“What, they’re going to put out an extra supplement this week? They care less about Las Piernas than Wrigley cares about the homeless.”

“Maybe. But I wouldn’t like to see it happen, would you?”

“No. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Thisis about Moffett and Watterson. Too many coincidences. I’ve got to follow up on this, John.”

“On your own time, Kelly. Like sailing.”

I handed the phone back to Rachel. I knew she could tell that I hadn’t gotten very far with the paper, but she didn’t rub it in.

ALITTLE LATER, we answered questions from a group of people who weren’t too happy about climbing up over a dozen flights of stairs. Reed Collins and Vince Adams had drawn the assignment; I had met them once or twice before, but didn’t know them well. Frank had spoken highly of them, though, and I wondered if this was part of what Rachel meant when she talked to Frank about TLC. Reed explained that Frank would be up in a minute, but procedure required them to talk to me alone first. We showed them where the body was; my second look wasn’t much longer than the first. Reed and Vince had us wait in the hall for a few minutes while they talked to a pair of technicians.

When they came out of the room, they wanted to question us separately. Vince talked to Rachel, Reed talked to me-vacancy rates being what they were at the Angelus, we didn’t have a problem finding separate rooms.

It took a while to explain to Reed why we had been looking for a homeless man, and why we had looked in this hotel. I could see that I was doing just as terrific a sales job on him as I had on John Walters-no one was buying that Lucas had influenced Las Piernas’s rich and powerful. Reed never said that he doubted my theories-which I admit were only half-formed at the time-but his questions all led away from any talk of Ben Watterson or Allan Moffett.

“Can you describe this man Corky?” he asked.

The other questions were in a similar vein-always returning to the other homeless men.

“This Toes,” Reed said. “Are you sure this is what he said? It seems a little jumbled.”

“Two Toes.He’s a little jumbled.”

“So how can you be certain you’re remembering it correctly?”

“I’m not. I didn’t take notes or record him, so it may not be absolutely accurate. But I’m pretty good at recalling conversations.”

“Well, yes, I guess you need to be able to do that in your line of work.”

We talked a little longer, then he walked out into the hall, leaving me alone. While the door was open, I saw Carlos Hernandez, the county coroner, go by. Hernandez was followed by two men wrestling with a stretcher.

A few seconds later, Frank came in. He didn’t say anything, just walked up to me and put his arms around me. It was the best thing that happened to me all day.

“POSTMORTEM LIVIDITY,” Carlos said. He was standing in the hall outside the room. I could hear the photographer at work, the quiet conversation of the men who were gathering physical evidence. “The patterns prove that someone moved his body after he died.”

“The pennies on his eyes ought to be proof that someone else was in there,” I said.

“The pennies tell you someone was here after he lost consciousness,” he corrected. “But the discoloration of postmortem lividity-the places where blood and other fluids settle after death-are on the front of the body. The body was moved after death.”

“When was he killed?” I asked.

“I’m not so sure he was killed.”

“Not killed! But I saw blood-”

“Yes, on the forehead and the radiator as well. I doubt that blow to the head killed him. I’ll know more after the autopsy, but my guess is that he fell against the radiator, perhaps after a…” He glanced at Frank. “Well, perhaps after a dizzy spell.”

“What were you going to say?” I asked.

“Dizzy spell will do for now,” Carlos said, then seeing I wasn’t satisfied, added, “I understand he had a history of alcoholism?”

“Past history. He’s been clean for at least six weeks.”

“You’re absolutely certain?”

I hesitated. “No.”

“Even if he was clean, as you say, there are no signs of a struggle, and the blow to the head was not too severe. There is bruising on his knees and the palms-the palms, not the knuckles or fingers-as if he fell.” He paused, glancing back toward the room. “It’s very early to say, of course. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“What about the time of death-can you estimate that?”

“Time of death isn’t easy to judge under the circumstances. The room is very cold and dry. That has retarded the rate of decomposition. The weather has stayed cold, but there is no way to be certain the room has stayed cold-as I said, judging from postmortem lividity, we know someone was here several hours after the time of death, moved the body, and-well, before I say more, I have a favor to ask. Would you mind coming into the room, taking another look at the body?”

“Of course not,” I said, not sure I really meant it.

I was glad when Frank came with me.

Carlos asked the technicians to step outside for a moment, making the room a little less crowded. The body had been bagged and moved up onto the stretcher. I felt Frank’s hand on my shoulder; Carlos moved over to the bag and unzipped it. The sound made me long for the days of sheets and shrouds.

He beckoned gently. Frank stayed with me as I moved a step closer.

“Now that you have a little more time to look,” Carlos said, “would you please make sure this man is…”

“Lucas Monroe,” I said, my mouth dry. “Yes, it’s Lucas.”

Carlos nodded, then began unbuttoning Lucas’s flannel shirt. I found myself concentrating on Carlos’s fingers and the buttons, the pattern of the flannel. Carlos pulled the shirt open.

Lucas’s brown skin was darkly discolored in places, those on which a face-down body would have rested.

“You see this?” Carlos said, tracing the outline of an odd-colored blotch on Lucas’s chest. He reached into the body bag and pulled out Lucas’s hand. A matching spot was indented into the lifeless palm. “Here and here?”

I nodded.

“Did Mr. Monroe wear jewelry?” Carlos asked.

“His ring.”

“No, not on his fingers, but-”

“He didn’t wear it on his finger. He wore it around his neck, on a metal chain. Didn’t you find it on him?”

“No. Can you describe it?”

“It’s a gold Las Piernas College ring. Ruby or some other red stone in it.”

“This man was a college graduate?” Carlos asked.

“Yes. Probably bought the ring when he earned his bachelor’s degree. Sometime in the 1970s. The school could tell you.” I looked back to Frank. “I told you about it, remember?”

Frank nodded. He called to Reed, who was out in the hallway talking to Vince. “You may be interested in this,” Frank said, and asked me to repeat the description of the ring.

“It was removed several hours after he died,” Carlos added, as Reed took notes.

“By the way, Irene,” Reed said, “any ideas on how we could contact his family?”

I shook my head. “No, but you might try Roberta Benson down at the homeless shelter. She could probably tell you a lot more about him. He’s one of her clients.”

At the word “client,” Frank and Reed exchanged a look, but Reed said, “Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

Rachel came in to see how I was doing. The room was fairly crowded then. There was nothing more that I could add to their reports, so I managed one last look at Lucas, said a silent good-bye, and asked Frank to take me home.

“I’ll call you later,” Rachel said, and reached to give me a hug. As her arms came around me, I heard the body bag being zipped shut.