Passing by a cubicle opening, I catch a flash of movement. I turn to find Mack Ordway beckoning me over. Before I teamed up with my ex-partner Wilcox, he and Ordway were the dynamic duo. Now, thanks to some health issues, Mack’s mostly holding down a desk until retirement. Apart from a little water-cooler banter about the old days, we haven’t had much contact since Wilcox left the fold.

“What are you trying to prove?” he whispers.

“Meaning what, Mack?”

He scratches his double chin. “I will lift up mine eyes to the lieutenant’s office, from whence cometh his strength. The lieutenant is his shepherd, he shall not want.”

“What is this, Sunday school?”

“Word of advice? You’re not gonna score any points trying to make that kid look bad. He’s on the fast track, no matter what. All you’ll do is hurt yourself in the process.”

“I’m just trying to do my job.”

He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I thank him with a nod, then keep moving. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know, but I guess his heart is in the right place.

Bascombe’s door hangs open, as always. He never shuts it, never even lowers the blinds. Unlike the captain, he takes a hands-on approach, which means his office is a hive of activity. He’s on the phone when I tap on the doorframe.

“One sec,” he says.

I settle into a chair, using the time to flip through the incident reports in Lorenz’s folder. They’re mostly recaps of street intelligence. An informant complaining about supply problems driving up retail cost on the corners. Latin Kings issuing warnings after one of their packages gets jacked. A couple of Southwest cholos gunned down, supposedly in the aftermath of a rip-off. It’s all pretty vague, which is to be expected. If there was anything solid, Lorenz wouldn’t have passed all this paper my way.

Bascombe ends his call, prompting me with a palms-up shrug. “Now, what can I do for you?”

I slide the folder across the desk. “You seen this?”

“I’m the one who gave it to Lorenz in the first place,” he says, not bothering to look inside. “But don’t come to me about it – you need to talk to Geiger. He’s got some kind of angle on this.”

“I can do that,” I say.

“Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your willingness to do your job. If there’s nothing else I can help you with…” Bridger’s printout shuts him up a second. He scrutinizes the results with a little smile. “What do you want from me? Congratulations? Here you go, March. You were right. Good job, man. Way to deliver.” An ironic handclap, one-two. “Now, was that good for you?”

“What I want is your permission to follow up a lead.”

“My permission? You don’t need it. I’m not gonna hold your hand on this thing.”

“Lorenz wants me to follow up with Geiger, which comes from you. But I’d like to pursue something else in addition.”

He hoists his eyebrows in mock surprise. “And what’s that?”

Taking a deep breath, I launch into it, making my case as strongly as I can. Once he sees where I’m going, though, Bascombe starts shaking his head and shuts me up with a throat-slicing gesture.

“You wanna be assigned to the Mayhew task force, is that it? ’Cause I can make that happen right now.” He reaches for the phone, then pauses. “Or, maybe you’d prefer to stay in Homicide instead? If that’s your choice, then you better go talk to Geiger this minute. And if there are any headlines to grab in this case, believe me, you better not be the one I catch reaching for them.”

“Is that what Hedges will say?”

“You wanna go ask him?” He smiles like he’s starving and I’m his favorite dish.

The fact is, I don’t. If Bascombe really wants me off the squad, I’m already pushing my luck too far. By giving me a shot, the captain put a wrench in the works, but he won’t back me up the way Bascombe is backing Lorenz. So either I play their game or I’m out. Simple as that.

I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “I’ll go talk to Geiger.”

But in the elevator I decide Geiger can wait a half hour. There’s a stop to make on the way.

Missing Persons turns out to be a ghost town. I corner one of the civilian aides, asking to be pointed in Wanda Mosser’s direction. She tells me the task force is operating out of the Northwest station, then starts rubbing her temples like they’ll explode any moment. I thank her and turn to go.

“Hold on a second,” she calls after me. “Cavallo’s still here. You can talk to her.”

I follow the direction indicated by her red fingernail, heading down a row of cubicles a bit more shabby and threadbare than our Homicide digs, though identical in principle. At the end of the row I discover a slender, dark-haired woman of about thirty, one long, pinstriped leg crossed over the other. The sleeves of her white blouse are rolled up, revealing sun-browned forearms and a diminutive silver diving watch on the left wrist. An engagement ring on the left hand, but no wedding band.

“I’m Roland March,” I say, holding out a hand. “Homicide.”

She looks up. “Theresa Cavallo.” Her skin is cool to the touch.

I’ve never laid eyes on her before, or even heard the name, a testament to how out of touch I am. Because a woman like this gets talked about. I’m probably the last to find out about her. Large brown eyes, a sharp nose dusted with freckles, just a hint of makeup, and a slight dishevelment to her limply thick black hair. Letting the world know she can look like this without trying.

“You’re working for Wanda?” I ask.

“Obviously.” She motions lazily at the surroundings.

A knot forms in my throat. “I mean, on the task force.”

“What have you got?” she asks. “I was just on my way out.” She nods toward a black purse and a canvas messenger bag stacked side by side on her desk, a striped jacket nestled between them.

I’m not usually tongue-tied, but getting my hunch out proves surprisingly difficult. If I’d gotten Wanda face-to-face, there would have been no problem. If she laughed, I could take it in stride. But I don’t want to look ridiculous in front of Cavallo, and the more I struggle for words, the more ridiculous I feel.

“What is it?” she asks with an impatient frown.

“Take a look at this,” I manage, thrusting the printout from Bridger under her nose. “It’s from the medical examiner’s office.”

“I can see that. So what?”

“This is going to take some explaining…”

She checks her watch. “I’ll give you two minutes.”

“Fine.” I pull up a nearby chair, setting it just inside her cubicle. “That’s a blood sample recovered from a house off West Bellfort. We got a call early Friday morning and found the house full of bodies. A Crip named Octavio Morales, if that name means anything to you.”

She shakes her head.

“Anyway, under the bed we found parachute cord still attached. Somebody had sliced through the restraints, leaving the knots behind. Whoever was on that bed, the shooters took her with them.”

“There was a woman tied to the bed?” Her eyebrows rise. “Was she sexually assaulted?”

I shrug. “Like I said, they took the body. Based on the amount of blood, I’d say she was seriously injured, or even deceased. But I’m just speculating about that.”

Cavallo runs her fingers through her hair, shaking out the wavy mane. She has my attention. At her clavicle, a tiny silver cross catches the light.

“And you’re telling me this why?”

“I’m looking for her. We didn’t get a hit in the system, so her dna’s not on file.”

For a moment she smiles with incomprehension. Then the bloom fades from her lips. “I see. And you think – what? That your missing body could be Hannah Mayhew?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

Cavallo laughs, showing off a pair of sharpish canines. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I realize it’s a stretch – ”

“A stretch? It’s a hyperextension.”

“I was hoping we could check our sample against one from your girl, or maybe the parents?”