He shook his head in mild disgust at the mess, then turned away and walked back to the front window to stand beside Decker. Together the two looked down at Dorian Raymond’s corpse, now lying on top of the apartment house marquee ten stories below. Several men standing around the corpse stepped aside to allow stretcher bearers to move away the body. Decker watched flashbulbs go off as last photographs were taken of the dead man. Decker turned to the FBI agent, who was also a member of LeClair’s task force. “What do you have?” The agent pursed his lips and shook his head. “Zilch. No sign of forced entry. No indication of a struggle. Window wasn’t broken. The fingerprints we’re getting say he was the only one near that window. Neighbors didn’t hear a thing, but then again nobody ever does. Tenants in two apartments were out at the Christmas pageant across the street. Other tenants on the floor went to bed at 8:30 and slept like a baby all night.” Decker said, “LeClair doesn’t like it.”
