I nodded.

“Can you show me?” she continued.

“Yeah. You might want a flashlight,” I answered. And a handkerchief soaked with something potent.

“I’ll get one,” Cordelia volunteered. She dropped her arm and went to get the light.

“How did a body get in the basement?” Joanne asked angrily.

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter. We need to call the police, the local precinct.”

Cordelia returned with the flashlight.

We went back down into the basement. I led the way, my steps slowing as we left the last pool of light behind. I covered my nose with my hand, even before we were close enough to smell the stench.

“There,” I said, pointing to the ghostly arm, still reaching into nothingness.

Joanne and Cordelia both went past me. I reluctantly followed them, unwilling to hang back in the dim shadows.

“Goddamn it!” Joanne’s voice rang angrily as she saw the naked young woman where death had carelessly flung her.

“She can’t be twenty,” Cordelia said, her voice soft after Joanne’s rage. Cordelia knelt beside the young woman, uselessly feeling for a pulse. She stood up, backing away and shaking her head. She almost ran into me, jumping when I put my hand on her back to stop her. She stayed next to me; I left my hand gently resting on her back. Cordelia continued, “She’s been dead for at least a day or two. Putrefaction is already beginning, you can tell by the green staining in the flanks and…” My hand jerked as Cordelia spoke; these were things I didn’t want to know. “But I’m not a pathologist,” she finished, “I’ll leave her to the experts.”

“Shit,” Joanne said, her expression tight and angry. “Out of here,” she added, turning away from the body.

No one spoke as we left the basement.

“Where’s a phone?” Joanne said as we got to the top of the stairs.

“This way,” Cordelia replied, heading for the clinic.

I didn’t move, as if motion were useless, but Joanne grabbed my hand and led me into the clinic. Still holding my hand, she picked up the receiver and punched in a number she obviously knew. She was brief and to the point. The police would be here in a few minutes.

“Anyone want coffee?” Cordelia asked when Joanne hung up.

“Yeah,” she replied, letting go of my hand, then adding, “I’ll get yours,” to me.

I sat down on the couch in the waiting room. Cordelia lowered herself into a chair opposite me. She took a sip of her coffee, then burst out, “How does a dead body get in our basement?”

“I don’t know,” I replied again.

Joanne handed me my coffee, then sat down beside me.

“This isn’t going to be fun,” she said. “Particularly for you,” she added, looking at Cordelia.

Cordelia nodded.

“Anyone here with you?” Joanne asked her.

“Well…I sent Betty home when we were finished with the last patient. I guess around nine.”

“So you’ve been here alone since then?”

“Joanne, what are you implying?” I cut in.

“I didn’t kill her,” Cordelia said.

Joanne looked at her.

“I know that,” Joanne said, her tone softening. “I do. But you’re going to be asked these questions and a lot more. You might want to call your lawyer.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Cordelia repeated.

There was a loud banging on the front door. Joanne got up.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still looking at Cordelia. “I’ll do what I can.” Then she went to open the door.

I looked at Cordelia. She was staring fixedly at the floor. Then she looked up at me.

“I know you didn’t…I’ll do everything I can,” I said.

“They can’t hang you if you’re innocent,” she replied and smiled weakly.

We heard the heavy tramp of footsteps coming up the hallway. A policeman entered the waiting room. He started taking down basic information, names, addresses, etc. The rest of the footsteps went down into the basement.

We sat silently after the policeman finished his questions, unable to talk because of his presence. After about half an hour or so, Joanne joined us. She just shrugged her shoulders, then went and sat down at the far end of the room.

I got up and paced, making the policeman watch me. I finally got tired of his staring eyes and sat back down. Joanne sat still, tension evident only in the constant motion of her fingers. Cordelia couldn’t seem to get comfortable, changing position every few minutes.

Finally, a middle-aged man in a rumpled brown suit came in. He was followed by two other men, one in uniform, one not. He looked at us, then calmly fixed himself a cup of coffee.

