“And bring something to eat. I’ll meet you there at three, so I might be a little hungry. And be outside in the parking lot, so I don’t have to go up to the desk or anything. That would be real embarrassing.”

“I’ll be outside in the parking lot at three with food, waiting for you. Be on time—for a change.”

“I swear I will.” Then Yasmine said, “You know what happens when we get together, Gabe. It’s like instant chemistry.”

“I know. I can’t help it.”

“I can’t, either.” A pause. “I’m not saying yes or anything, but you should bring something … just in case. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse and his heart was galloping in his chest. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“We’ve got a Bengal female.” Wilner stepped aside and allowed Decker to look through the peephole. The space had been demolished—overturned furniture streaked with blood and feces. There were deep, clawed grooves on walls and floors. Flies buzzed everywhere. A wretched odor of a decayed carcass wafted through the hallway.

The animal, however, was magnificent, even as it paced amid the wreckage. Her fur gleamed amber and black, and she had reflective gold eyes, massive sharp claws, and ivory-colored fangs. Decker had never seen a tiger that close, nor had he actually heard an animal’s roar at such a high decibel level. It sent shock waves coursing through his body. He stood aside from the viewing spot and gave Marge a chance to see. She peered inside and then backed away with a single shake of her head. “She’s dragging a chain around.”

“I noticed,” Decker said. “It’s attached to a collar around her neck.”

Wilner said, “She probably broke it off from her mooring. We’ll saw it off when she’s out.” The animal agent was looking over his carefully devised schedule. He had a checklist of supplies, and an animal gurney along with a steel enclosure had been placed outside the apartment’s front door. Wilner had also acquired the key to the service elevator, since the passenger one was too narrow for the cage.

“This is the plan.” He was still reading off his list. “Jake’ll get a clean shot off. After she’s tranquilized, we’ll bust in and take her out on a gurney, load her into the pen, and take her down in our truck.” Wilner looked up. “After Jake fires the shot, no one moves a muscle until I give the all-clear signal.” He demonstrated the sign to his fellow officers: a hand in the air swooping down.

Decker asked, “What if the tiger busts out before she’s tranquilized?”

“We’ve got big game guns, Lieutenant. As much as I hate putting an animal down, we know where our prior-ities are.”

“I want to stick around,” Decker said. “This is my community.”

“Me, too,” Marge said. When Wilner looked skeptical, she said, “Cross my heart I won’t get in your way.”

Paul Hathaway threw them a pair of protective vests. “Stay way down the hallway behind the barriers we erected. If something goes wrong, we’ll take care of it. Don’t try to help out.”

“That’s a Roger Wilco with me,” Marge said.

Jake Richey was looking through the hole. “Ideally, we could enlarge this area so I could see and aim through the same hole. But I’m worried if I make the hole too big, she can get a purchase and stick a claw through.” He was still assessing the situation. “How about I drill right about … here?” He marked a spot eye level with the first hole but about two inches to the left. “Just big enough so I can stick the bore through it. I think that’ll work.”

Wilner handed Richey the drill. As soon as the noise came on, the animal began to scratch furiously at the door. When it bellowed, Decker’s heart took a jump. The sound enveloped him in a 360-degree cage of anger and muscle.

Richey was unperturbed. A minute later, he stopped and placed the bore through the new aperture. “I think I’m okay. Let’s give it a whirl.”

Hathaway ordered Decker and Marge behind the makeshift barrier. The protection wasn’t much more than wood beams temporarily nailed across the hallway. Decker took out his gun, and Marge did the same. She gave him a smile, but she was nervous. That made two of them. The scene suddenly became devoid of human voice, the aural vacuum disturbed only by the fierce grunts and clawing that came from behind a wall.

Richey lifted the gun and positioned the tip of the bore inside the hole. Then he peered inside the sight hole with his left eye. If he was tense, there was nothing about him on the exterior that registered anxiety.

Waiting.

The seconds ticking by.

Waiting again.

More time.

Richey squeezed the trigger and then immediately took several giant steps backward. Amid a pop, a howl, and a roar, the animal crashed against a wall. The building shook on its foundation, a quick jolt underfoot as a razor-sharp claw suddenly splintered through the upper section of the door. Wilner kept his hand in the air, indicating that no one should move as the tiger mauled the door in a feral rage.

It was one of the longest thirty seconds of Decker’s life.

Eventually the ferocious howls dwindled to halfhearted growling, then mewling until the claw fell back into the apartment and all was quiet inside. Wilner nodded to Richey, who looked inside. “She’s down.”

Wilner gave the signal, and like horses out of the gates, the control officers went to work. Within a matter of minutes, the front door was down, the agents were in, and the tiger was loaded onto the gurney. The poor girl was sacked out, her mouth agape with her tongue hanging out. As if the animal didn’t weigh enough already, a steel collar encircled her neck, and that was attached to six feet of chain.

Using brute muscle strength and extreme caution, they transferred her from the gurney into the enclosure, which lifted up on pneumatic wheels. Before they shut the steel door, Wilner gave her another shot of dope. “A quiet ride is always a happy ride.”

“Did you see a body inside?” Decker asked.

Wilner shrugged. “I didn’t see anything like that, but I wasn’t searching for one. That’s your bailiwick. Wear a mask. It stinks inside.”

The service elevator doors opened, and the tiger along with her keepers were gone.

They had left the door to the apartment wide open. The hot air inside the hallway had become foul … gag inducing. Decker’s heart was still racing as he and Marge emerged from behind the barrier.

“Quite a show.” He put his gun back in his shoulder harness. “Now our real work begins.”

CHAPTER THREE

Marge began to suit up in earnest: a paper cover for her hair, paper shoe covers, a face mask, and double latex gloves. Even with all that protection, her stomach roiled. The fetid odor was overwhelming. “We’re walking into a biological hazard as far as I’m concerned. There must be twenty generations of bacteria growing inside by now.”

Decker said, “Wait out here and I’ll go look for a body. If there isn’t one, why should both of us be grossed out?”

“Thanks, but I’m coming with you. Suppose there are a bunch of tiger cubs hidden in the bedroom or something. Or maybe he kept other exotic pets like a Gaboon viper or a monitor lizard. Someone has to call 911 if you get bit.”

Decker smiled as he put on his face mask. “Your loyalty is admirable. C’mon, Dunn. Let’s get this over with.”

The living room was a hurricane with putrid waves gassing up from the steamy floors. Deep claw marks striated the walls, and the furniture was torn to tatters. There were enormous piles of feces flecked white with maggots and bread crumbed with flies and beetles. Insects hummed everywhere. The refrigerator had been knocked over, food spilling out onto the wood floors turning them as sticky as tar. Butcher paper had been shredded to confetti. Most of the meat from the fridge had been consumed, but what hadn’t been eaten was gray and oozing brown liquid. It took a steady foot and good balance to avoid stepping in something toxic.

Marge felt light-headed, but she soldiered on, following Decker into the bedroom.

That scene was made even more appalling by the presence of a distorted, bloated body. The corpse had partially liquefied, vital fluids and tissue soaking into the sheets and dripping on the floor below. Blood and guts were everywhere, sprayed on the walls and splashed onto the furniture.

Marge said, “I’ll call the coroner’s office.”

Decker nodded.

“Mind if I make the call from the hallway? Even with the mask it’s still stinky.”

“Sure. Then we’ll figure out a to-do list.”

Marge fished out a pencil and her notebook. “Tell me what you need.”

Decker said, “After you call up the Crypt, call … let me think who’s on tonight.” A pause. “Tell Scott Oliver and Wanda Bontemps to come down here. We need to relocate the residents for a day or two. The apartment building is off-limits as a biological hazard. Nobody comes back until this mess is cleaned up. If you need another detective, call up Drew Messing.” Decker was still staring at the body. “Do we even know if this is Hobart Penny?”

Marge just shook her head.

Decker continued. “No one comes inside here except those with official business.”

“The tenants might want to go back and grab some clothes or a phone or a computer. What do I tell them?”

“We can probably escort them in and out. It’ll take awhile, but it’ll keep them less pissed off. I’ll also need a couple of uniforms at the door to secure the scene.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s it for now.”

