Mike's mood had changed, and everyone in the bullpen could feel it. The normally optimistic and amiable detective had become not bitter but unusually quiet, almost reflective. And Steve was worried.

He had gone through the Santa Fe file on Benjamin Sykes with a fine-toothed comb more than once, but it had added nothing to what they already knew about the reclusive quasi-religious figure who now seemed to haunt his partner's every waking thought.

Mike had been successful in cajoling his FBI contact into authorizing a thorough background investigation into Sykes, using the fingerprint card as a basis. Something in the back of his mind kept telling him there was more to the 'street preacher' than met the eye, a feeling in his bones that all was not what it seemed. But also, for one of the first times in his professional life, he was second-guessing himself, and that was the most disturbing aspect of all.

He had been warned that the Bureau's background check, because it would be considered not especially high priority, would take time, possible even a few weeks. And Mike had been cautioned to be patient; the result would be a more thorough investigation than any city or state law enforcement agency could every attempt to compile.

Patience was not the lieutenant's strong suit, and everyone knew it. But instead of becoming increasingly impatient, he was becoming increasingly withdrawn. And that was a development that was making his partner very concerned.

Steve was typing up a form when the phone on Sergeant Sekulovich's desk rang. He knew that Haseejian and Healey were in line for the next case, but he had already spoken to them both about it; he wanted something to take Mike's mind off of Sykes and the murdered homeless men.

Sekulovich looked over at the young inspector and nodded, putting the call on hold and hanging up. A few seconds later the phone on Steve's desk rang and he picked up the receiver with a grateful smile and nod. "Homicide, Inspector Keller."

He listened, jotting down an address as he got to his feet. Mike noticed the familiar reaction and, frowning, stood up and crossed to the door, throwing it open before beginning to roll his right sleeve down and buttoning his cuff. As Steve hung up, he was already reaching for his jacket on the coat rack. "We got a case?"

Steve was smiling when he looked up, reaching behind himself to grab his jacket from the back of his chair and nodding. "Drowning in a bathtub at the Mark Hopkins."

"The Mark?" Mike made an impressive face as he did up his collar button and tightened his tie before taking the fedora off the top of the coat rack. "We don't get many calls there, do we?"

"No, we don't," Steve chuckled as he shrugged into his jacket then followed his partner to the door. He glanced over at Haseejian and Healey as he did, flashing them a grateful smile and a thumbs up. Both sergeants smiled back and nodded.

# # # # #

The small, dark-haired woman was crumpled in the bathtub, face down in the water and facing away from the faucet. Above her head there was a hole about chest high in the tiles where something had obviously been pulled off the wall. Leaning over the tub, Mike could see what looked like a towel-ring in the woman's hand under the water.

"Looks like an accident, Mike," Bernie said quietly. He was standing out of the way between the toilet and the far wall, making room for the two detectives to have a thorough look around.

Nodding, Mike straightened up and gestured at the hole in the tile wall. "So you think she was getting out of the tub, slipped and grabbed at the ring to steady herself and it pulled out of the wall?"

The coroner shrugged. "At first blush, that sounds about right, but I'll know more when I get her out of the tub, of course."

Steve had leaned over the tub for a closer look. "Who found her?"

"Her husband. That's him out there," Bernie gestured towards the bedroom. "Says he was out for a jog."

"On Nob Hill?" Mike asked semi-rhetorically. "I hope he's in great shape." He looked at the coroner and nodded. "Thanks, Bernie." He turned and left the bathroom; Steve followed.

A uniformed officer with a notebook in his hand was standing over a thirty-something man dressed in a t-shirt, shorts and sneakers, sitting on the side of the unmade bed, his head in his hands. The officer looked up and stepped towards the detectives. "That's Mr. David Turley," he said quietly. "He and his wife Elizabeth are from St. Louis. They're here for a convention; he's a realtor."

Steve nodded, glancing at his partner. "There's a real estate convention here this week; I saw the signs on the way in." He pulled out his notebook and pen and started to make notations.

Mike nodded. "So what does he say?"

The officer glanced at Turley, leaning in a little more. "He says he went for a jog this morning, like he does every morning, and his wife said she was going to take a bath. He says he found her like that when he got back and he called down to the desk right away. And they called us."

Mike was staring at the obviously distraught husband, nodding slowly.

"Do you want to talk to him?" the officer asked quietly.

The lieutenant shook his head. "Not now. Let's give him some time to pull himself together." He looked at the officer and smiled. "Thanks. We can take it from here. But hang around, okay?" As the officer nodded and moved away, he looked at his partner. "Go down and check with the desk, the concierge and the doorman, make sure he did go for a jog this morning."

Nodding, Steve put the notebook back in his pocket and, with an expressionless glance at Turley, left the room. As he disappeared through the door, two morgue attendants with a gurney and one of the M.E.'s photographers, followed by two worried-looking men Mike could only assume were part of hotel management, entered the large and well-appointed room. Not wanting to have to deal with them at the moment, he proceeded the small procession to the bathroom and positioned himself as Bernie had done, between the toilet and the far wall, out of the way.

