“I can’t do anything more here. You can take the body, Art.”

Dr. Standish signaled to two men who were waiting to take away the corpse.

“I’m going to drive over to Walsh’s apartment.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have any results.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, feeling twice as tired now as he had when he’d entered the alley.

Charlotte Walsh lived on the fourth floor of an eight-story building, part of a shiny new complex that combined housing with trendy restaurants, upscale chains, and quaint boutiques. As soon as Evans found the address, he knew Walsh came from money. No starving student could afford to live in this apartment house, which was meant for young professionals earning six-figure salaries.

During the drive from the crime scene, Evans had called his partner, Maggie Sparks, and told her to meet him at Walsh’s place. A slim, athletic woman in her early thirties dressed in a black pinstripe pants suit and a white, man-tailored shirt was pacing the sidewalk near the entrance to the building. Sparks ’s glossy ebony hair, high cheekbones, and dark complexion suggested Native American DNA. She did have some Cherokee blood but her ancestors had also been Spaniards, Romanians, Danes, and others of unknown origin, so she wasn’t certain where she belonged in the genetic hodgepodge that had produced the human race.

“Sorry to roust you out of bed,” Evans apologized.

“No you’re not,” Sparks answered with a smile. “Misery loves company.”

Evans smiled back. He liked Sparks. She worked as hard as any of the task force members but was able to keep her sense of humor. They’d gone out for drinks a few times after work but he’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her to do more.

The lobby was marble, dark wood, and polished metal lit by Art Deco wall sconces. Colorful abstract art hung on the yellow pastel walls. Evans flashed his ID at the security guard who sat behind a desk in the lobby. The guard was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks and looked like he pumped iron. His black hair was slicked back, and he eyed Evans’s credentials suspiciously.

“We need the apartment number for Charlotte Walsh, please,” Evans said.

“I’m not certain I can give out that information, sir,” the guard said as he squared up his shoulders and tried his best to look dangerous.

Evans read the black lettering on the guard’s gold name tag.

“Miss Walsh was murdered this morning, Bob. I’m sure you don’t want to impede a homicide investigation.”

The guard’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry,” he said as he ran down the list of tenants, all traces of his tough guy persona gone. “That’s seven-oh-nine.”

“Does she live alone?”

“No, she’s got a roommate, Bethany Kitces. She came in two hours ago.”

“Thank you. We’re going up. Don’t tell Miss Kitces. Let us break the bad news.”

“Yeah, of course.” The guard shook his head sadly. “That’s terrible. She was a sweet kid.”

“You knew her?” Sparks asked.

“Just to say hello to. She was always friendly.”

Evans briefed Sparks during the elevator ride to the seventh floor and the walk down a lushly carpeted hall lit by more wall sconces. Evans stopped in front of a black lacquered door with a decorative gold lion’s head knocker and a doorbell. He opted for the doorbell and they waited patiently through three rings before a sleep-drugged voice ordered them to stop their racket. Evans told Maggie Sparks to hold her ID up to the peephole.

“Miss Kitces,” Sparks said through the closed door, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Sparks. I’m with the FBI and I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?” Kitces asked. Evans could hear the suspicion in her tone.

“It concerns Charlotte Walsh, your roommate.”

“Has anything happened to her?” Kitces asked, concerned now.

“I’d prefer to talk to you in your apartment where we’ll have some privacy.”

Evans heard locks snapping and the door was opened by a barefoot woman who looked to be in her late teens. She was wearing pajama bottoms and an AU T-shirt and could not have been taller than five feet. Bethany Kitces’s round face was framed by long, unkempt, curly blond hair, and she wore no makeup. It was obvious that she’d been roused from bed, but the presence of the FBI agents had acted like a cup of powerful espresso and her large blue eyes were wide open.

Evans found himself in a small foyer standing on a blond hardwood floor that was partially covered by a Persian throw rug. Beyond the vestibule was a large cluttered living room outfitted with ill-used but expensive furnishings. The agent noticed a state-of-the-art stereo system, a large plasma TV that hung from the wall like the abstract art in the lobby, a black leather couch, and a coffee table. Sweatpants were draped over an arm of the couch, and a bowl stained by melted ice cream stood on a coffee table next to an opened Coke can. The floor and two leather recliners were littered with other items of clothing, fashion and fan magazines, and CD holders with the names of pop groups Evans didn’t recognize. A bookshelf held a mix of textbooks and trashy novels.

“This is Special Agent Keith Evans, Miss Kitces. He’s working on Miss Walsh’s case with me.”

“What case? What’s happened to Lotte?”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sparks suggested, walking past the wary young woman and heading toward the couch. Evans held back until Walsh’s roommate was seated. The young woman looked nervous.

“We’re sorry to wake you up,” Sparks said. “I understand you just got in a few hours ago.”

Kitces nodded.

“Were you out all evening?”

“Yes.”

“When did you leave the apartment, last night?”

“A little after seven.”

“Was Miss Walsh still here?”

“No, she left around four.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No. She just said that she had some stuff to do.”

“Where did you go?”

“What’s this about? Has something happened to Lotte?” Kitces asked again.

“I’ll answer your questions in a moment,” Sparks said, “but I need your answers first.”

Sparks noticed that Kitces’s shoulders were hunched and she’d clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“I was with my boyfriend. We stayed at his apartment. I just got back around five.”

“Why didn’t you stay all night?” Sparks asked.

Kitces blushed. “We had a fight. I got angry and left.”

“Can you tell us your boyfriend’s name?”

“Barry Sachs. Now, can you please tell me what happened to Charlotte?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Bethany,” Sparks said softly. “Your friend is dead. She was murdered last night.”

Kitces looked stunned. “She’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Kitces stared for a second then she leaned forward and began to wail. Sparks moved next to her quickly and placed a comforting arm over her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said soothingly as the young woman wept. Evans went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Bethany was sobbing quietly when he returned.

Sparks took the glass from Evans and helped Bethany drink it down.

“I have some things I’d like to ask you,” Sparks said when Kitces was calm enough to question.

“Okay,” she answered, her voice so low Evans had to strain to hear her.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Miss Walsh?”

“No, everyone liked her.”

“She didn’t have any enemies, anyone she mentioned that she was afraid of?”

“We’ve been rooming together since the term started and we were in the dorm last year. I never heard her say anything like that and I never heard anyone say anything bad about Lotte.”

“Have you noticed anyone suspicious lurking around here or on campus, or did Lotte mention anything like that?”

“No.”

“Can you think of anything out of the ordinary that’s happened recently?”

“I really can’t. She just had fun, you know. We’re in a sorority. Lotte was involved in campus politics. She dated.”