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his shield. “Who runs the place?”
    The man flinched at the sight of the badge. “That would be Mrs. Van Fleet,” he said. “Please stay here, and I’ll get her. Please remember there are bereaved here.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Dino said.
    “You don’t like the fellow?” Stone said when the man had gone.
    “I don’t like the business,” Dino said. “It’s a creepy business, and people who do it are creepy.”
    “Somebody’s got to do it,” Stone said. “We’ll do better if you don’t give them a hard time.”
    Dino nodded. “You talk to the creeps, then.”
    As they waited, Stone looked around. In a large, somewhat overdecorated sitting room to their left, two dozen people talked quietly, while some gathered around an elderly woman who seemed to be receiving the condolences. He looked right and was surprised to see a bedroom. On the four-poster bed, under a lace coverlet, lay a pretty woman in her late thirties. Several people stood around the bed, and one knelt at some sort of altar set at the foot. It took Stone a moment to realize that the woman on the bed was the guest of honor. She appeared to be sleeping.
    A door opened at the end of the hallway ahead of them, and a short, thin, severely dressed woman of about sixty approached them. She walked with her hands folded in front of her; it would have been an odd posture anywhere but here.
    “Yes?” the woman said, her face expressionless.
    “Good afternoon,” Stone said. “I am Detective Barrington, and this is Detective Bacchetti, New York City Police. I believe you have an employee here named Marvin Herbert Van Fleet.”
    “He’s not an employee,” the woman said. “He’s a partner in the firm, he’s our chief… technical person, and he’s my son.”
    Stone nodded. “May we see him, please?”
    “Now?”
    “Please.”
    “I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.”
    “We’re busy, too,” Dino said, apparently unable to contain himself.
    Stone shot him a sharp glance. “I’m afraid we can’t wait for a more convenient time,” he said to the woman.
    “One moment, please,” Mrs. Van Fleet said, not happy. She walked down the hallway a few paces, picked up a phone, dialed two digits, and spoke quietly for a moment. She hung up and motioned to the detectives.
    They followed her down the hallway. She turned right through a door and walked rapidly down another hall. The decor changed to utilitarian. A vaguely chemical scent hung in the air. She stopped before a large, metal swinging door and indicated with a nod that they were to enter. Then she brushed past them and left.
    Stone pushed the door open and, followed by Dino, entered a large room with a tile floor. Before them were six autopsy tables, two of them occupied by bodies covered with sheets. At the far end of the room, the body of a middle-aged woman lay naked on another table. A man stood with his back to her, facing a counter built along the wall. Memories of dissecting frogs in high school biology swept over Stone; the smell of formaldehyde was distinct.
    “Marvin Van Fleet?” Stone said.
    A sharp, metallic sound was followed by a hollow rattling noise. The man turned around, and Stone saw a soft drink can on the tabletop.
    “Herbert Van Fleet,” the man said. “Please call me Doc. Everybody does.”
    The man was not handsome, Stone thought, but his voice was — a rich baritone, expressive, without any discernible accent. A good bedside voice. The detectives walked briskly to the end of the room, their heels echoing off the tile floor. They stopped at the head of the autopsy table. Stone introduced himself and Dino.
    “I’ve been expecting you,” Van Fleet said. He stepped over to the naked body on the table and picked up the forceps that rested beside the head.
    “Oh? Why is that?” Stone replied.
    “Well, of course I heard about Miss Nijinsky on television this morning. Given the nature of our relationship, I thought perhaps someone would come to see me.” He