MAGGIE hurried past three of her new neighbors who politely stayed in the street, a safe distance from the house flanked with police cruisers. The coroner’s van sat in the driveway, already empty. She ignored a police officer on his hands and knees who had gotten a roll of crime scene tape tangled in a rosebush.

“Hey,” he yelled when he realized Maggie was headed for the door. “You can’t go in there.”

“I’m with the FBI.”

“Yeah, right. And this is what the FBI is wearing these days.”

Instinctively, Maggie stood up straight and crossed her arms over her sweat-drenched chest. Ordinarily, she paid close attention to her presentation and attire. She was aware that her hundred-and-fifteen-pounds, five-foot-five stature did not live up to the FBI’s authoritarian image. In a blazer and trousers, her aloof attitude could pull it off. In a T-shirt and faded jeans, she realized she might not be able to.

Finally, the officer took a closer look at her credentials. The smirk slid off his face.

“Son of a bitch. You’re on the level. I didn’t realize this was something the FBI would be in on.”

It probably was not. She failed to mention that she was just in the neighborhood. Instead, she asked, “Who’s leading the investigation?”

“Oh, that would be Detective Manx.”

She headed for the entrance, feeling his eyes follow her.

The foyer was almost as large as Maggie’s new living room. She took her time, stepping carefully and touching nothing. The house looked impeccable, not a speck of dust, until she got to the kitchen. Scattered across the butcher-block island were all the makings for a sandwich, now dried up, wilted and crusty. A head of lettuce sat on a cutting board amongst the remnants of tomato seeds. Several candy-bar wrappers, containers left on their sides and an open mayonnaise jar waited to be cleaned up. In the middle of the table sat the sandwich. Only one bite taken from it.

Maggie’s eyes examined the rest of the kitchen—shiny counter-tops, sparkling appliances and a spotless floor, marred only by three more candy wrappers. Whoever made this mess didn’t live here.

She could hear muffled voices now, coming from above. She climbed the stairs, avoiding contact with the handrail. On one of the steps she noticed a clump of mud, left perhaps by one of the officers. There was something unusual in it that glittered. She resisted the urge to pick it up. It wasn’t as though she carried evidence bags in her back pocket.

She followed the voices down the hall. There was no longer a need to scrounge for evidence. At the doorway to the master bedroom a puddle of blood greeted her, the imprint of a shoe stamped at one edge, while the other edge soaked into an expensive Persian rug. Maggie could see a spatter pattern on the oak door. Oddly, the spatter reached only to about knee level.

Maggie was lost in thought and hadn’t entered the room when a detective in a blue jacket and wrinkled chinos yelled at her.

“Hey, lady. How did you get in here?”

Two other men stopped their work and stared at her. Maggie’s first impression of the detective was that he looked like a wrinkled advertisement for the Gap.

“My name’s Maggie O’Dell. I’m with the FBI.”

The men exchanged looks while Maggie took a careful step around the puddle and into the room. More blood speckled the comforter on the four-poster. Despite the spatter of blood, the covers remained neatly spread. Whatever struggle took place did not make it to the bed.

“What’s the FBI’s interest in this?” the man in the blue jacket demanded.

“Are you Detective Manx?”

His eyes shot up to hers, the look not only registering surprise, but alarm that she knew his name. Was he worried that his superiors were checking up on him?

“Yeah, I’m Manx. Who the hell called you?”

It was time to confess. “I live down the street. I thought I might be able to help.”

“Christ!” He glanced at the other two men. They quietly watched as though observing a standoff. “Just because you’ve got a fucking badge, you think you can barge in here?”

“I’m a forensic psychologist and a profiler. I’m used to examining scenes like this. I thought I could—”

“Well, we don’t need any help. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Hey, Detective.” The yellow-tape officer from outside walked into the room and immediately all eyes watched him step into the puddle. He jerked his foot up and awkwardly stepped back into the hall, holding up the dripping toe of his shoe.

“Hell, I can’t believe I did that again,” he muttered.

Just then Maggie realized the intruder had been more careful. The toe print she had seen was worthless. When she looked back at Manx, his eyes darted away. He shook his head, disguising the embarrassment as disdain for the young officer.

“What is it, Officer Kramer?”

