Part 2 (1/2)

Without saying anything more, Anita squeezed past them and disappeared.

Caleb said, ”Certainly,” but he backed up against one of the toilet stalls and paused to look before he left.

In a scene familiar from the nightly news and countless TV recreations, Lauren Bisti lay on the floor between the paramedics, who were efficiently doing everything that needed to be done.

The room was surprisingly Spartan-two salmon-painted sheet-metal stalls with standard, inst.i.tutional toilets; metal towel dispensers; a vanity counter with only one sink; and a mirror, centered over the sink, so small it covered only a third of the wall behind the sink. There was a single, b.l.o.o.d.y handprint on the counter. Laureen obviously had placed her hand there, perhaps leaning over to look in the mirror, perhaps to steady herself when she felt faint. The print smeared across the countertop, and where her dress brushed up against it, the front of the vanity was also smeared with blood. The floor was spotted with it.

Caleb decided he could best help by staying out of the way and was about to leave when a woman's voice demanded, ”Let me through. My friend needs me.”

”d.a.m.n!” one of the medics said. He looked up at Caleb. ”Keep her out of here, will you?”

Caleb nodded. When he stepped to the doorway, he filled it with his bulk, blocking Amanda Kent.

She said, ”Get out of my way.”

Caleb kept his voice low, so she'd have to strain to hear him. ”I'm sorry.”

It got her attention. She said, ”Lauren?”

”She's being well cared for.”

”How would you know?”

”I'm a doctor. The paramedics know what they're doing.”

She relaxed a little.

”The best thing you can do for her,” Caleb added, ”is pull yourself together and cooperate with the police investigation.”

”How is she?”

”She hasn't been physically harmed but she's in shock.”

She nodded dully, as if in shock herself, and turned away. Caleb stepped out of the doorway and pulled the door shut. He crossed his arms and stood guard until the medics carried Lauren Bisti out.

Seven.

The textbooks said you were supposed to separate multiple witnesses and multiple offenders. Yeah, right. Thinnes looked around and groaned inwardly. ”Give me the good news,” he told the uniform without looking at him.

The copper pulled his notebook from his pocket before answering, and Thinnes wondered if the sudden pain in his gut was due to the .38 slug he'd stopped there some months back or to the realization that the first officer on the scene was a rookie. ”Just tell me,” he said wearily.

As the rookie started to answer, a second uniform hurried up. A veteran. Black, five eight, 220 pounds. Officer Reilly. ”I'll take care of this, Curtis,” he said. ”You go see what's holding up the sergeant.”

”Curtis,” Thinnes said, ”make a note of everyone hanging around outside and get the license number of anything parked in this block and the alleys on either side. As soon as somebody shows up with a camera, ask 'em to get pictures of the crowd.” He looked back at Reilly.

”We got a call for a stabbing,” Reilly told him, ”and found this. Paramedics were already on the scene. Said the victim'd already been p.r.o.nounced dead by a doctor.”

”You got the offender?”

”Nah. Doctor who p.r.o.nounced the victim seems to have taken charge-I didn't have time to get all the details but he said he couldn't finger the cutter.”

”Where is he?”

Reilly laughed. ”In the ladies' room. Victim's wife isn't taking it very well. They got the medics in there, too.”

”Thanks, Reilly. See if you can find out who's in charge of this circus, will you? And when my partner arrives send him in-Detective Oster.”

”Right.”

Reilly left, and Thinnes took a deep breath. The suspect list-judging by the number of people milling around-was awesome. Where do you start with a case like this?

Get a grip on it, Thinnes! he told himself. Start at the beginning.

Start with the most obvious suspects-wife, business partners, lovers. Establish whereabouts. Opportunities. Motives. Figure out who stands to gain.

Fending off questions and demands from the crowd of witnesses, Thinnes found a phone near the reception desk and dialed his supervisor's number. No sense broadcasting the details to all the reporters listening on their scanners. After three rings, he heard, ”Rossi.”

”Lieutenant? Thinnes. I've got seventy-five of the best shod of the city's well-heeled on the scene, and they're madder than wet hornets. This Indian wasn't just some Uptown wino that wandered down here and died. You'd better send me some reinforcements.”

Eight.

The police arrived with commendable speed. Caleb glanced at his watch and calculated seven minutes elapsed between Lauren Bisti's scream and the first officer's arrival. If one allowed for the time required to decide that the police should be called, it had not taken them more than two or three minutes to respond.

A significant number of the guests had escaped-those who wanted to avoid the scandal, those with something to hide. The rest were trapped between the police who'd expelled them from the crime scene on the upper level and those guarding the exits. The stairs were covered with people who'd abandoned all pretense of dignity for the comfort of a seat, however unconventional. And, in spite of the injunction against discussing the case, there was a low murmur of conversation. The events taking place above, behind the barrier of uniformed officers and yellow police tape, were too intriguing to pa.s.s without comment.

Caleb and Anita staked their claim to the bottom step, with the best view of the lobby and the best chance of an early interview, but Caleb soon relinquished his seat to a pregnant woman in five-inch heels. When he got tired of standing, he sat on the floor. His suit was ruined anyway-stained with David Bisti's blood. As they watched four detectives enter and flash their badges at the cop guarding the door, Caleb told Anita, ”It looks like our reservations have been canceled.”

It was obviously going to be a long night.

The beat copper guarding the crime scene didn't seem bothered by the b.l.o.o.d.y death, but he was happy to see Thinnes.

Thinnes could see why. As soon as they realized Thinnes was someone with authority, the half-dozen business types swarming around the officer transferred their interest and their questions to him.

”I'm Michael Wren,” one of them insisted, ”a member of the museum board. I demand to know-”

”Have you given your name and statement to the officer, Mr. Wren?” He pointed to the beat cop.

”Well, no-”