"Not yet. The building supervisor says she'd only been here less than a month and didn't speak much English."

Jack took in the scene before homing in on the body. There was a slight butcher-shop odor. The decor read designer. The walls and carpet were all black; the ceiling mirrored; and the curtains, clutter of knick-knacks, and furniture all white, including the bed linens. As Lou had explained, the corpse was completely naked, lying supine across the bed with the feet dangling over the bed's left side. Although darkly complected in life, she was now ashen against the sheet except for some bruising about the face, including a black eye. Her arms were splayed out to the sides with the palms up. An automatic pistol was loosely held in her right hand, with her index finger inside the trigger guard. Her head was turned slightly toward the left. Her eyes were open. High on the right temple was evidence of an entrance gunshot wound. Behind the head on the white sheet was a large bloodstain. Extending away from the victim to her left was some blood spatter, along with bits of tissue.

"Some of these Middle Eastern guys can be brutal with their women," Jack said.

"So I've heard," Lou said. "Is that bruising and black eye from the bullet wound?"

"I doubt it," Jack said. Then he turned back to Steve and Allen. "Have our pictures been taken of the body?"

"Yes, they have," Steve Marriott called from over near the door.

Jack pulled on a pair of latex rubber gloves and carefully separated the woman's dark, almost black hair to expose the entrance wound. There was a distinct stellate form to the lesion, indicating that the muzzle of the gun had been in contact with the victim when it had discharged.

Carefully, Jack rolled the woman's head to the side to look at the exit wound. It was low down below the left ear. He straightened up. "Well, that's more evidence," he said.

"Evidence of what?" Lou asked.

"That this wasn't a suicide," Jack said. "The bullet traveled from above on an angle downward. That's not the way people shoot themselves." Jack formed a gun with his right hand and placed the tip of his index finger as the hypothetical muzzle next to his temple. The plane of the finger was parallel with the floor. "When people shoot themselves, the track of the bullet is generally almost horizontal or maybe slightly upward, never downwards. This was a homicide staged to look like a suicide."

"Thanks a lot," Lou grumbled. "I was hoping your deduction about her being naked would prove to be wrong."

"Sorry," Jack said.

"Any idea how long she's been dead?"

"Not yet, but a wild guess would say not that long. Anybody hear a gunshot? That would be more accurate."

"Unfortunately, no," Lou said.

"Lieutenant!" one of the uniformed policemen called out from the doorway. "The crime-scene boys have arrived."

"Tell them to get their butts in here," Lou responded over his shoulder. Then, to Jack, he asked: "Are you done or what?"

"I'm done. We'll have more information for you in the morning. I'll be sure to do the post myself."

"In that case, I'll try to make it, too." Over the years, Lou had learned to appreciate how much information could be gleaned from victims of homicide during an autopsy.

"All right then," Jack said, snapping off the gloves. "I'm out of here." He glanced at his watch. He wasn't late yet, but he was going to be. It was seven fifty-two. It was going to take him more than eight minutes to get to the restaurant. He looked at Lou, who was bending over to examine a small tear in the sheet several feet away from the body in the direction of the headboard. "What do you have?"

"What do you think of this? Think it might be where the slug penetrated the mattress?"

Jack leaned over to examine the centimeter-long, linear defect. He nodded. "That would be my guess. There's a tiny bit of bloodstain along the edges."

Lou straightened up as the crime-scene technicians carried in their equipment. Lou mentioned getting the slug, and the technicians assured him they'd do their best.

"Are you going to be able to get away from here at some reasonable time?" Jack inquired.

Lou shrugged. "No reason why I can't leave with you. With the diplomat out of the picture, there's no reason for me to hang around. I'll give you a lift."

"I've got my bike," Jack said.

"So? Put it in my car. You'll get there sooner. Besides, it's safer than that bike of yours. I can't believe Laurie still lets you ride that thing around the city, particularly when you guys see so many of those messengers who get flattened."

"I'm careful," Jack said.

"My ass you're careful," Lou responded. "I've seen you streaking around the city on more than one occasion."

Jack debated what to do. He wanted to ride the bike for its calming effect and also because he couldn't stand the odor of the fifty billion cigarettes that had been smoked in Lou's Chevy, but he had to admit that with Lou driving, the car would be quicker, and the hour was fast approaching. "All right," he said reluctantly.

"My goodness gracious, a spark of maturity," Lou said. He took out his keys and tossed them to Jack. "While you're dealing with the bike, I'll have a word with my boys to make sure they are squared away."

Ten minutes later, Lou was driving north on Park Avenue, which he claimed would be the fastest route uptown. Jack's bike was in the backseat with both wheels removed. Jack had insisted that all four windows be rolled down, which made the interior of the car breezy but bearable, despite the overflowing ashtray.

"You seem kind of wired," Lou said as they skirted Grand Central station on the elevated roadway.

"I'm worried about being late."

"Worst case, we'll be fifteen minutes late. In my book, that's not late."

Jack glanced out the passenger-side window. Lou was right. Fifteen minutes fell into the appropriate time frame, but it didn't make him feel any less anxious.

"So, what's the occasion? You never said."

"Does there have to be an occasion?" Jack responded.

"All right already," Lou said, casting a quick glance in Jack's direction. His friend was acting out of character, but Lou let it drop. Something was up, but he wasn't about to push it.

They parked in a no-parking tow zone a few steps away from the restaurant's entrance. Lou tossed his police vehicle card onto the dashboard.

"You think this is going to be safe?" Jack questioned. "I don't want my bike getting towed along with your vehicle."

"They're not going to tow my car!" Lou said with conviction.

The two men walked into Elio's and entered the fray. The place was packed, particularly around the bar near the front door.

"Everybody is back from the Hamptons," Lou explained, practically yelling to be heard over the general din of voices and laughter.

Jack nodded, excused himself to those in front of him, and squeezed sideways deeper into the restaurant. People juggled their drinks as he brushed by. He was looking for the hostess, who he remembered as a soft-spoken, willowy woman with a kind smile. Before he could find her, someone tapped insistently on his shoulder. When he turned he found himself looking directly into Laurie's blue-green eyes. Jack could tell she had taken her "freshening up" quite seriously. Her luxurious auburn hair had been let out of her restrained, workaday French braid and cascaded to her shoulders. She was dressed in one of his favorite outfits: a white, high-collared, Victorian-style ruffled blouse with a honey-brown velvet jacket. In the half-light of the restaurant, her skin glowed as if illuminated from within.

To Jack she looked terrific, but there was a problem. Instead of the warm, fuzzy, happy expression he was expecting, she appeared more like amber and ice. Laurie seldom bothered to conceal her emotions. Jack knew something was wrong.