“So, O’Connor, what’s the story?” Joanne asked, breaking the tension.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, turning to her. “I’ve forgotten your name. Joanne…uh…?”

“Detective Sergeant Joanne Ranson,” Joanne supplied evenly. She handed him her identification. He grunted and barely glanced at it, tossing it back to her. He was making clear whose territory it was.

He turned to me. “Michele Anti-gone Knight,” he read off the policeman’s notes.

“Antigone,” I corrected.

“Antigone,” he repeated. “Now, what kind of name is that?”

“Greek.”

“Greek, huh? So your daddy was Greek?” He was toying with me.

“No,” I answered. “My mother was Greek. My daddy read Sophocles.”

He grunted in reply.

“Now, Miss Greek Knight, what were you doing here?”

“I saw a light on. I investigated.”

“Just like that? You just wandered by and saw a light on?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Now, why would a pretty little girl like you do work like that?” he goaded me.

I started to make an angry retort, but I realized that that was what he was trying to get me to do. I calmed myself down enough to tell him, in a terse monotone, what I was doing here. I mentioned the letters and the phone calls, hoping he would connect them to the dead woman, or at least see the possibility of a connection.

His now familiar grunt was the only response when I finished. He went and refilled his coffee cup.

“You and Detective Sergeant Ranson just happened to show up here at the same time, huh?” he said, looking at both of us to let us know how likely he believed that to be.

“Ms. Knight and I know each other socially,” Joanne supplied, her voice cool and professional. “We had dinner and Michele told me about this case. I expressed interest and we drove by. You know the rest.”

“But that’s the problem. I don’t. I don’t know how a dead woman got in the basement.” He was pacing the room now, putting on a show, I suspected. “I don’t know why that dead woman was there. There’s a lot I don’t know.” Then he stopped directly in front of Cordelia. “Perhaps you can tell me, Dr. James.”

“I don’t know,” Cordelia answered.

“You don’t know? The name Beverly Sue Morris doesn’t ring a bell with you?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Oh, I see. You have a lot of patients here. Day in, day out. I guess it’s hard to remember just one.”

“I’m good at remembering my patients. I don’t remember her,” Cordelia replied.

“We found her purse buried in a corner, Dr. James. In that purse we found one of those little cards. A doctor’s appointment card. An appointment for last Friday at three p.m. With a Dr. C. James. That you?”

“Yes, but…she wasn’t here on Friday.”

“You’re sure?” O’Connor demanded.

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Yes. Positive.”

“If you didn’t perform an abortion on Miss Beverly Sue Morris, on Friday at three, then why was there a receipt and a filled out and signed, by you, insurance form in her purse? Now why do you suppose that poor Miss Beverly Sue Morris paid for an abortion she never had?”

Cordelia looked stunned.

“There’s got to be a mistake…” she finally said.

“No mistake,” O’Connor retorted.

“But…that’s not right,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t…on Friday…”

“Don’t say anything else,” I suddenly broke in. “Call your lawyer.”

“Quiet, you,” O’Connor snapped at me. “Now, Dr. James, why don’t you tell me what you did on Friday?”

“He’s only trying to trap you. They’ll twist whatever you say…”

“Sergeant Ranson, your friend is interfering with police work,” O’Connor interrupted.

“Michele,” Joanne said, a warning tone in her voice. But if Joanne had really meant for me to be quiet, she would have said so.

“No,” I shot at her, so O’Connor would believe I was defying her. “Cordelia. Don’t answer any more questions. Call your lawyer.”

“But, Micky…I’m innocent,” she said, still trying to make sense of what was happening. But she didn’t say anything else, only shaking her head at O’Connor’s further questions.

“Search the files,” he finally said, seeing she would answer no more questions.

“No, you can’t,” Cordelia burst out, standing up. “Those are confidential.”

“Beverly Sue Morris is dead,” O’Connor shot back. “I don’t think she much cares about confidentiality now. I think she might be more interested in us catching her murderer.”

“They are confidential,” Cordelia repeated.