Marge talked through her face mask. “You’re going to stick around inside?”

“I am. I’m still not sure what I’m looking at.”

Marge held off making the phone call to the Crypt. “You know … if I ignore all the disgusting mess—and the fact that a tiger lived in the apartment—this looks more like a homicide than a natural death … all that splatter on the walls?”

“That spray was definitely the result of ruptured arteries pumping out fresh blood.” His eyes scanned the room. “This splotch over here looks like blowback from a blunt force trauma injury. You wouldn’t get these kinds of droplets and blood mist from simply dying and then having a tiger eat you.”

“If the tiger mauled you or bit you when you were still alive, you’d very well have this kind of spray.”

“That’s why I’m looking for signs of mauling and/or bite marks. It’s hard to tell because the body is so distorted.”

Marge continued to study the scene: nauseating to look at and even more sickening to smell. Still she began to think like a professional homicide detective. “The face … such as it is … looks elderly. The stubble is white.”

“I agree. It’s an older man. How old is Penny again?”

“Eighty-eight or eighty-nine.”

“The body could be that old. To me, it looks like a thin, elderly man that has bloated up with gas postmortem.”

“The corpse is decomposing by the minute. The organs are leaking out and the body’s framework has lost a lot of its integrity, but …” She pointed a latex-gloved finger. “I can make out some scratches on the skin’s surface over here … over here as well.”

“Good eye.” Decker stared at the spot. “The scratches don’t seem all that deep.”

“Agreed. Less like a mauling and more like the tiger was pawing him, maybe?”

“Trying to get a reaction from a corpse.”

“Yeah, that could be.” Marge studied the body. “It’s hard to see skin surface detail with all the discoloration. The scratches could actually be deeper, but because the body is so bloated, they appear more superficial.”

Decker nodded. “Do you see any bite marks?”

“Not so far. Wish we could turn him over.”

“That’ll happen soon enough.” Neither he nor Marge could touch the body, which officially belonged to the coroner’s office. But they still could make observations. “His forehead is misshapen. The cranium could have caved in from his brains liquefying. Most likely, someone took a whack at his forehead.”

Marge nodded. “Looks like a stellate pattern. With that and all the blowback, we should be hunting around for a weapon: something hard with a round end.”

“A weapon would be good. I’d also like to find some ID. It’d be nice to have the victim identified. Makes for a neater case file.”

The coroner’s assistant was someone Decker had worked with on other cases. A Hispanic in her forties, Gloria was perfect for the job because she was competent, cordial, and efficient. Wearing the official black jacket with yellow lettering, she was sweating profusely in the bedroom, now christened the “sauna from hell.” Carefully, she rolled the body onto its side and scrutinized the back, the skin currently colored eggplant purple thanks to lividity—the pooling of blood to the lowest gravitational spot. The skin was beginning to slough off from the musculature underneath. “Okay. Here we go.”

She lay the body back down and moved over to the other side. She rolled it ever so gently and pointed to a hole.

“Looks like a bullet wound.” She lay the body back down and studied the front of the decaying corpse. “Can’t see any exit hole. The body is very swollen, so a hole may not be apparent. Did you find any bullet or bullet casings inside the apartment?”

“Not yet,” Marge said. “But now that we know a firearm might be involved, we’ll look for something. Would the wound have been fatal?”

“Impossible to tell until you open him up.” She stood up and regarded the bloated corpse. “There was definitely blunt force trauma to the forehead.” She pointed to the lower eye sockets. “This caved-in part is caused by the eyeballs dropping down inside the head—a natural phenomenon. But over here …” She pointed to the upper brown section of the skull. “Someone hit the victim with something hard.”

“We noticed that,” Marge said. “Homicide?”

“I’m not the medical examiner, so I don’t make the determination,” Gloria said. “But don’t go on vacation anytime soon.”

Marge smiled. “I’ll call up SID.”

“Thanks, Gloria.” Decker picked up a paper evidence bag, and the two of them walked into what once was Hobart Penny’s living room. “What I want to know is how the killer got past the tiger?”

Marge said, “There was around six feet of chain on her. If she was originally chained up, she’d have a little room to move about. But possibly you could sidestep the animal. Or maybe the victim escorted the killer around the tiger.”

“If the killer was escorted by Penny coming in, how did the killer get around the tiger coming out of the apartment once Penny was dead?”

Marge shrugged. “Maybe the guy threw the animal meat laced with a sedative. There’s a lot of rotting meat … along with piles of shit, diarrhea, and vomit. Maybe the animal was poisoned.”

Decker thought about the theory. “So the perp killed the victim with the gun and a possible whack on the head but didn’t shoot the tiger. Instead, he gave the tiger poisoned meat?”

“Maybe he ran out of bullets. Maybe he did shoot the tiger, but unless the shot was perfect, it would probably take more than a shot from a pistol to bring it down.”

“Do we even know if the tiger was shot?” Decker asked. “It wasn’t walking like it was injured.”

“It sounded pretty pissed off.”

Decker conceded the point. “So you’re figuring that the victim knew the perpetrator and escorted him by the animal to get in. Then the perp shot the victim and gave poisonous meat to the tiger?”

“I have no idea,” Marge said. “Maybe the perp knew the victim and his habits well enough to know how to get around the animal.”

Decker shrugged. “Possibly. Let’s go outside.”

They went into the hallway—hot and humid and stinky. Two uniformed officers were on either side of the door, both of them wearing pained expressions. Detective Scott Oliver looked up from a sheet of paper. He had come down to the scene, dressed in a black suit and a pink shirt. He waved his hand in front of his nose. “I was just about to go out and help Wanda and Drew with interviewing the tenants. We really need to canvass the apartment building.”

“The apartments do need to be canvassed but not by you,” Decker said. “I’m giving Marge and you the vaunted assignment to look for evidence.”

Oliver’s shoulder’s sagged. “Lucky me.”

“Luckier than the victim.”

“What evidence are we talking about?”

Marge said, “The CI found a bullet hole in the body. A dent in his forehead also looks like blunt force trauma. We’re looking for shell casings possibly and a weapon that fits the depression.”

“Have we made an ID for the vic?”

Marge said, “We found a wallet on a dresser with an old ID card belonging to Hobart Penny. It’s hard to tell if the body is him from a small picture.”

“Any driver’s license?”

“Not in the wallet,” Decker said. “I’ve bagged a brush, a toothbrush, and a dirty mug of coffee for DNA evidence.” He turned to Marge. “I know the man was a recluse, but what about relatives? A guy that rich … there must be people we could contact.”

Marge said, “From what I read, he’s twice divorced. The last time he was married was twenty-five years ago. There are two kids from the first wife, whom he divorced thirty-five years ago. The first wife died ten years ago. From what I read, he’s also estranged from his kids because of papa’s odd behavior.”

“Odd is an understatement. What kind of person keeps a tiger as a pet?” When no one offered any psychological insight, Decker said, “How old are his children?”

Marge checked her notes. “The son—Darius—is around fifty-five, wealthy in his own right. He’s a lawyer and some kind of capital venture person. The daughter—Graciela—is fifty-eight. She’s a New York society woman married to a count or a baron.”

“What about the second wife?” Oliver asked. “What happened to her?”

“She”—a flipping of the pages of her notepad—“is still alive … Sabrina Talbot, fifty-eight. The marriage lasted five years.”

“So she was twenty-eight when they married?” Oliver asked.

“Yeah … he was fifty-nine. He gave her a generous settlement, and I read something about his adult children not being happy about it.” Marge looked up. “But this all happened twenty-five years ago. Who holds a grudge for that long?”

“Someone was pissed enough to bash in his head and shoot him,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “I’ll research the family history from the station house. I have access to a computer and it smells a lot better.” He took in Oliver’s sartorial splendor. “You might want to leave your jacket in the car and roll up your pants. Marge has shoe covers for you.”

“Ugh,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be one of those nights.”

“Scotty, it’s already been one of those nights,” Decker answered. “You just arrived fashionably late.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Marge could almost remember a time when one in the morning meant being asleep. For the last twenty years as a homicide cop, one in the morning meant a phone call directing her to a crime scene, some of them more grisly than others but all of them horrendous. At present, she and Oliver were gathering forensic evidence. Amid the mess and the outrage, there were a few directional arrows that pointed to what went down. When she spotted something shiny winking from a pile of feces, she had a good idea what it was. But that didn’t make the task any more pleasant.

“I don’t really have to do this, do I?” Marge’s question to Oliver was not rhetorical. “I outrank you.”

“But you also love me,” Oliver said.

“Not that much.”

Silence. “Flip a coin?” Oliver suggested.

Marge pulled a quarter from her purse, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “Call.”

“Heads.”

She slapped the coin on the underside of her arm and took away her hand. George Washington was staring up at her. “I’m going to cry now.”

Oliver pretended not to hear, making busy by trying to find a weapon that matched the depression in the victim’s head. Since the coroner’s office had removed the body, he was left with only photographs of the wound. It seemed to be more round than ovoid, about an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. Oliver’s first choice was a hammer. He was attempting to locate a toolbox or a tool drawer.

Cursing her luck, Marge bent down. The smell was atrocious. She wrinkled her nose, and then stuck two gloved fingers into a squishy mound of tiger poop. Extracting the metal, she regarded the slime-coated hunk of steel. “A twenty-two. At least I found something valuable to offset the gross factor. Can you give me a bag, please?”

“Just because you said please.” He handed her an evidence bag. “I guess the logical question was how did a bullet get inside the mound of shit? It doesn’t seem like something an animal would normally eat.”

“Yeah, Decker and I were wondering about why the victim was shot but not the tiger. At least, I don’t think the tiger was shot. We were also thinking about how someone got around the tiger to get to the victim.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“The tiger was drugged by a piece of tainted meat. The tiger knew the perpetrator and didn’t view him—or her—as a threat. The tiger was chained up, so the perp could move in and out without being attacked. Or the tiger was shot, and in all the commotion, no one saw a bullet hole. Let me know if you can think of anything else. I’ll call Agent Wilner in the morning and find out the status of the big girl.”

“Where does one take a stray tiger? Last I heard there was no pound for big cats.”

“There are a few sanctuaries for wild animals. I seem to recall some kind of nonprofit wild animal shelter when I worked in Foothill—around two decades ago, so I don’t even know if it still exists.” Marge dropped the bullet in the bag. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Talk to me.”

“If we already found one bullet in poop, is there other important evidence in poop that we’re choosing to overlook?”

Oliver glared at Marge. He said, “Why don’t we just bag it all and give it to SID?”

“Why don’t I take these two massive piles and you take that one and that one?”

“You can’t assign a rookie to this one?”

“My X-ray eyes are scanning the room as we speak.” Marge turned her head to the left and to the right. “Only you and me, bud.”

“I don’t see why I have to do this.”

Marge said, “In case you didn’t get it the first time. I take these, you take those.”

“How about if I canvass the neighborhood and Wanda gets her hands dirty.”

“How about we get this over with ASAP? This is reality, not a reality show, and I don’t have all night. Actually, I do have all night, but I don’t want to use up all night.”

Reluctantly Oliver bent down in front of the first pile of feces. “What I don’t do to earn a paycheck.”

“At least you’ve got a job.”

“This is disgusting.”

“True, but irrelevant. Just go for it. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, blah, blah, blah.”

He plunged his hand into the pile and groaned. “Frankly, Dunn, I prefer the past to present. I was younger, I had dark hair, and I had yet to pay a cent of alimony.”

Rina was an early riser, but Gabe must have gotten up with the sun. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” He ran his hand over his downy scalp. His hair was beginning to grow in. It was a few days away from looking like a buzz cut. “Want some coffee? Machine’s all set, but I didn’t want to turn on the pot until you were up. Stale coffee sucks.”

“That’s considerate of you. I’d love some coffee. How long have you been up?”

“About an hour.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I slept a little. I’m all right.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“You did terrific yesterday.”

“No one was hammering away at me. I’m sure today will be different. It’s okay. Whatever happens … I mean what can I do about it?”

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