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trespassing at a meat packing plant in Worthington,” Gamboni said. “Apparently, he was investigating the company’s hiring practices and the non-union wages they were paying illegals.”
    “Not exactly the profile of a stone cold killer,” Santana said.
    “You figure someone else killed Mendoza?”
    “I think someone else was here besides Córdova. Someone in Mendoza’s bedroom. And until I find out who it was, we can’t close the book on this.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Call it a feeling.”
    “That’s real thin,” Kehoe said.
    Santana considered dragging Kehoe out the sliding glass door and throwing his sorry ass off the balcony. That might erase the permanent smirk on his face.
    “If you’ll shut the hell up, Kehoe,” he said, “maybe I’ll have some time to prove it.”
    “Detective,” Ashford said. “We’re all trying to make some sense out of this. Is that clear?”
    Santana gave a reluctant nod.
    “Good. We know the last phone call Pérez made was to Mendoza. And we know Córdova worked for Pérez’s newspaper. Anyone have any theories?”
    Kehoe said, “I’m guessing when ballistics runs tests on the .22 Smith and Wesson we found on Córdova, it’ll match the bullet in Pérez’s head. I’d say Córdova killed Pérez. Then he came here and threw Mendoza off his balcony. Maybe trying to make it look like a murder, suicide. He might’ve gotten away with it if Anderson hadn’t sent him to the bone orchard.”
    Ashford looked at Santana and then Gamboni. When neither of them offered another theory he said, “So, it looks like we’ve got a double homicide and Córdova’s our prime suspect.”
    Santana was thinking along the same lines. Still, he thought “looks like” was a good, if unintentional, choice of words.
    He said, “We still need a motive.”
    “How many investigators can you spare, Rita?” Ashford asked.
    “Well, with Anderson pulling desk duty until IA finishes its investigation, I suppose I could have Kacie Hawkins and Nick Baker work with Detective Santana. Their book is clear.”
    For a moment, Gamboni’s eyes locked on Santana’s.
    He wondered if she ever thought of him in the way she once had.
    “Then do it, Rita,” Ashford said.
    T he forensic crew crowded the living room, so Santana slipped on a pair of latex gloves and walked into the master bedroom and looked around.
    Mendoza’s king-size bed was neatly made. A recent issue of Twin Cities Magazine headlined “Minnesota’s Most Eligible Bachelors” rested on the nightstand next to an answering machine. Mendoza’s picture was on the cover of the magazine. It came as no surprise then that Santana saw no photos of family in the room.
    Santana checked the answering machine for messages. Then he went into a large walk-in closet. All the built-in drawers, shelves and clothes racks were carefully designed to maximize space. Mendoza’s dry-cleaned shirts were arranged by color, light to dark, as were his Armani suits. Each drawer was slightly open. Santana could see that the underwear and T-shirts inside the top drawer were no longer arranged in tidy piles.
    “Need a pair of these?”
    Santana turned and saw Rita Gamboni leaning against the doorjamb holding up a pair of latex gloves. He considered telling her that it was always important to use latex in the bedroom but decided against it. Since becoming commander of the Homicide Unit, she had apparently lost her sense of humor. He understood. Some of the good-old-boy cops still resented taking orders from a woman.
    Santana held up his hands. “Already protected.”
    “Find anything?”
    “No. But this closet has been searched. You look around; you see Mendoza was a neat freak. Organized. But the drawers are all slightly open and the clothes messed up. Someone was looking for something.”
    “You thinking burglary?”
    Santana shook his head. “A pro would start from the bottom, pull the drawer open and work his way up. No need to close each