"Needle tracks," said M. J. "And a fresh puncture mark."

"Another junkie," sighed Beamis. "There's our cause of death. Probable OD."

"We could run a fast analysis on her needle," said M. J. "Where's her kit?"

Shradick shook his head. "Didn't find one."

"She must've had a needle. A syringe."

"I looked," said Shradick. "I didn't see any."

"Did you find anything near the body?"

"Nothing," said Shradick. "No purse, no ID, nothing."

"Who was first on the scene?"

"Patrolman. Then me."

"So we've got a junkie with fresh needle marks. But no needle."

Beamis said, "Maybe she shot up somewhere else. Wandered into the alley and died."

"Possible."

Shradick was peering at the woman's hand. "What's this?" he said.

"What's what?"

"She's got something in her hand."

M. J. looked. Sure enough, there was a tiny fleck of pink cardboard visible under the edge of her clenched fingers. It took two of them to pry the fist open. Out slid a matchbook, a glossy pink affair with raised gold lettering: "L'Etoile, fine nouvelle cuisine. 221 Hilton Avenue."

"Kind of out of her neighborhood," Beamis remarked.

"Hey, I hear that's a nice place," said Shradick. "Not that I could ever afford to eat there myself."

M. J. opened the matchbook. Inside were three unused matches. And a phone number, scrawled in fountain pen ink on the inside cover.

"Think it's a local number?" she asked.

"Prefix would put it in Surry Heights," said Beamis. "That's still out of her neighborhood."

"Well," said M. J. "Let's try it out and see what happens." As Beamis and Shradick stood by, she went to the wall phone and dialed the number. It rang, threetimes, four. An answering machine came on, the message spoken by a deep male voice: