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general manager to turn over security tapes from the elevators and stairwells.”
    â€œHow many elevators?”
    â€œTwo public. One service. Three stair exits.”
    Captain Schulze did the math. “Depending on when Pete sets the TOD, that’s fifteen and a quarter hours of surveillance each tape. Same for the stairwells.”
    â€œHe estimated she’d been dead ten to twelve hours.”
    â€œThat helps.”
    â€œSeems Ms. Vanmeer was a La Plaza regular. Had a standing order for fresh flowers, champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in her room.”
    â€œThoughts?”
    â€œDefinitely there to meet a lover. My suspicion is one or both of them were married.”
    â€œTraveled light,” Mac offered. “Just the stuff she needed to horizontal mambo.”
    â€œYou think her lover’s our guy?”
    â€œYes.” Stacy glanced at her partner. “Or a jealous mate.”
    â€œYou’ll need help reviewing the tapes.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI’ll give you Camp, Riggio, Falon and—”
    â€œFalon’s out with the flu,” Mac offered. “So’s Moore.”
    The captain swore. A virulent stomach flu had been running rampant through the department. Some divisions were operating half staffed, officers who were healthy were pulling double shifts.
    â€œThen make do.” He reached for the phone, indicating their meeting was over. “This one feels like a no-brainer. Let’s get it closed.”

FIVE
    Monday, October 20, 2003
3:15 p.m.
    J ane peered through the video camera’s viewfinder. Her subject, a woman named Anne, sat on a platform ten feet in front of the camera. Jane had covered the platform in white fabric. A roll of white seamless paper provided the backdrop.
    Jane wanted the lighting to be as stark as possible. Unrelenting, even cruel. She wanted her subject to be stripped naked. Of all the devices she would normally hide behind—soft light and shadows, cosmetics, clever clothing, coiffed hair.
    Instead, the woman’s face was bare, her hair slicked back into a tight knot; she wore nothing more elegant than a hospital gown, belted at the waist.
    Total exposure. Psychological. Emotional.
    â€œTed,” Jane said, glancing at her studio assistant, standing to her right. “Could you adjust the light on the right? There’s a slight shadow across her left cheek.”
    He did as she requested and waited as she checked the viewfinder again.
    Ted Jackman had approached her a couple of years ago about a job. He had seen an exhibition of her work, he’d said,and loved it. She hadn’t been actively looking for an assistant, though she had been tossing around the idea of hiring one.
    She had decided to give it a try; Ted had proved to be a find. Efficient. Loyal. Smart. She trusted him completely. When Ian expressed doubts about Ted’s character, she reminded him that Ted had been with her longer than he had.
    Although she didn’t share her husband’s worries, she understood why he might have them. Ted had packed a lot of experience into his twenty-eight years of life, including a stint in the navy, lead guitarist for a moderately successful, local garage band, a turn in rehab and, before he came to her, a gig as a makeup artist for a mortician.
    Physically, he was both beauty and beast. Classically proportioned, muscular and lean, with dark, almost hypnotic bedroom eyes, Ted was also heavily pierced and tattooed and wore a his dark hair long, streaked in front with patches of white.
    Beauty and beast. Not so different from herself.
    â€œShould I sit like this?” Anne asked, curling her legs under her on the hard platform.
    â€œWhatever’s comfortable for you.”
    She squirmed, her gaze touching on Ted, then moving back to Jane. “I must look terrible.”
    Jane didn’t comment. The woman reached up to fluff her hair, only to drop her hand as she remembered that