I made myself a cup of tea and met Jacobi in Interrogation Room 1. I drew two columns on a freestanding chalkboard: one for what we knew, one for what we had to check out. Jacobi's initial talk with the groom's parents had produced nothing. The father was a big-time Wall Street guy who ran a firm that handled international buy outs He said that he and his wife had stayed until the last guest had left, and "walked the kids upstairs." They didn't have an enemy in the world. No debts, addictions, threats. Nothing to provoke such a horrible, unthinkable act. A canvass of guests on the thirtieth floor had been slightly more successful. A couple from Chicago had noticed a man lingering in the hallway near the Mandarin Suite last night around 10:30 p.m. They described him as medium build, with short, dark hair, and said he wore a dark suit or maybe a tuxedo. He was carrying what may have been a box of liquor in his hands. Later, two used tea bags and two empty push-throughs of Pepcid tablets on the table were the clearest signs that we'd been bouncing these questions back and forth for several hours. It was quarter past seven. Our shift had ended at five. "No date tonight, Lindsay?" Jacobi finally asked. "I get all the dates I want, Warren." "Right, like I said- no date tonight." Without knocking, our lieutenant, Sam Roth, whom we called Cheery, stuck his head into the room. He tossed a copy of the afternoon Chronicle across the table. "You see this?" The boldface headline read, "wedding night massacre at hyatt." I read aloud from the front page. "Under a stunning view of the bay, in a world only the rich would know, the body of the twenty-nine-year-old groom lay curled up near the door." He knotted his brow. "What, did we invite this reporter in for a house tour of the crime scene? She knows the names, maps out the scene." The byline read Cindy Thomas. I thought of the card in my purse, letting out a long sigh. Cindy goddamn Thomas.