Two men in yellow jackets bearing "CSU" in large black letters walked past her. At the end of a hall, a group of cops and investigators stood in front of an open double doorway marked "Mandarin Suite." She wasn't only inside; she was right in the fucking middle of it. Cindy made her way toward the double doors. The cops weren't even looking in her direction; they were letting in police staff who had come from the main elevators. She had made it all the way. The Mandarin Suite. She could see inside. It was huge, opulent, with lavish decor. Roses were everywhere. Then her heart almost stopped. She thought she might be sick. The groom, in a bloodstained tuxedo shirt, lay there on the floor. Cindy's legs buckled. She had never seen a murder victim before. She wanted to lean forward, to let her eyes memorize every detail, but her body wouldn't move. "Who the hell are you?" a brusque voice suddenly demanded. A large, angry cop was staring directly at her face. All of a sudden, she was grabbed and pushed hard against the wall. It hurt. In a panic, Cindy pointed to her bag and her wallet, in which a photo press credential was displayed. The angry cop began leafing through her IDs and credit cards as if they were junk mail. "Jesus." The thick-necked patrolman scowled with a face like a slobbering Doberman. "She's a reporter." "How in hell did you get up here?" his partner came over and demanded. "Get her the hell out," Doberman barked to him. "And keep the ID. She won't get within a mile of a police briefing for the next year." His partner dragged her by the arm to the main elevator bank. Over her shoulder, Cindy got a final glimpse of the dead man's legs splayed near the door. It was awful, terrifying, and sad. She was shaking. "Show this reporter the front door," he instructed a third cop manning the elevator. He flicked her press ID as if it were a playing card. "Hope losing this was worth the ride up." As the doors closed, a voice yelled, "Hold it." i "Rough in there, Inspector?" the cop accompanying* Cindy inquired.