Faith pointed the remote at the player. The security camera showed an empty hotel elevator. The recording was in color. Will recognized the gold-inlaid tile on the floor of the car. Faith fast-forwarded through the video, saying, “Sorry, it’s not cued.”

The lights on the elevator panel flashed, indicating the car was moving down to the lobby. Faith slowed the recording when the doors opened. A woman got onto the elevator. She was thin and tall with long blonde hair and a floppy white hat. She kept her head down as she entered the car. The hat brim covered most of her face. Just her chin showed before she turned around. “Working girl,” Faith provided. “Hotel security doesn’t know her name, but she’s been here before. They recognize the hat.”

Will checked the time stamp. 22:14:12. He’d been sleeping on the couch with Sara.

“She has a keycard,” Amanda said, just as the woman swiped the card across the pad, the same as Bob McGuire had done. She pressed the button for the nineteenth floor. The doors closed. The woman faced the front of the car, showing the security camera the top of her hat, the back of her slinky, matching white dress. The elevator doors were solid wood. There was no mirrored reflection.

Amanda asked, “Did the lobby cameras pick up her face?”