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tell she was five-two, five-three.”
    Sam wasn’t one to call with such basic information. There had to be more. “And?”
    “Well, before I started to cut I did an initial X-ray of the body. I expected to see the skull in fractured fragments.”
    Which was the general way of things. Bodies subjected to that kind of heat... the skulls sometimes just exploded from the pressure. “But you didn’t.”
    “No, because the bullet hole in her skull vented all the pressure.”
    Reed wasn’t surprised. Still, now he had to share. He got the arson, the cops got the body. Too many damn cooks in the kitchen. He winced. So to speak. “Any evidence of smoke inhalation?”
    “Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sam said briskly. “I’m going to start the autopsy right away, so you can come by anytime this morning.”
    “Thanks. I will.” He pulled onto his quiet tree-lined street, flipping on his wipers against the rain. It had been a while since he’d worked with Homicide, but he thought Marc Spinnelli was still the lieutenant there. Marc was a straight shooter. Reed only hoped the detective Spinnelli assigned wouldn’t be a know-it-all hotshot.
    Monday, November 27, 8:30 A.M.
    Mia Mitchell’s feet were cold. Which was really stupid, because they could be warm and toasty, propped up on her desk as she sipped her third cup of coffee.
But they’re not, because here I am,
she thought bitterly. Standing on the sidewalk, cold rain dripping from the brim of the battered hat she wore. Staring at her own reflection in the glass doors like an idiot. She’d passed through these doors hundreds of times before but today was different. Today she was alone.
    Because I froze like a damn rookie.
And her partner had paid the price. Two weeks later, the moment was still enough to make her frozen. She stared at the sidewalk. Two weeks later she could still hear the crack of gunfire, see Abe -crumple and fall, the bloodstain on his white shirt spreading as she stood, slack-jawed and helpless.
    “Excuse me.”
    Mia jerked her chin upward, then up again, her fist clenching against the reflex to draw her weapon, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat to focus on the reflection behind her. It was a man, at least six feet tall. His black trench coat was the same color as the neatly trimmed goatee that framed his mouth. After a beat she lifted her chin another notch to his eyes. He was staring at her from under an umbrella, dark brows furrowed.
    “Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his voice that even, soft tone that she herself used to calm skittish suspects and witnesses. Her lips quirked up mirthlessly as his intent be-came clear. He thought she was some nutcase off the street. Maybe she looked that way. Either way, he’d gotten the drop on her and that was unacceptable.
Pay attention for God’s sake.
She searched her mind for an adequate response.
    “I’m fine, thanks. I’m... waiting for someone.” It sounded lame, even to her own ears, but he nodded and stepped around her, pulling the door open as he closed his umbrella. Background noise filtered through the open door, and she thought that would be the end of it and him. But he didn’t move. He stood, studying her face as if memorizing each detail. She considered identifying herself, but... didn’t. Instead she met his scrutiny with her own, the cop part of her brain now back on full.
    He was a good-looking man, darkly handsome, older than his reflection had appeared. It was his eyes, she thought. Hard and dark. And his mouth. He looked like he never smiled. His eyes dropped to her bare hands, then lifted, his expression softer. It was compassion, she realized, and the notion had her swallowing hard.
    “Well, if you need a place to warm up, there’s room at the shelter on Grand. They might be able to get you some gloves. Be careful. It’s cold outside.” He hesitated, then held out his umbrella. “Stay dry.”
    Too stunned to speak, she took it. Her mouth opened to