Cavallo adjusts her mask. “Sixteen days.”

“Give or take. And based on the postmortem lividity, I’d say the body was moved after death. So she wasn’t killed in that house, I’m guessing, just dumped there.”

The plastic sheeting probably came from the work site across the street, and access to the building itself wouldn’t have been difficult. It was boarded up so long ago that the panels would have been easy enough to shift. The question is, who would think to place a body there? I’ve already canvassed the neighborhood, interviewing everyone I could find, and the contractor from the house across the street has promised me a list of employees as soon as he can find a way to charge his laptop. Of course, the killer could have driven by on a whim, noticed the location, and taken advantage of it.

By the end of the autopsy, Bridger confirms what the X-rays suggested. Hannah was killed by a.22 caliber gunshot to the head. The bullet entered at the temple. She’d already been shot twice before, once in the chest, collapsing a lung, and once in the abdomen, the second shot probably fired while she was in a prone position or possibly propping herself up.

“There’s no indication of a sexual assault?” Wanda asks.

He shakes his head.

“Well, thank God for that.”

It’s hard to muster much gratitude in the face of the desiccated husk of Hannah Mayhew, but somehow I find myself agreeing.

Out in the corridor I peel off my mask, happy to breathe freely again. Cavallo leans against the wall, then sinks down on her haunches, clenched arms extended over her knees. Wanda pats her absently on the head, then starts to go.

“I want to be in on this,” Cavallo calls after her.

“In on what, honey?”

She jabs her thumb in my direction. “This. If he can horn in on my case, then I can horn in on his.”

“Fine with me,” I say.

Wanda snaps back, “Well, it’s not up to you.” She’s done so much wrangling over the past two weeks it’s become second nature, but the flash of anger dissipates like smoke. “Suit yourself. I guess it makes sense for one of my people to keep an eye on things.”

She leaves us in the hallway. I start to say something, then stop. Cavallo gets back to her feet, peeling the scrubs off.

“I could do without this part of the job,” she says.

“So could we all.”

“What I said before, though, I think it’s true. This is an act of God. We might have never found that girl if it wasn’t for the hurricane.”

“That’s what the insurance people call it, an act of God. I had an act of God on my garage, too, and I don’t think they’re going to pay for it. Not that I’m complaining.”

She gives me a sideways look. “I don’t want to know.”

When Bridger emerges for a smoke break, we follow him out, standing on the wet curb in case he has any further observations to make. He’s silent, though, absorbed in his own thoughts. After a while, we leave him to it.

The contents of Hannah’s purse are spread out on the table between us. Nothing remarkable, really. The wallet I opened at the scene, a zippered cosmetics bag, tissues, a pack of gum, some barrettes and ponytail holders, a stray earring, the usual things. But there are two cell phones, both powered off. The pink Motorola RAZR is Hannah’s. The other, a cheap brick of black plastic, is a mystery, at least until Cavallo switches it on and checks the number.

“This is it,” she says. “The phone she was getting calls from the day she disappeared.”

“If he left it behind, then there probably won’t be any prints.”

She opens an evidence bag. “We’ll check anyway.”

“Yes, we will,” I reply, dropping the phone in.

Brad Templeton tracks me down not long after, his voice brimming with excitement, like he thinks the Hannah Mayhew murder investigation is something I personally engineered to help with his book deal. He keeps pumping me for information until he finally realizes I’m about as responsive as a cpr dummy.

“You are gonna give me something, right? We do have an understanding, don’t we?”

“This isn’t the time, Brad.”

I have to give him something, though, so I pass along Wilcox’s name, suggesting he cozy up to my ex-partner, who’s now taking the lead on Keller and Salazar. I’m trying to keep a hand in there, but IAD is a clannish outfit and since their search yielded the potential murder weapon – at least, the part of it that wasn’t swapped with Thomson’s pistol – they call the shots. For now, anyway. I haven’t given up on that one, though anything I do at this point will have to be very discreet.

“You’re pawning me off on Wilcox,” Brad says.

“I’m leading you to water,” I tell him. “It’s up to you whether you drink.”

As soon as I’m off the phone I grab my things and tell Cavallo we’re going back to the scene. Now that the immediate aftermath of the storm is behind us, people might remember things they didn’t before, and the ones who weren’t around during the initial canvass might turn up. We’re almost to the door when Jerry Lorenz steps through, blocking the path.

He looks Cavallo up and down, giving me an approving nod.

“Congratulations,” he says. “You sure landed on your feet.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to my pretty new partner or to my case. Judging from his smile, a little of both. The strange thing is, he’s utterly genuine, offering apparently heartfelt congratulations, no hard feelings in spite of our run-in on the still-unsolved Morales case. He has no idea, since I never briefed him, on how much further I took that case, or how close Wilcox now is to busting it open.

I expect Cavallo to recoil from him, or at least to steer clear, but she pats him on the shoulder as she passes. “Congratulations yourself.”

Out in the hallway, I ask, “You know that guy?”

“Who, Jerry?”

“Jerry Lorenz, right. He’s the one I had so much trouble with.”

“Who, Jerry?” she says again, unaware of how annoying this repetition is.

“Lorenz. I know I told you his name.”

She shakes her head. “I never put it together. You don’t get along with Jerry, huh? Everybody gets along with Jerry.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“How do you know him?”

She starts to answer, then stops herself, so I repeat the question. Reluctantly, she says, “He’s in my Bible study.”

“Your what? Jerry Lorenz is in a Bible study? You’re jerking my chain – ”

“No, really. He is. There’s a group of us that meets about once a month. You should come sometime.” She frowns. “Or maybe not.”

“Why were you congratulating him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just now, you said ‘congratulations yourself.’ ”

“Oh that. I meant the baby, obviously.” She stops in her tracks, realizing I have no idea what she’s talking about. “His wife just had a baby. A little boy. Don’t tell me you work with the guy and you don’t know that?”

I shrug. “I guess it never came up.”

We drive back to the derelict house, Cavallo taking advantage of the time to theorize on what it means that I take so little interest in my colleagues’ personal lives. Ignorant of Lorenz’s baby, unaware that her fiancé is overseas. She wonders aloud what else I don’t know, and how with so little curiosity I can honestly call myself a trained observer.

“I’m only interested in people when they’re dead.”

I mean it as a joke, but it doesn’t come out funny. She grows serious, remembering whose death sparked my interest in the current investigation.

The fresh canvass yields nothing, but we do find a small crew of construction workers across the street, trying to square away the damage left by the hurricane. The toppled trailer has been righted and now awaits replacement. In the interest of thoroughness, we have a chat with them, only to discover that half the men present aren’t on the list the contractor finally handed over.

“They might not be on any lists,” Cavallo says afterward, meaning like so many in the industry, they might be illegals.