Agent Page appeared and leaned in over my shoulder. “What do you think the cutting isabout? Some kind of reference to plastic surgery maybe?”

The young agent had shaken off every subtle and not-so- subtle clue I had dropped that Ineeded to be alone right now, but I didn't have the heart to dress him down.

“I don't think so,” I said. “But I don't want to speculate yet. We'll know more once she'schecked in and cleaned up.” Now, please let me work, Page.

A dull-brown wash of dried blood covered the actress's ruined face. What a terriblewaste. And what exactly was I supposed to relay to the president about what I'd seenhere, about what had happened to his friend?

The driver, Bruno Capaletti, was still propped up at the steering wheel. A single bullethad entered his left temple before it destroyed most of his head. The blood on the emptyseat next to him was smeared, possibly by his own body but more likely by the killer,who had apparently shot Antonia Schifman from the front seat. A small amount ofcocaine had been found in the driver's jacket pocket. Did it mean anything? Probably not,but I couldn't rule out anything yet.

I finally stepped out and away from the limousine and took a breath of fresh air. “There'sa strange disconnect going on here,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

“Neat and sloppy?” Page asked. “Controlled, yet out of control.”

I looked at him, and my mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. The insightsurprised me a little. “Yes. Exactly” The bodies had been arranged, just so, inside the car.

But the shooting and, in particular, the cuts on Schifman's face had an angry haphazardquality to them.

There was a calling card, too. A row of children's stickers was affixed to the car door:glittery, bright-colored pictures of unicorns and rainbows. The same kind had apparentlybeen left at the scene of the previous week's murder.