“Keep your expectations low,” Jacobi growled.

“Okay, Warren. They’re subterranean. Give it to me.”

“We sent a text message over the NCIC system to all regional law enforcement agencies with everything we had on Caddy Girl.” Jacobi interrupted himself with a bout of coughing, a lingering symptom of the still-healing gunshot wound he’d taken to his right lung.

“Height, weight, approximate age, manner of dress, color of her hair, eyes, the works,” he continued at last.

“Checked all the possibles that came out of that,” said Conklin, optimism lighting his eyes.

“And?” I asked.

“We got a few approximate matches, but in the end they didn’t check out. One piece of good news. The lab found a print on one of her shoes.”

I perked up.

“It’s a partial,” Jacobi said, “but it’s something. If we ever get anything or anyone to match it to. That’s the problem so far. No links.”

“So, what’s your next step?”

“Lou, I was thinking that’s a trendy haircut on Caddy Girl,” Conklin said. “The cut and the color probably cost around three hundred dollars.”

I nodded, said, “Sounds about right.” How did he know about three-hundred-dollar haircuts?

“We’re going to canvass the fancy beauty salons. Someone might recognize her. Is that okay with you?”

“Let me see the picture,” I said, sticking out my hand.

Conklin reached out and handed me the dead woman’s photo. I stared at her angelic face, her tousled blond hair lying soft against the stainless-steel slab. A sheet was pulled up to her clavicle.

My God. Who was she? And why hadn’t anyone reported her missing? And why, four days after the girl’s death, were we absolutely clueless?

The two inspectors left my glass-walled cube, and I called out to Brenda, who settled into the side chair and flapped a notepad open on her lap.

I began to dictate a memo-to-staff about my meeting with Tracchio, but I found it hard to focus.