“Maybe she didn’t.”

Edgar dropped the photo he was looking at back into the drawer and looked at Bosch.

“Harry, what are you seeing?”

Bosch shook his head.

“Nothing yet. I’m just saying. I’m asking the question, you know?”

“Don’t go crazy on this. You want to talk to the landlord, fine. Let’s talk to him and put this thing to bed-no pun intended.”

“All I’m saying is that you can’t come into this with a preconceived idea, you know? It’s infectious.”

Bosch sauntered over to one of the coroner’s investigators, who was putting equipment back into a toolbox. Bosch knew him, too. Nester Gonzmart.

“How’s it look, Nester?”

“Looks like we’re out of here, boss.”

“What do you have for TOD?”

“We took the liver temp. I’m going to say between midnight and four this morning.”

“So twenty-four hours tops. Any trauma?”

“Not a hangnail, man. This is a clean scene. Sometimes it’s hard to believe but it’s looking to me like what it is. We’ll get the tox in about two weeks and we’ll see the Perc on the screens. That’ll be it.”

“Make sure you get it to me.”

“You got it, Harry.”

He snapped the latches on the toolbox and headed out of the room with it. Bosch knew he would be back with the stretcher. They were going to take Lizbeth Grayson on a ride downtown.

“Everybody?” Baron said. “Can I get everybody to step back into the hall so I can get my wide shots?”

Bosch moved toward the hall, wondering where Fulton was with the landlord.

“Thank you,” Baron said.

Fulton was in the front living room with a man who was small, slight and maybe as old as the apartment building. He was introduced as Ziggy Wojciechowski. He recounted for Bosch and Edgar his finding of Lizbeth Grayson dead. It was the same story Fulton had already related.

“Was the door locked?” Bosch asked.