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anything that might have evidentiary value. I found a beer bottle beside a Dumpster at the back of the building. Closer to the car a rain-soaked cigarette butt lay on the ground about four feet from the front passenger door. I left both items where they were.
     
    The CSIS would videotape them first, then take photos.
     
    Inch by inch I went over the parking lot, then turned my attention to the car. On tiptoes, I aimed the beam on the vehicle's roof. Clean and wet. The hood as well. I circled the car. On my first round, I noticed that the lens for the left rear turn signal was broken. Scolari always said his wife couldn't drive worth a damn. As I circled again, it came to me that if the situation weren't so horrific, at her wake someone ought to mention her driving. Here she was with a car three days old, and it was already damaged. Even she had once joked about it. "The traffic division keeps a whole file drawer dedicated to my fender benders alone," she told me. The memory caused me to look up at her through the window, as if that would bring her back to life. It was then I discovered that the door was locked. All the doors, I realized, shining my light at each one in turn. Why would someone bother to lock all the doors after they'd just committed murder? it would take a conscious act. Murder, then pause to hit the lock button? It didn't fit.
    The first investigators arrived, and I was more than ready to relinquish the scene. The tarps were nearly in place. Sergeant Kent Mathis from Management Control approached with my ex-husband. "Are you okay?" Reid asked. "Do you think you can talk about this right now?" I told him I could, and Mathis questioned me while Reid looked on. He asked how I recognized Dr. Meadscolari, where Sam was. All routine questions. If Reid guessed that any of this had something to do with me canceling out on our Napa trip, he said nothing. When the interview was over, Reid handed me a cup of coffee and walked me toward my car. "You need a ride home?"
     
    "No."
     
    "I'm sorry," he said, his hand on my shoulder. "Go get some sleep. We'll finish tomorrow." My fingers were frozen, my clothing soaked through, and I clutched my coffee cup, moving it to my numb lips, trying to sip the tasteless brew. I could see the news cameras on the other side of the tape near where my car was parked, and again I wondered who had tipped them off. "There was nothing for it but to wade through them. I turned back to say goodbye to Reid, but he had already disappeared. I wanted to go home, to mourn in the privacy of my own room, not before thousands of viewers eager to see what dirty laundry was waved their way. I tossed my cup into a trash bag one of the evidence techs had set up, then I strode down the street. As I lifted the tape and stepped beneath it, cameras pointed in my direction while reporters surrounded me. "You're Inspector Gillespie," a petite woman said, holding her microphone in front of me. I paused, surprised anyone would recognize me. She must have sensed it because she said, "Beth Skyler, Channel Two.
    I did that story on you. First female homicide inspector?" "Yes," I said. "I remember." What I recalled is that she seemed to know about the transfer before I'd even made it public. At the time, I figured the mayor or chief had clued her in for publicity reasons. "Is it true that the deceased is a pathologist at the Medical Examiner's office? Doctor Patricia Meadscolari?" It seemed that everyone there was waiting on my answer. "It's not my case. You'll have to speak to the Press Officer."
     
    "But isn't it true you made an identification?" Skyler continued. Now, that smacked of definite leaking. I wanted to ask who had told her that, but to do so would almost confirm her question. "No comment," I said, trying to move past her. "Inspector," she said, scooting around until she was in front of me again, her microphone inches from my face. "Can you tell us if there's a connection between this case and the Soma