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woman studied a file, so mouse quiet I hadn’t noticed her. She had dark shoulder-length hair and owlish glasses. Her name was Evie or something, a fairly recent hire, and I hadn’t worked any cases she’d handled. She hurried over. I smiled and nodded and she ignored me.
    Clair tapped the victim’s pubic bone. “Since you were kind enough to show up at work today, Doctor—it being a Monday and all—I wanted to point out the writing here on the pubis. Call Chambliss and get him over here with the microphotography gear and have him shoot the inscription. And check the body for any other writing. Got it?”
    â€œI would have done that in any case, Doct—”
    â€œWhat are you waiting for? We’re not voting on it; go.”
    Evie or something retreated to the utility office to summon the photographer. The intercom crackled and I heard the voice of receptionist Vera Braden, the Deep South dipped in honey and fried up with a side of grits.
    â€œDr. Pel-tee-a? Bill Ah-nett from the eff-bee-aye on line fo-wer. Says he got the ’nalysis on yoah tissue samples from las’ week.”
    â€œI’ll take it in my office,” Clair announced to the air and clicked out the side door to her office. I took the opportunity to jump into the rest room a few paces away. I returned a minute later to find Zane Peltier had wandered into the suite. He stood white faced beside the body. His knees looked one shiver shy of buckling and he kept whispering, Jesus .
    â€œTake it easy there, Mr. Peltier,” I said, moving to his side and putting a steadying hand against his back. “Take a deep breath.”
    â€œWho is that?” he rasped. “Jesus.”
    â€œA man named Jerrold Nelson.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œBreathe,” I repeated. He breathed.
    â€œI came to see what was taking Clair so long and, Jesus—where’s the head?”
    â€œWe don’t know that yet.”
    â€œWho would do such a thing to another person?” He sucked down a couple more fast breaths and his color started returning.
    â€œI’m—I’m all right now, Detective. Never seen a body without . . .” He managed a quivering smile. “I wish I’d stayed outside.”
    Zane deep-breathed his way to Clair’s office, looking closer to his true age. In cattier circles it’s mewed that the nuptials of Zane Peltier to the former Clair Swanscott was less marriage than merger, him bringing name and wealth, her weighing in with brains and ambition. Zane’s money was rooted in antebellum Mobile, one of those snowball fortunes that gathered as it rolled. He inherited several enterprises, was on the boards of several others, but labored about fifteen hours a week, I’d heard. Probably very efficient hours.
    Clair stuck her head in the front door of the suite. I saw Zane behind her. He looked ready to leave. Clair cocked an eye toward the utility office.
    â€œI have a disinterment in Bayou La Batre, then lunch with Bill Arnett. I’ll be back by three forty-five.” Clair turned my way. “This is the way it operates, Ryder. Everyone doing their jobs, working on schedule. Showing up on time.”
    Not a word of it meant for me.
    The door squeezed shut. Clair was off on schedule and Zane, one suspects, was off for a stiff belt. Which left just me and Evie or something—boy and girl alone together in a way-house for the dead. I ambled toward her while detecting on the way: no wedding band. She was filling in lines on a pile of forms.
    â€œI’m Carson Ryder, Homicide,” I said to the crown of her head. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
    She made a few pen scratches before looking up.
    â€œAva Davenelle.” She didn’t offer her hand but mine was unavoidable. Her handshake was cool, compulsory, and quickly retrieved.
    â€œYou’re new here, Dr. Davenelle?”
    â€œIf six