"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 avoid any serious discussions that would expose what an utter phony I was. I'm good at that.