“The dead, blood-soaked upended corpse of Veronica Cooper.”

There was a susurrous stir in the gallery, quiet, but no less chilling for it. Funny how that always happened, Ben thought, even though everyone present knew there had been a murder and knew how the body was found. When the fact of violent death is announced, a collective tremor runs through the assemblage.

Padolino winced slightly, as if he had not heard all this a hundred times. “Please describe her… position.”

“Her face was between the sofa cushions,” Albertson said, grimacing. “Facing me. She had been positioned so that her body fell behind her, against the wall. Like she was doing a headstand, but not very well. Her skirt was down, obviously, and she wasn’t wearing undergarments, so she was… exposed. Her blouse was torn, two buttons were missing, and it was pulled down below her shoulders. There was a huge bloody gash in her neck. Not that it was still bleeding-the blood was dried and coagulated by the time I saw her. There was a large puddle of blood on the floor beneath her.”

“Did her position seem… natural?”

Albertson looked up at his questioner. “Like she might’ve committed suicide by flinging her head into the sofa? No, it did not look natural. It looked like something I’d be surprised a contortionist could do. Like whoever left her there didn’t care about her in the least.”

“Objection,” Christina said. “The witness is making suppositions and characterizations, not testifying as to what he saw and heard.”

The judge made a dithering motion with his hand. “I think that comes… close enough to describing to the jury what he saw. Overruled.”

As she had been taught, Christina sat down without a frown or protest, as if it didn’t matter, or as if she had actually won the argument. Jurors were so easily confused by legal jargon; if you looked like you won, half of them would think you did.

“Did you find blood anywhere else in the hideaway?”

“No. We did a complete luminol wipedown. But we found no other traces of blood.”

“So it would be reasonable to conclude-”

“Objection,” Christina said, undaunted by her previous loss.

The judge didn’t need an explanation. “The witness will stick to his own personal knowledge. We don’t need any conclusions.”

“Of course, your honor.” Padolino adjusted his tie, then plowed ahead. “Lieutenant, I forgot to ask you earlier.” Sure you did, Columbo. “Was Senator Glancy present when you arrived at the hideaway?”

“No.”

“Was he there when you discovered the body?”

“No. We didn’t see him until perhaps twenty-five, thirty minutes later. Most of the forensics experts were on site by then, and we’d begun searching the place. He’d been paged, but apparently he wasn’t carrying his pager.”

“And how did he react?”

“He took it in stride.”

“What does that mean?”

“He said he was surprised, said he didn’t know anything about it. But he didn’t jump up and down or weep and wail or anything. He was very calm, especially considering the circumstances.” He paused. “Not how I’d react if I found a surprise corpse in my private room, I can tell you that.”

“Objection!” Christina said, turning on just the right amount of outrage.

The judge nodded. “I won’t warn you again, counselor. The witness’s testimony will be restricted to what he has seen and heard.”

“Of course,” Albertson said. “I’m very sorry, your honor.”

“I instruct the jury to disregard the witness’s last statement.” As if such thing were possible.

Padolino continued. “Did Senator Glancy say anything of interest?”

“I thought so. He said, ‘I-’”

“Objection!” Christina said, cutting him off. “Hearsay.”

“It’s an admission against interest,” Padolino replied. “Big-time.”

“Nonetheless, your honor, the circumstances surrounding the statement do not suggest trustworthiness. The senator had just suffered a great shock. He probably didn’t even realize-”

“From what I’ve heard,” Judge Herndon said, “the man still had his head together. And I wouldn’t buy that objection even if he hadn’t. Overruled.”

Christina sat down, expertly masking her disappointment. She hadn’t expected to win that objection, but on something this important it would be negligent not to make an effort.

“What he said was,” Albertson continued, “‘I tried to warn that girl.’”

This time, the reaction in the gallery was one of total silence. Ben preferred the murmurings. They were less ominous.

Padolino continued. “Did you find anything of interest during your search?”

“Yes. The forensics teams uncovered-”

Padolino was smart enough not to wait for the objection. “Excuse me, sir. I’m asking what you yourself may or may not have discovered.”

“Oh, right. The hideaway was pretty clean. Astonishingly clean, actually. Couldn’t even get fingerprints.”

Christina rose, but Padolino jumped in. “But you-Lieutenant Albertson. What did you find?”

“The only item of note that I found was the Gutenberg.”

Padolino wrinkled his forehead as if he didn’t understand. “Could you please explain what that is?”

“Sure. That’s what I soon learned the senator-and everyone on his staff-calls his appointment book. Big thick thing. Like a Filofax, only more so. It’s bound in black leather, and he’s apparently had it for many years, and it shows-it’s very worn. That’s why they call it the Gutenberg.”

“I see. A little joke. Did you find anything of interest in the, uh, Gutenberg?”

“Yes. Naturally, I opened it to the present day. I found that his committee had a meeting starting at nine that morning. A line down the side indicated he expected it to go well into the afternoon. Nonetheless, there was another entry, just below that one. I found he’d had a ten A.M. appointment.”

“With whom?”

“Well, as you’ll see, the book just says: 10:00, V. C.”

Another stir in the gallery, louder than before. This was a detail most of those present probably did not know; it hadn’t been in the papers.

“V. C.? As in Veronica Cooper.”

Albertson leaned back. “Well, I assume he wasn’t visiting with the Vietcong. For that matter, when I thumbed through the past month, I found numerous other meetings with V. C. Sometimes more than one a day.”

Padolino nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the defense table. “Your witness.”

Stigmata was nothing like Loving expected, but of course he’d never been to a Goth club and, for that matter, hoped to God there weren’t any back in Tulsatown. Practically everyone was done up in the manner that Lucille had described-silver jewelry, body piercings, dark hair, pale makeup, ruby-red or ebony-black lipstick. And in the apparel department-lots of black. Black tops, black bottoms. Black fishnet bodices. Black leather.

What bothered Loving most was that, save for the few skimpily dressed women, most of the crowd favored an androgynous style that made it uncomfortably difficult to tell if he was scrutinizing the curves of a male or female. Black was a concealing color, and the silver jewelry and body piercings seemed entirely unisex. Plus, everyone was wearing black mascara, way too much. Was that supposed to be sexy? Loving thought they looked like they’d escaped from Pirates of the Caribbean. Standing there in a white T-shirt and a Casaba baseball cap, he felt like a whitebread turkey in the middle of Harlem.

“So this is a party bar?” Loving asked.

“More like the Little Shop of Horrors,” Daily replied soberly. “And to think my daughter came here for kicks.” He was standing just beside Loving, but the music was so loud he had to shout.

The lighting was low-and most of it came from the blazing torches hanging on the sides of the faux-stone walls, giving the place the ambience of a medieval castle. Chains of human skulls were strung together like bunting across the walls. Loving assumed they were fakes, but still… creepy. Several bright white spotlights periodically shone back and forth across the dance floor, creating a strobe-like effect. It was disorienting, disturbing, and made Loving more than a little nauseated.