He watched silently as Bernie supervised the removal of Mrs. Turley's body from the water-filled bathtub.

# # # # #

Steve discreetly held up his open badge as he approached the front desk. The young man behind the counter looked down at the gold star, his eyes widening. Steve leaned over the high wooden barrier and lowered his voice. "Inspector Keller." He glanced at the brass nametag on the young man's black jacket. "Brian?" The young man nodded. "Can I ask you a few questions about one of your guests?"

"Umh, ah, yeah, I guess. Uh, what do you want to know?"

Steve put his badge away. "The couple in 1521. Mr. and Mrs. Turley. They're here with the convention."

"Just a second," Brian said, turning to a large wooden credenza against the wall behind him and rifling through the hanging files. He pulled a folder, set it on the counter and opened it. "What do you need to know?"

From the corner of his eye, Steve saw a large, official-looking man in a dark suit, who had been leaning against a nearby wall surveying the bustling lobby, stride quickly towards him. "Brian," the big man said firmly, his voice low but his tone unmistakable, his dark hooded eyes snapping from the clerk to the cop, "what are you doing?"

The young man looked back and forth, suddenly nervous. "Um, the, ah, the inspector is asking for some information on one of our clients -"

"Do you have a warrant?" the newcomer asked Steve.

Knowing he had to diffuse the situation, Steve smiled amiably. "I'm not asking for anything confidential, Mr. …?"

The big man's eyes bored into the cop's face. "Ruhle. Jack Ruhle. I'm the house dick. May I ask why you're here, Inspector …?"

With a wry smile, Steve took his badge out of his pocket again and flipped it open. "Keller, Homicide."

"Homicide?" Both Ruhle's and Brian's eyes widened in shock.

With a curt nod, returning his badge to his pocket once again, Steve nodded, his eyes boring into the hotel cop's. "In case you didn't know already, there's a dead woman in one of your rooms. And we need to make sure it was an accident." He turned to the clerk. "I just need to confirm their home address and when they arrived."

"Ah, well, if there's anything I can do to help," Ruhle said, his attitude suddenly changed.

Steve nodded with a grateful smile. "Yeah, I need to find out if anyone saw the husband going out to jog this morning."

# # # # #

Mike watched silently as Bernie and his team slowly and carefully removed the body from the tub. Making sure that the bathroom and the victim were photographed from every possible angle and that the entire operation had been recorded, the medical examiner displayed once again why he was considered one of the best in the business. And not for the first time Mike was impressed.

After the body was covered with a dark blanket and strapped to the gurney, they started to wheel it through the bedroom towards the door. One of the hotel management stiffs crossed quickly to the coroner, almost vibrating with concern. "Uh, ah, you're going to use the freight elevator, right?"

Bernie, always cool and composed, stared at the man patiently then nodded. "Of course," he said calmly, his smile just this side of condescension. "We even know where it is."

Standing near the bathroom door, Mike smothered a chuckle as he watched the coroner follow the gurney out into the hallway, the hotel employee trailing anxiously. The other management type zeroed in on him and crossed the room, barely glancing at the still distraught Turley sitting on the bed, the uniformed officer standing nearby.

"Are you in charge here?" the prim, grey-haired man asked, frowning worriedly.

Losing his smile, Mike slipped his badge out of his pants pocket and opened it. "Lieutenant Stone, Homicide," he said quietly, hoping Turley didn't hear. When there was no reaction from the man on the bed, he turned his full attention to the smaller man in front of him, whose eyes were wide and startled. "And you are…?"

"Jonas Charles. I'm the day manager." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Did you say Homicide?"

Mike nodded as he put the badge back in his pocket.

Glancing over his shoulder towards the bed, Charles put a hand on the detective's elbow and pulled him gently and smoothly back into the bathroom where the photographer was just finishing up. Mike nodded at the police department employee who returned the gesture and left the room.

Charles leaned close again. "Do you think this was a homicide, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We don't know anything yet, Mr. Charles," Mike assured with a smile that betrayed nothing, "but we have to investigate every death that can't immediately be determined to be from natural causes. And taking a fatal fall in a hotel bathroom is definitely not natural causes, wouldn't you say?"

Charles, who was staring at him, waited a brief second before nodding cautiously. "I see. Well, how long is this going to take?"

Mike shrugged evasively. "That's hard to tell. It depends on what we find, what her husband can tell us, and how long it takes the medical examiner to finish his examination."

"I see," Charles said again with a loud sigh. "And you will need us to keep this room… unoccupied?"

"And untouched, yes," Mike nodded. "Until we're finished with it."

Charles looked down, his lips a tight line. "Yes, of course." He looked up again. "And Mr. Turley?"

"Well, it would be a big help if you could put him in another room, if you have one?"

The day manager nodded. "We'll figure something out." He nodded over his shoulder towards the bedroom. "Do you really think he killed his wife?" There was a voyeuristic tone in his voice that surprised the veteran detective.

Mike smiled enigmatically. "Time will tell, Mr. Charles… time will tell."