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| The blood spackled Martin’s were the only clue. It was puzzling, the most puzzling case of homicide I’d ever dealt with. The obvious question stuck out in my mind like the eviscerated whore’s er | |
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| nipples, Why no evidence, nothing, but the shoes? | |
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| I decided to let forensics worry about it until something else popped up. It was almost lunch and I was hungry despite the week-old corps lying at my feet. I stood from my squatted position, a TV cop | |
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| drama pose that the detectives use when investigating a corps, and made my way around the youngsters in white coats for the door. I don’t know how I developed that habit, I rarely watched TV. | |
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| The mid morning sun was smothered by a muggy overcast, just beginning to drain a thin rain down through the smog and soot, to water the concrete and pavement of the industrial sector of the city. When | |
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| I collapsed into the seat of my car I had three thoughts on my mind: the shoes, the location of the body, and a nice warm Ruben. | |
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