“Or perhaps you don’t want us to see what’s in those files,” he taunted.

“Get a search warrant,” she defied him.

He nodded to one of his men, ignoring Cordelia.

“She is right, you know,” Joanne spoke up. O’Connor turned to glare at her. “Detective O’Connor,” she continued, “I’m sure Dr. James is only interested in protecting the rights of her patients. It will be more useful, in terms of your investigation, if you don’t obtain evidence illegally.”

O’Connor continued glaring at her. Joanne coolly returned his gaze. It turned into a staring contest. O’Connor abruptly turned on his heel.

“We’ll get a search warrant, Dr. James. And we’ll tear this place apart. We’ll search the whole building. We’ll spend days doing it,” he stated angrily. He paused to let that sink in. “But all I want is the file for Beverly Sue Morris. Do you object to my ‘disturbing’ your patients’ rights? Or do you object to my seeing that file?”

“There is no file because she wasn’t a patient here,” Cordelia answered.

“So you say.”

“Joanne…” I said.

“By the book, Sergeant Ranson. I’m doing it by the book,” O’Connor responded. “Merely inquiring if Dr. James wants to do her civic duty and help us catch a murderer.”

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” Cordelia said.

“Fine. You do that. And I’ll work on getting the search warrant. And if I get it first…” He trailed off.

“Can he do…?” Cordelia said, looking from me to Joanne.

“One way or another, I’ll see those files,” O’Connor interjected.

Joanne nodded her head slowly.

“All right,” Cordelia said tightly. She stalked to the filing cabinets. I watched her angrily flip through files. Then she tensed, the angry motion still. For a moment, nothing moved, then O’Connor stepped in and took the file that she was holding in her hand.

“Beverly Sue Morris,” he read triumphantly.

“But that’s not…” Cordelia said dazedly. “Let me look at that,” she said as she took the file back from O’Connor. She rapidly flipped through it. “She was one of Jane’s patients. Jane Bowen, our part-time gynecologist/obstetrician. This doesn’t make sense,” she added, half to herself.

“What doesn’t make sense, Dr. James?” O’Connor asked.

“Jane’s only here Mondays and Thursdays. Not Fridays,” Cordelia answered.

“If Jane Bowen couldn’t see a patient, would you take over for her?”

“Yes, at times,” Cordelia replied, but seeing where his questioning was leading, continued, “But I didn’t perform an abortion on her on Friday. I don’t perform abortions here.”

“Where do you perform abortions?”

“We do them at a gynecological clinic that Jane is affiliated with,” Cordelia answered carefully.

“Do you perform abortions, Dr. James?” O’Connor questioned.

Cordelia met his gaze for a moment before answering, “I have. I can. I don’t usually. It’s not my specialty.”

“Care to come down to the station and answer a few more questions now, Dr. James?” O’Connor dug at her.

“Not until she’s talked to her lawyer,” I answered for her. And I’ve talked to Danny, I thought.

“How did poor Beverly Sue get in the basement?” he asked, ignoring me.

Cordelia’s head jerked up.

“I don’t know,” she replied angrily at him.

“Or don’t remember?”

“Are you pressing charges?” Joanne asked. “By the way, how was Beverly Morris murdered, if she was?” she continued.

O’Connor glared at her again.

“What about the intruder who ‘just happened’ to show up right before we found the body?” I questioned.

O’Connor turned his glare to me.

“For all we know that body’s been there since Friday afternoon,” he replied.

“It wasn’t there this morning,” I reminded him.

“Who, besides you,” he broke in impatiently, “didn’t see the body and did see the intruder?” he demanded. “Did you see this mysterious burglar, Sergeant Ranson?”

“No, I didn’t,” she finally replied. “But if Michele says—”

“Michele,” O’Connor cut in, “who just happens to be working for Dr. James’s clinic. How convenient. Not good enough, Ranson, you know that,” he finished, then started to turn away, but shifted back to her and said casually, “How come you never married? Smart lady like you should be able to get a man.”