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numbers attached. Private customers, Merci thought, no YACS
middleman eating up the profit? She thought she recognized two of them and she
called a friend at the Orange County Journal who could run a print
search on them. She promised him a first tip in return, if any of them turned
into a story. She threw in twenty more just for good measure, guys with names
that sounded important, guys who would bend easy if she leaned on them. On the
day she was murdered, Aubrey Whittaker had a date with "Dr." at 3:45 p.m . and "din" with
"DC," 8:30 p.m . The day
before had four dates on the calendar.
    Sunday mornings, to
Merci's astonishment, were marked by 8:30 a.m .
entries that appeared to relate to sermons, and Aubrey's opinion of them.
    Putting Christ First—Ken H., good but at times unrealistic.
    Not
terribly likely, Merci thought: They must mean something else.
    Six phone calls later
Merci found out that the Reverend Ken presided over Newport Maranatha Church,
and had indeed delivered sermon of that title three weeks earlier.
    Yes, he knew Aubrey.
No, he didn't know she was murdered sounded somber.
    He knew little of
Aubrey, except that she had joined his congregation a few weeks ago. She was
well-dressed, private, apparently unattached. She'd joined the Christian
Singles. He wasn't sure what she for a living.
    He asked Merci to
keep the name of his church out of the newspapers, if it was in her power. She
said it was and she would. He agreed to meet with her any time, or to gather up
the names and addresses of some of the Christian Singles who had known Aubrey.
Merci thanked him and asked him to have them ready by this time tomorrow.
    She went to the
restroom, washed her hands and wondered what it must be like to do what Aubrey
did for a living. In the mirror she saw someone not cut out for such work, a
dark-haired, big-boned woman with an unforgiving and guileless expression on
her face. The face had some tenderness in it if you looked hard. Mostly it just
looked eager to nail you.
    She watched the
coroner's team take photographs and X rays of Aubrey Whittaker's body. There
were no bullet or lead fragments left inside, so far as Merci could see. Near
the center of Aubrey's right ventricle was a small dark disturbance in the pale
muscle: probably the bullet hole, said the deputy coroner.
    Merci was surprised
by the entry wound. The tear was jagged but small, but the edges of the flesh
had been lifted up and burned. The skin in a half-inch radius around the break
was scorched black. Surrounding the dark circle was another half inch of
reddened flesh. Outside of that began the undisturbed perfection of Aubrey
Whittaker's young body.
    "The gun muzzle
was right up next to her dress," said the deputy. "The silk was
burned. And the skin."
    The exit wound was
twice the size but showed little discoloration. A small flap had been torn in
the skin. It was nine centimeters higher than the entry wound. Merci visualized
the apartment and the angle of the shot, and her mind's eye followed a line from
Aubrey Whittaker's heart to the upper part of the sliding glass door, where the
CSIs had found the hole.
    "Looks like
straight in and out," said the deputy coroner. "Didn't hit a bone, or
at least didn't hit much of one. I'd say the ammo was hard-tipped. With a
softer nose, it would have flattened more by the time it came out."
    The
full medical autopsy was scheduled for late that afternoon.
    Merci hovered over
Evan O'Brien's shoulder in the crime lab, watching him get the fingerprint
cards ready for CAL-ID and AFIS. Two distinct sets already, one of them
belonging to the decedent. O'Brien was the most effective fingerprint tech
Merci'd ever known. His knowledge of comparison points was matched by his
knowledge of the labyrinthine state system, which he'd helped digitize during
his tenure with CAL-ID up in Sacramento.
    She watched Lynda
Coiner get the ,45-caliber Colt casing ready for the Federal DrugFire registry,
on the chance that the same