"You guys find anything?" Mike asked the two cops who had been assisting Hal.

"Double-checking. Nothing so far except this-I don't know-looks like a knotted strip of leather. Like the end of a key chain or something." One of them held up a two-inch piece of rawhide.

"This guy was good," the other said. "Must have had lots of time. Maybe even got away clean."

Each man had examined half of the room, and now they switched positions to go over the other's territory. Mike stepped around Hal and stood behind an old wooden desk. He opened the four drawers, flashing his light into them and slamming them shut.

"Government offices. Seems like whoever winds up designing stuff for the city has to take a course in how to make it look dismal."

"What agency was this?" I asked.

"Ports and Terminals."

Three chairs with broken backs lined the far wall. Mike lifted each one and replaced it. He moved toward several crates piled in a corner.

"Don't bother, Chapman. They're as empty as your pockets."

"What did you think about those lines on her wrists?" Mike was crouched on the floor now, measuring the coating of dust with a gloved finger.

"Some kind of ligature. Maybe even cuffs. Hey, Alexandra, you want to wave that cigar around. Where did you get such a good one, Mike?" Hal asked, sniffing the air.

"Coop's boss. All his friends stockpile him with the best Cubans. Only the feds prosecute for trading with the enemy. Not Battaglia. He just lets the evidence go up in smoke."

"You think she was killed here?" I asked. "Nah. She's a dump job."

"No signs of any struggle, but then that's pretty tough to do when you're bound," Mike said, agreeing with Hal. "Maybe still alive when he brought her up and left her to die. That's why there's blood."

I looked through what was left of the window. The river was dark, a slight chop from the current kicking up an occasional whitecap. A few small boats criss-crossed the harbor, illuminating narrow lines over the water with their headlights.