“It’s got bad plumbing.” Ben drained the rest of the Pepsi and tossed it into a can.

“Yeah. Got any vacancies over at your place?”

“Nobody leaves there unless they die.”

Through the wide glass window of Harris’s office they could see the captain standing by his desk as he talked on the phone. He’d kept himself in good shape for a man of fifty-seven who’d spent the last ten years behind a desk. He had too much willpower to run to fat. His first marriage had gone under because of the job, his second because of the bottle. Harris had given up booze and marriage, and now the job took the place of both. The cops in his department didn’t necessarily like him, but they respected him. Harris preferred things that way. Glancing up, he signaled for both men to enter.

“I want the lab reports before five. If there was a piece of lint on her sweater, I want to know where it came from. Do your job. Give me something to work with so I can do mine.” When he hung up, he went over to his hot plate and poured coffee. After five years he still wished it were scotch. “Tell me about Francie Bowers.”

“She’s been working tables at Doug’s for almost a year. Moved to D.C. from Virginia last November. Lived alone in an apartment in North West.” Ed shifted his weight and checked his notebook. “Married twice, neither lasted over a year. We’re checking out both exes. She worked nights and slept days, so her neighbors don’t know much about her. She got off work at one. Apparently she cut through the alley to get to the bus stop. She didn’t own a car.”

“Nobody heard anything,” Ben added. “Or saw anything.”

“Ask again,” Harris said simply. “And find someone who did. Anything more on number one?”

Ben didn’t like victims by numbers, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Carla Johnson’s boyfriend’s in L.A., got a bit part on a soap. He’s clean. It appeared she’d had an argument with another student the day before she was killed. Witnesses said it got pretty hot.”