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have you lived here?”
    “Twenty years. You should try hot yoga. Men like it.”
    “We’ve disabled the elevators,” Greene said. “I apologize for forcing you to walk down the stairs.”
    Wingate laughed. A light, engaging chuckle. “I never take the elevator.Twelve floors up and down. My yoga instructor says I have the strongest quads he’s ever seen in an eighty-three-year-old.”
    On his drive down, Greene had called the dispatcher. He knew there were only two suites on the top floor. “Notice anything unusual on the twelfth floor last night or this morning?” he asked.
    “Absolutely,” she said without missing a beat.
    “And what was—”
    “My newspaper. I’m concerned about Mr. Singh. Never known him to miss a day.”
    “Anything else?”
    “No. Please, I really must go.”
    “Can we make a deal?” he asked. “I’ll unseal the building for you now so you can make your class if you’ll let me drop by and ask some questions tomorrow morning.”
    She took a quick look at her watch. It was a Swatch, quite stylish.
    “You’ll have to try some of my Christmas shortbread,” she said, flashing him a charming smile. And that laugh again.
    “Shall I come by before six?”
    “Come at eight. Monday’s my only early class. Ta,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder as she waltzed past him, her posture still picture-perfect.
    He watched Wingate move swiftly to the sidewalk, cross the empty street, and disappear into the morning darkness. Greene paused for a moment, taking in the last hint of her perfume before he went upstairs to see the body of the dead woman in the bathtub.

6
    S ix o’clock. Perfect, Albert Fernandez thought as he toweled his face dry and combed back his deep black hair. Ten minutes to shave, clip his nails, brush his teeth, and dry off. Another fifteen to get dressed, ten if he hurried. By 6:30 the coffee machine would click on, and he’d be out the door by 6:50. Drive downtown in thirty minutes, and he’d beat the 7:30 deadline for early-bird parking by at least ten minutes.
    He wrapped a lush green towel around his waist and quietly made his way out of the en suite bathroom. Marissa was asleep in their bed. He stopped. Her black hair was tousled on the white sheets, and he could see the curve of her back and shoulders.
    Two years into their marriage, and it still amazed Fernandez that he got to sleep with this beautiful naked woman, night after night. It had been worth it to bring a young bride back from Chile, he thought, despite his parents’ objections. They’d wanted him to marry a Canadian from a good socialist background, like the people who’d taken them in as political refugees back in the 1970s. Instead, much to their consternation, he’d gone home and found a woman from one of the country’s wealthiest families. His mother and father hadn’t spoken to him since.
    Fernandez tossed the damp towel on a chair and entered his favorite room in the apartment—the clothes closet. He loved looking at his rack of finely tailored suits. My passports to success, he thought,fingering the gabardine sleeve of his dark blue jacket. He ran his hands over the row of shirts on hangers and picked out one of his best, off-white Egyptian cotton with French cuffs.
    He held the shirt up to the light. “Tsk, tsk,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head. Marissa had grown up with a houseful of servants. Now she was learning to do the ironing. He would have to talk to her about the collars. He caressed his overburdened tie rack and settled on a deep red Armani tie.
    His fine clothes were an important part of Fernandez’s personal business plan. He pinched pennies in every other part of his life so he could buy them. Most of the other prosecutors at the downtown Crown law office dressed like schoolteachers or salesmen, with their crepe-soled shoes, brown suits, and muted ties. Not Albert. He always dressed impeccably, the way a real lawyer should.
    He selected his dark brown