The Woman in Apartment 4

The call came in at 2:17 AM.

Officer Reyes was careful and did not tell her things he was not sure of.

"We have a body. Colonia Americana, Calle Morelos. Third floor."

"Who found her?"

"Neighbor below. Heard something fall. Waited an hour -- thought it was the television."

"What do we know?"

"Woman, mid-forties. Hernandez on the mailbox. No forced entry. No signs of struggle." A pause. "The position. She's on her back. Arms at her sides. Legs together. Like she was laid out."

Valentina stopped moving. "Like she was laid out."

"Yes."

She arrived at 2:41. The building: four stories of pink stucco that had given up being cheerful. Door locked from inside. Chain on. First officer had cut it.

The apartment was small and carefully organized. Plants on the windowsill, all healthy. Books organized by color. Photographs of a woman who smiled easily.

The woman on the floor was not smiling. She was, as Reyes had said, laid out. Arms close to her sides, legs together, white blouse, dark trousers. Eyes closed. Face calm.

"Time of death?" she asked the forensics officer.

"Eight to twelve hours. Between two and six this afternoon."

"Cause?"

"No visible trauma. No signs of struggle. Toxicology will tell us more."

"Could she have fallen that way naturally?"

"The arms are too close to the sides. When people faint they don't fall like soldiers at attention."

"She knew her killer." Not a question.

She walked to the window. One window lit in the building across the street. Third floor.

"Who lives in apartment 4? Over there."

Reyes radioed. The answer came back in forty seconds.

"No one. Vacant for six months."

The light, very deliberately, went out.

"Get someone over there now."

She was already moving. Already feeling what she always felt at the beginning of a case that was going to matter -- a specific narrowing of attention, every detail sharpened to a point.

She took the stairs two at a time.

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