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Thankfully, Dr. Liu appeared at the door. “Thank you for waiting,” she said. “You may come in now.”
    She held open the door to the examining room, and Savannah motioned Beverly inside.
    If the morgue was Savannah’s least favorite place, this room was her least favorite single spot on earth. Within these sparkling white walls, decorated with Gray’s Anatomy maps, she had seen more than one sight that had made her old before her time. The first time she had viewed a mangled child on that stainless-steel table in the middle of the room she had felt like she was thirtysomething going on eighty-five.
    Dr. Liu had carefully covered the body with a white cloth, and she stood aside, quietly allowing Savannah to proceed.
    Turning to Beverly, Savannah saw that the coldness, the almost nonchalant attitude she had observed before was slipping away. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the white sheet, her face nearly as pale.
    “This won’t take long, Beverly,” she said. “I’d just like you to take a look at ... his left hand and see if you can make the identification for us.”
    “His hand?” Beverly’s eyes met hers, and Savannah saw the beginnings of these raw emotions she usually witnessed in this room. “Why his hand? I want to see his face.”
    Savannah studied her for a moment, feeling a wave of sympathy that took more out of her than a ten-minute, full-out foot chase. “No, you don’t,” she said softly. “Really ... the hand will be enough.”
    Beverly shook her head. “But I do. Why can’t I ... ?”
    “Mrs. Winston, I don’t believe you could make a positive identification from the facial features. Is there some other part of the body you would prefer to view?”
    Understanding dawned on Beverly’s face. “Oh, he was shot in ... I see.” She paused and shuddered slightly before continuing. “The hand will be fine. Actually, the forearm. My husband has a distinctive tattoo on his upper forearm. A black panther... from his wilder days.”
    Savannah glanced questioningly at Dr. Liu, who nodded slightly. At the crime scene she hadn’t seen his forearms, but the doctor would have, once the body had arrived and had been stripped.
    Carefully, Savannah reached down and pulled the sheet back just a little, enough to bare the corpse’s left forearm. There, faded over the years but unmistakable, was the crude tattoo of a panther, crawling up the arm, his claws raking long red “scratches” on the flesh.
    Beverly Winston closed her eyes and swayed forward. Savannah reached for her, thinking she was going to faint. But she recovered herself and pushed Savannah’s hand away.
    She stepped closer to the table, where she stood for a long time, staring down at the gray-white arm with its exotic ornamentation.
    Carefully, Savannah studied her face, watching for any telltale signs of guilt, remorse, anger ... anything that might give a clue to the woman’s feelings. All she saw was shock and sorrow. Either Beverly Winston was deeply hurt by what she saw or she was a damned good actress. Savannah hoped it was the former, but she reserved the possibility that it could be the latter. Earlier in her career Savannah had been deceived. Giving people the benefit of the doubt night work well in intimate relationships, but in the world of crime it could be deadly.
    “Am I to assume ...” Savannah said quietly, “... that this is Jonathan Winston?”
    Beverly said nothing but gave a curt nod, still staring down at the tattoo. She took one step closer to the table and touched the arm lightly with one fingertip. Then she lifted the hand, bent over, and placed a kiss on the knuckles.
    “Oh, Jonny,” she whispered, “you’ve done it now, haven’t you?”
    She made a small sound that was very like a stifled sob, replaced the hand, and patted it once. Turning to Savannah, she said curtly, “Yes, Detective Reid, this is ... was my husband, Jonathan Winston. You have your positive identification. Is there anything else I