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out the swab boxes and fold them into the correct shape without setting the swabs down, and then label the boxes, all in the near dark, severely tested her dexterity. But she didn’t want to mark up the walls with a Sharpie marker, or the hotel would have to repaint for sure and then think about billing her for the cost. She began to clip carpet fibers, the ALS head propped on her shoulder and held in place with her chin, cutting only a few here and there so the damage wouldn’t show before the huge bloodstain reminded her that they’d have to replace the carpeting anyway. She took a scalpel and began to cut three-inch-square pieces of carpet to test, along with one clean piece as a control sample. Who knew what kind of cleaners or stain blockers they might have used on the carpet? On rare occasions these could affect the DNA sample.
    The detectives offered to help, but there was little they could do beyond Neil Kelly’s holding the manila envelopes open for her as she dropped in carpet samples. Finally she could wrap up the cords and open the curtains with the sense of relief a minorly claustrophobic person feels to see daylight again.
    Neil and Powell searched the room as she gathered her envelopes. They found nothing save for a paper clip and the corner of an ancient Twinkie wrapper wedged behind the nightstand, next to a dead cockroach and half of a Len Barker baseball card.
    â€œEngorged with Twinkie crumbs is not a bad way to go,” Neil pointed out, “but who rips up a perfectly good baseball card?”
    Len Barker had pitched a perfect game for the Indians in 1981, only the eighteenth no-hitter in major-league history. “Would that be worth a lot?” Theresa asked.
    Powell said, “No, they’re not that rare. But I’ll bet it’s got a story behind it. Just not one involving Marie Corrigan.”
    The two detectives kept up a running vaudeville act on the various possible explanations for all the stains they’d seen, like the overgrown boys they were. Theresa escaped to process the door to the hallway for fingerprints, as well as the hallway door to the stairwell, and then she could finally strip off the gloves and gather up her envelopes and equipment from the plush carpeting. “I think that’s about it.”
    Powell moved to the outer room to make a phone call. Neil Kelly took one more look around, then said to her, “I want to ask your daughter a few questions. Do you want to be there?”
    Theresa got to her feet immediately. “You better believe it.”

CHAPTER 5
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    The lobby bustled with human activity. Dinner hour approached with check-in time, and new guests queued up at Rachael’s desk. The conference sessions were breaking up, and small groups of people with identical name badges gathered, discussing the murder and also where to get a decent steak.
    Theresa made Neil wait until Rachael had checked in a group of tourists from Norway and could turn her counter over to another girl, feeling that tiny frisson of anxiety one does when introducing one’s child to another adult, especially this man—a peer, sort of. Would he have the good sense to discern the obvious superiority of her offspring? Or would he remain clueless, uninterested in the child’s intelligence and wit? Not that it mattered to Theresa, of course.
    Rachael joined them next to a statue of three running horses, realistically captured in bronze. “We’ll have to talk fast, ’cause I’m not supposed to hang around the lobby. So who did it? Do we have some psycho killer running loose in this place?”
    So much for wowing Mom’s new acquaintance. “Rachael! This isn’t a TV show.”
    â€œSorry,” she said. “I guess I can afford to be flip—I don’t have to go into some empty room off a silent hallway all the time like the maids. They’re totally freaked out. I think they may