But she knew there was more to it than that. She wasn’t projecting her own psyche onto a suicide victim. She was too good a cop for that. Something about the crime scene was making her crazy. So far she’d just seen little things that didn’t make sense for an imminent suicide: a prescription for her mother she’d arranged to pick up the day after her death, a book on caring for ill relatives she’d requested from the library’s interbranch loan.

There had to be something bigger. She just couldn’t identify it. Whatever it was, it had registered somewhere in the back of her mind and she hadn’t been able to bring it forward yet. Usually if she took a quick walk or a long shower she could turn off enough of her conscious brain to allow the subconscious to seep through. But she’d walked and showered and showered and walked and still she was no closer to the solution. She’d hoped the hours in the car, staring out at the scenery, might coax the clue out of hiding, but by the time they cruised past old Candlestick Park and into the city there was still nothing.

That was why this interview with Mandy’s supervisor was so important. If she couldn’t find a lead here she’d have to admit there really was no case. She was not going to cut it short, no matter if the parking threatened to cost more than the unmarked Crown Vic was worth.

The digital readout on the elevator’s control panel flipped to 34 and the car decelerated suddenly. The doors slid open and they stepped out into open space. At least that was what it looked like. The vast lobby was nearly empty, a black slate floor running uninterrupted the entire length and width of the building, so that whichever direction you looked you saw nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows.

Or almost nothing, anyway. A football field’s length away from the elevators the slate rose to form some kind of large shelf, and behind that a wide spiral staircase led up to what Juliet assumed was the thirty-fifth floor.