A second had passed through the side of her abdomen and out her back. Another had hit her in the right thigh. She had clearly gone down by the bathroom and lay still-perhaps pretending to be dead-for a few minutes. A pool had formed there. Then she had crawled across the room and into the hallway, where she had died and where Hardy had found her.

Glitsky came away from the body with a glazed, guarded look. He had told Ling to wait in the living room to send in the techs. Hardy sat on an upholstered chair in the corner, elbows on knees, his hands folded.

“What about the bed?” he asked.

“I’m getting there.”

A second trail of blood began on the bed, which was still made up. Someone had been lying on top of its covers when they’d been shot. The trail crossed the room like a thin strip of syrup to the back door. Glitsky opened the door.

There was a walkway about four feet wide that must have been used mostly for storage. Paint cans, cardboard boxes, a bicycle, other garage stuff filled the space on Glitsky’s left, hard by the piling. The right side had been Astro-turfed. A large pot-style barbecue squatted by the other back door, which led to the galley. Paraphernalia for outdoor cooking hung on the wall by that door.

The blood drew a line in the middle of this area, swerved over the Astro-turf, paused and pooled at the railing, disappearing over the side of the barge.

Glitsky came back inside, shivering even in his parka. Hardy was standing now by the bed.

“The walking dead,” Glitsky said.

“Look at this.” Hardy knew enough not to touch anything. He had been a good cop once.

There was a small hole in the center of a splotch of blood on the bed, at about shoulder level if the victim’s head had been on the pillow.

“Rusty was first, I guess,” Hardy said. “He was sleeping, maybe. Lying down. She was in the shower, heard the shot, came out and got hers.”