“It’s just…there are a few neighbors out front asking questions. I wondered if maybe I should start questioning them. You know, see if anybody saw something.” Kramer looked desperately for somewhere to place his foot. He glanced up apologetically as he rubbed the sole on the hall carpet.

“Get names and addresses. We’ll talk to them later.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer seemed relieved to escape the new stain he had created.

Maggie waited. The other two men stared at Manx.

“So tell me, O’Donnell. What’s your take on this mess?”

“O’Dell.”

“Excuse me?”

“The name’s O’Dell,” she said. “Is the body in the bathroom?”

“There’s a whirlpool bath with more blood, but no body. In fact, we seem to be missing that small detail.”

“The blood seems to be confined to this room,” the medical examiner told her. Maggie noticed he was the only one wearing latex gloves.

“If someone ran out, but was injured, you’d think there’d be some drips, some scuffs, something,” said Manx. “But the house is fucking clean enough to eat off the floors.”

“The kitchen’s not so clean,” Maggie contradicted him.

He scowled at her. “How long have you been sneaking around here?”

She ignored him and kneeled down to get a closer look at the blood on the floor. Most of it was congealed, some dried. She guessed it had been here since morning.

“Maybe she didn’t have time to clean up after lunch,” Manx continued.

“How do you know the victim is a woman?”

“A neighbor called us when she couldn’t get her on the phone. Said they were supposed to go shopping. See, I’m thinking the guy—whoever he was—must have interrupted her lunch.”

“What makes you think the sandwich was hers?”

“What the hell are you saying, O’Donnell?”

“The name is O’Dell, Detective Manx.” She let him hear her irritation this time. His blatant disregard was a small but familiar and annoying way to discredit her. “The victim’s house is impeccable. She wouldn’t have left a mess like that, let alone sit down to eat before she cleaned it up.”

“Maybe she was interrupted.”

“Perhaps. But there’s no sign of a struggle in the kitchen. And the alarm system was off, right?”

Manx looked annoyed that she had guessed correctly. “Yeah, it was off, so maybe it was someone she knew.”

“That’s possible.” Maggie stood and let her eyes take in the rest of the room. “If he did surprise her, that didn’t happen until they were up here. She may have been waiting for him, or perhaps she invited him up. That’s probably why there’s no signs of a struggle until we get into the bedroom. She may have changed her mind. Didn’t want to go through with whatever they had agreed to. This spatter pattern here on the door is strange.” She pointed to it, careful not to touch. “It’s so far down, one of them would need to be on the floor when this wound was inflicted.”

She walked to the window, feeling the men’s eyes follow her. None of the neighbors’ houses were even visible, all hidden by the foliage and trees. No one would see an intruder come or go back here. But how would he maneuver the steep ridge and the stream? Had she overestimated the strength of that natural barrier?

“There really is not much blood,” she continued. “Unless there’s a lot more in the bathroom. Perhaps there’s not a body simply because the victim left on her own.”

She heard Manx snort. “They had a nice little lunch, he beat the shit out of her because she decided not to fuck him, but then she left willingly with this guy? And in the meantime, the whole goddamn neighborhood didn’t notice?” Manx laughed.

Maggie ignored his sarcasm. “I didn’t say she left willingly. Also, this blood is much too congealed and dry to have happened a few hours ago during lunch. I’m guessing it happened early this morning.”

“She’s right about that.” The medical examiner nodded in agreement.

“He probably fixed the sandwich for himself. You should bag the sandwich. If you can’t get a dental imprint, there may be some saliva for a DNA test.”

When she finally turned to face him, Manx stared at her. She recognized his stunned look. It was the same look that often followed her on-the-spot, blunt profiles. At times, that look made her feel like a cheap fortune-teller or a psychic. But always beneath their skepticism lay just enough respect to vindicate that initial reaction.

“Mind if I check out the bathroom?” she asked.

“Be my guest.” Manx shook his head and waved her through.

Before Maggie got to the bathroom door, she stopped. On the bureau was a photograph. She recognized the beautiful blond-haired woman who smiled out at her, one arm wrapped around a dark-haired man and the other around a panting white Labrador. It was the same woman she and Tess McGowan had met.

“What is it?” Manx asked.

“I’ve met this woman before. Last week. Her name’s Rachel Endicott. She was out jogging.”

Just then, she saw more blood. Only this was smeared on the bottom of the bed ruffle. Was it possible that whoever had been bleeding was still under the bed?