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Brody, who was standing right behind me.
    I stepped into O'Fallon's living room, a book-lined room with an old, worn, oversized, cloth couch with loose back- and side pillows, a plaid blanket lying over the back of it; an oak desk piled with folders and papers; framed photos on every inch of the walls. There were plants everywhere, too, some thriving, others having seen better days, like the couch. I noticed a plastic dinosaur in the dirt of one of the larger ones, an old corn plant that stood in a corner near the windows. There were books piled on the floor, stacks near the desk, and more near the old couch. There was a winter coat over the arm of the couch. What was that about in all this heat? Smack in the middle of the room, there was a gym bag, its contents bulging, the zipper half open. The Oriental rug had a few worn spots, and in front of the couch a flat patterned kilim lay on top of it, another small rug in front of the daybed, which was against the front wall, under the windows. There were a small TV, a radio, an ancient teddy bear with black buttons for eyes, all on one of the wider bookshelves. A cool north light came in through the shutters that covered the front windows, the bottoms closed and latched, the tops partly open, the light spilling through the slats making lines on the carpet and up the wall of closets that divided this part of the apartment from the back.
    Someone had done an amazing job, I thought. Where was the blood spatter, the amoebalike stain on the rug? Where was the shattered wall? I looked at Brody. He was leaning against the wall near the doorway, staring straight ahead. I decided not to ask him anything just yet. Perhaps that was why the blanket was over the couch, I thought. Or perhaps that was the reason for that second rug in front of the couch, taken from the entranceway and put there to cover the place where O'Fallon's life had leaked from his body.
    But that couldn't be. Dashiell had gone nowhere near that rug, nor had he paid any attention to the couch. In fact, he was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was in the kitchen, at the south end of the apartment, looking for water. And then I heard him sneezing, clearing his nose for an odor that interested him, the sound coming from the west end of the kitchen, the part I couldn't see. Perhaps the accident had occurred there, O'-Fallon sitting at the kitchen table with his cleaning kit and his gun, distracted by grief, careless in the most unforgiving way. Or maybe not. Maybe he'd left a roast in the oven, I thought, chiding myself silently for being irreverent.
    Brody stayed where he was, near the doorway, while I walked around, getting a feel for the place. I sat at the desk for a while, looking through the folders, all the paperwork I'd have to deal with as soon as the apartment was unsealed. I picked out a recent bank statement, his checkbook, a pile of bills that needed to be paid, and found an envelope to put them in. Then I noticed a briefcase leaning against the desk. I put the envelope in that and put the briefcase near the front door.
    I looked at O'Fallon's books—lots of technical manuals on crime-scene investigation, fingerprints, a book on interrogation, one on forensic pathology. There was a shelf of true-crime books as well—Ann Rule, Jack Olsen, James Ellroy, Philip Gourevitch, and three about the O.J. Simpson case. There were books on learning Spanish, a bartender's guide, some old photo albums. I pulled one of the albums from the shelf and slipped it into the briefcase, looking at the pictures on his walls as I walked around, all those same kids whose photos were in his wallet. A family man. A serious cop.
    Then I went to the kitchen to empty the refrigerator of all the perishables. No need to wait and make the cleanup any more difficult than it was going to be. Dashiell was in the kitchen, standing and staring at me, his brow lined. I felt the same way. What the hell were we doing here in this stranger's house?
    Brody had