serious profession such as he, working in a sensitive and prestigious office such as his, would choose to live in a complex nicknamed the "Fuck Palace."
I should mention one interesting personal touch I observed as I passed through his living room: a silver frame inside which was a studio-posed photograph of a mildly attractive, middle-aged lady, a smiling young boy, and a frowning teenage girl.
This seemed incongruous with Clifford's living arrangements, and could suggest that we had just stumbled into his secret nooky nest, or he was divorced, or something in between.
Finally, we were just inside the border of the county of Arlington, which explained all the Arlington cops, homicide dicks, and forensics people trying to get a fix on this thing.
Were this suicide, they were wrapping up and about to knock off for an early lunch. If murder, on the other hand, their day was just starting.
As I mentioned, the smell was really rank, and I was the only one without a patch of white neutralizing disinfectant under my nose--or the only one still breathing.
At least I looked manly and cool while everybody else looked like character actors in a stunningly pathetic milk commercial. But in my short time with the Agency, I had learned that image is all-important: The image creates the illusion, and the illusion creates the reality. Or maybe it was the other way around. The Agency has a school for this stuff, but I was working on the fly.
Anyway, Bian Tran was staring at her watch, and she sort of sighed and said, "Okay, let's get through this. Quickly." She looked at me and continued, "I spoke with the lead detective when I arrived. It happened last night. Around midnight." She said, "I think your nose is already telling you that. Am I right?"
After five or six hours at room temperature, a body begins purging gases, and in a small and enclosed space such as this, the effect was worse than the men's room in a Mexican restaurant. Whatever Cliff had for dinner the night before was revolting.
She noted, "Statistically, that's the witching hour for suicides. Not the exact hour, per se. Just late at night."
"I had no idea."
"About 70 percent of the time."
"Okay." I was looking at the window. Unfortunately, we were on the twelfth floor of a modern high-rise and the windows were permasealed. I would either have to breathe slower or get her to talk faster.
She said, "Think about it. Exhaustion, mental defenses are worn down, darkness means gloominess, and if the victim lives alone, a mood of depression and isolation sets in." I must have looked interested in this tutorial because she continued, "Spring. That's the usual season. Holidays, though, like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year's are also fatally popular."
"Weird."
"Isn't it? When normal people's moods go on the upswing, theirs sink into the danger zone."
"Sounds like you know this stuff."
"I'm certainly no expert. I've helped investigate seven or eight suicides. How about you?"
"Strictly homicides. A little mob stuff, a few fatal kidnappings, that kind of thing." I asked her, "Did you ever investigate a suicide that looked like this?"
"I've never even heard of one like this."
"Was there a note?"
She shook her head. "But that's not conclusive. I've heard of cases where the note was left at the office, or even mailed."
She walked over to the dresser and began a visual inspection of the items on top: a comb and brush, small wooden jewelry box, small mirror, a few male trinkets. I followed her and asked, "How was the body discovered?"
"The victim uses . . . used a maid service. The maid had a key, at nine she let herself in and walked into this mess."
"Implying the apartment door was locked when she arrived. Right?"
"It has a self-locking mechanism." She added, "And no . . . there are no signs of burglary or break-in."
"The cops already checked for that?" I knew the same question would later be asked of me, so I asked.
"They did. The front door and a glass slider to the outdoor porch are the only entrances. The slider door was also locked, if you're interested. Anyway, we're on the twelfth floor."
"Who called the police?"
"The maid. She dialed 911, and they switched her to the police department."
I already knew that, but when you fail to raise the predictable questions, people get suspicious and start asking you questions. My FBI creds looked genuine enough to get me past the crime recorder at the door; now all I had to do was