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hotel guest who unpacked.
    She was.
    Sonora found a silk nightie, slate blue, Victoria’s Secret price tag hanging from the side seam. She had one like it at home in her closet, hooked over her lingerie bag. Julia had paid full price for hers; Sonora had waited for a sale.
    Which might mean a special occasion, as far as Julia Winchell was concerned.
    She had a tendency toward white or black, tailored shirts and khaki pants, longish skirts, straight cut, size eight. She shopped at The Limited, spent a lot of money on shoes that were well worn, and size seven and a half.
    A full cadre of makeup clotted the bathroom counter—neat but not obsessive. Julia Winchell had brought her own makeup mirror. Bubble bath from home.
    Sonora took a quick mental tally. Mascara, eyeliner, blush, two shades of lipstick. All partially used, nothing new except one of the lipsticks. Sonora opened the older tube, rolled it out. Rum Raisin Bronzer.
    There were theories that you could read a woman’s character by the shape of her favorite lipstick. Sonora had seen an article on it once in the Inquirer.
    She looked back into the bedroom at the black silk teddy, the crisply ironed white shirt hanging on the back of the bedroom door. There was a quietness in the room, already a layer of dust on the worn floral suitcase. Julia Winchell wasn’t coming back.
    â€œSonora?”
    It was the way Sam said her name that got her attention—a particular tone of voice.
    She put the tube of lipstick back on the bathroom counter. “What, Sam?”
    He had his back to her, a sheaf of paper in his left hand.
    The phone rang.
    Sonora raised an eyebrow at Sam. He nodded, and she picked up the desk extension. There were several phone numbers jotted down on an Orchard Suites scratch pad, one with a 606 area code. Julia Winchell was from Tennessee, which was 423, Sonora knew from calling Smallwood. She was pretty sure that 606 was Kentucky. The leg had shown up in Kentucky.
    â€œHello?” Sonora pitched her voice low. At a guess, she’d say Julia Winchell was an alto.
    Silence.
    â€œHello?” Sonora said again. She heard a click, looked at Sam. “Hung up.”
    â€œSit down, Sonora. You should look at this.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI think I know why Julia Winchell decided not to go home. It isn’t what you think.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Sam had Julia Winchell’s open briefcase on the couch. He moved it to the floor, picked up a sheaf of papers that looked like handwritten notes and a newpaper clipping with ragged edges.
    Sonora settled on the couch. Sam handed her the newspaper clipping. “Let’s start with this. Recognize the picture?” He sat on the arm of the couch, knee touching hers. Tapped the newspaper. “Look at the date.”
    Sonora got her mind off the knee and looked at the paper. It was neatly cut from the Saturday edition of the Cincinnati Post , the Metro section, dated July fifteenth, the day before Julia Winchell had been supposed to drive home to Clinton. She raised an eyebrow. Read the caption. “District Attorney Gage Caplan put closing arguments before the jury today in the trial of ex-Bengal football pro, Jim Drury, accused of running down Xavier University co-ed Vicky Mardigan. Drury, a popular hometown boy made good and local celebrity, attended Moelier Catholic High School, a school well known for nurturing football players. He has done spot coverage for local television stations during the football season for the last nine years. Mr. Drury played for the Bengals from 1979 to 1986.”
    Sonora looked up at Sam. “Caplan’s going for vehicular homicide.”
    Sam grimaced. Vicky Mardigan had been dragged thirty-eight feet down Montgomery Avenue, and left to die in front of the White Castle in Norwood. She was breathing when the 911 team got to her, but hadn’t survived the night.
    â€œYou think Caplan has a prayer of nailing