Justice. Faye Kellerman

      “Eight in the morning.”

      “So that’s more or less between the hours of twelve and eight. Rigor is somewhat advanced although physical exertion prior to death can speed it up.” Craine opened his leather bag, took out a swab kit. He snorted, coughed, sneezed, then began his examination. “Semen in her vagina.”

      Decker paused. “Are you sure? Ben found a condom in the bed sheets.”

      “And another in the garbage can,” Ben broke in. “Someone was having a good time.”

      Decker regarded the rigor-laden girl. “And someone wasn’t. Why would she have semen in her vagina if her partner was using a condom?”

      “Perhaps he ran out and they got careless,” Craine postulated. “Or she had more than one partner.”

      “What about her anus?”

      Craine examined her rectum with watery eyes. “Appears clean from a visual.” He took several swabs and sealed them in vials. He sneezed ferociously. “But one cannot tell …” Another sneeze. “Until one puts it under a microscope.”

      Craine continued on. “First impression, Sergeant …” A pause, then a sneeze. “The girl might be pregnant … thickening of the vaginal tissue, vascularization. Either pregnant or it’s her period. But I don’t see any menstrual blood.”

      Decker ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, then wrote down the word—pregnant. “How far along?”

      “Early. I’ll tell you more specifics when I get her on the table.”

      “Now there’s a switch,” Benny said. “Someone was using a condom even though the girl had been knocked up. The power of the virus.”

      “But she had semen in her,” Decker said. “Maybe Doctor C. is right. We’re working with more than one man.”

      “We’ll know for certain once the tests come in.” Craine stood, then sneezed so hard he rocked on his feet.

      Decker said, “You sure you should be working, Doctor?”

      “On the contrary, it’s the best time to work,” Craine sniffed. “The nasal mucosa is so inflamed, it virtually blocks out all odious olfactory sensations. I can’t smell a thing. Shall I remove her so Ben can dust thoroughly?”

      “Great idea,” Ben said.

      Decker said, “Take care of yourself, Doc.”

      “Oh, yes, indeed. Rhinoviruses are persistent little creatures. Bed rest is essential.”

      As soon as Craine left, Officers Crock and Miller walked back into the room. Crock said, “Got hold of the principal at Central West Valley and West Valley. They’ll call the girls’ veeps and meet you down at the schools whenever you come. I haven’t hooked up with anyone from North Valley yet. Also, no frantic parents have called any of the station houses.”

      Decker nodded, then turned to Officer Miller. “What about you, Russ?”

      “Maid seems on the level as far as I can tell. So does the desk clerk, Forrester. You want to interview them?”

      “I’ll introduce myself before I leave for the high schools. What time did the maid go on shift?”

      “Six.”

      “And the desk clerk?”

      “Six, also.”

      “So at six, we had a changing of the guard at the desk—Forrester came in and …” Decker rotated his shoulders as he checked through his notes. “And Henry Trupp went off duty. Phone calls from the room, Russ?”

      “Two calls to room service downstairs. One at twelve-oh-six, another at two-fifty-six.” Miller rubbed his hands against his pants. “That should help narrow down the time frame.”

      “If she was alive when the calls were made. Who was on duty in the coffee shop last night?”

      Miller cleared his throat. “Seems room service is brought up by the busboys. They come and go … paid in cash. Everything is off the books.”

      “Illegals?”

      “Probably.”

      Decker said, “I’ll take it from here. Thank you. You two can go back in the field now.”

      He looked at his room map and started on the first quadrant. After an hour search, Decker had a collection of carefully marked plastic bags containing hairs, buttons, two beer-bottle caps, a butt of marijuana, specks of white powder, three bathroom towels, all the bed linens, discarded underclothes, a pair of pink sequined shoes that matched the dress, and one wilted orchid corsage that said it all.

      He pocketed his survey notes and left the room, yielding the final check to Benny and his lab men.

      A brief talk with the maid and Forrester revealed no new information. Neither one saw or heard anything. He used the lobby phone and dialed Henry Trupp’s phone number. It rang and rang and Decker hung up. He found Officer Mike Wilson, who had just finished canvassing the first floor. Decker called him over.

      “Anything?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Why am I not surprised?” Decker shook his head. “Mike, go into the coffee shop. I want a list of everyone who was working last night. If they hassle you about giving names of cash-only employees, tell them we’re not interested in calling either the INS or the IRS. But we’ll call both if we have to.”

      “I understand, Sergeant.”

      “Yeah, make sure they understand as well. Be back soon.”

      Decker slipped on his jacket and headed for high school.

      11

      North valley was a bust.

      Central West was a different story. Decker took out the Polaroids and laid them on the principal’s desk. The rotund black man winced distastefully, but there were no sparks of recognition in his eyes.

      Not the case for the girls’ vice principal, Kathy Portafino. One glance turned her a putrid shade of olive. She was about Marge’s age and height—early thirties, around five ten and hefty, with a square jaw and a no-nonsense face that said, “I’ve seen it all.” But there was something uniquely ugly about postmortem photos. A cold finality combined with clinical sterility brought out emotions in even the most jaded.

      “Who is she?” Decker asked.

      The woman covered her mouth. “I think it’s Cheryl Diggs.”

      “You think?”

      “No, it’s her. She just looks so … different.” She wiped her forehead and swallowed weakly. “Excuse me, but I’m not feeling—”

      “Go,” Decker said.

      The woman fled the room. Decker turned his attention to the principal. He was staring at the top of his paper-piled desk.

      Decker said, “Do you know this girl, Mr. Gordon?”

      The principal ran his hand over his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Now that Kathy has identified her, I know who she is.” He sat down in his chair. “This is just … terrible.”

      Decker took out his notepad. “Did the school hold its senior prom last night?”

      The man nodded, rubbed his forehead. “All of a sudden that seems like years ago.”

      “And Cheryl Diggs was there?”

      “I suppose.”

      “Do you know who she went with?”

      “No, I couldn’t tell you that.”

      “Then tell me about Cheryl.”

      “Ms.