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her slightly crooked grin and the same good-to-go glint in her brown eyes. Quinn heard she’d been working with the vice squad. Typecasting, he thought. Her sleeping with superior officers was legendary. She was known as the officer who had put the “cop” in “copulate.” It was all exaggerated and rather unfair, Quinn thought. On the other hand, how could he know?
    She was wearing what looked like six-inch heels, a short, tight red skirt, and a form-fitting bowling team shirt lettered DO IT IN THE ALLEY. Dressed for work with the vice squad, Quinn hoped.
    Weaver grinned and nodded a hello to all of them. She was carrying a cardboard brown accordion file tied with a brown cord that looked like a shoelace.
    â€œCan you actually bowl in that outfit?” Pearl asked.
    â€œWhen I do,” Weaver said, “it doesn’t matter where the ball goes.”
    Quinn cut in before Pearl could reply. He told Weaver it was good to see her. He did admire her tenacity. As did Pearl, although Pearl was silent while the rest of Q&A welcomed Weaver. Quinn knew that the two women had some time ago come to an understanding with each other, something reminiscent of a Middle East treaty.
    â€œI’ve got the first on-the-scene officers’ written statements here,” Weaver said, “along with their brief initial interviews of hotel guests in adjoining rooms, and potential witnesses.”
    Quinn waved an arm, indicating that Weaver had the floor.
    â€œEnlighten us,” he said.
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    Weaver moved to a spot near the center of the room. She said, “Grace Geyer, Christy Mathewson, Sheryl Stewart, Dawn Kramer, Lucy Mitchell. And their teacher and guide, Andria Bell.” Weaver looked up from the paper bearing the names. “The victims,” she said. “They seem to have little in common other than that they attend—attended—some academy in Cleveland and were chosen for the trip because of their interest and/or talent in art. Mitchell and Stewart were best friends and shared secrets. Grace Geyer was something of a daredevil and troublemaker. She was on probation—the school’s, not the law’s—and was on the tour primarily because she was the one with the most artistic talent.”
    â€œFigures,” Harold said.
    No one asked him why.
    â€œThe victims-to-be all checked in without anything unusual happening. Andria Bell asked the concierge down in the lobby about directions to the Museum of Modern Art. That was about it. The girls didn’t raise any hell or cause any trouble or play music too loud. The only other hotel guest who even recalls seeing them was a woman on the same floor, a writer named Lettie Soho—small h —down the hall about four rooms. She happened to take an elevator up from the lobby with them and saw them all go into their room. Everything seemed normal, she said. There were some giggles in the elevator. One of the girls poked another in the ribs. Their teacher tour guide gave them a look. Then they went out, and while Soho was trying to get her card key to work, she watched them all file into their suite. This was on the day of the crime, approximately an hour before they were killed. When Soho went down to the hotel restaurant for dinner, she saw the older woman, Andria Bell, let a man into the room.”
    The Q&A detectives were silent and leaned slightly toward Weaver.
    â€œProbably he was the killer,” Weaver said. “Soho didn’t get a good look at him before he went into the suite and the door closed.”
    â€œBut the uniforms got what Soho had to give. Some kind of description.”
    â€œYeah,” Weaver said. “Average size and build, but maybe taller or shorter. Hair brown or black, cut short or medium. Eyes maybe dark, or possibly blue. Wearing gray pants or maybe jeans. White or blue shirt. Possibly a tie, yellow or brown. Age, somewhere between late twenties, mid- or late