Free Moment of Truth by Lisa Scottoline

to weigh about 125 pounds, at five-six or so. With the blouse she wore black pants of some stretchy material and they outlined the slim shape of her legs, ending above the ankle. Her shins narrowed to a small anklebone, and she had on pink shoes. He looked twice at her shoes. They had no backs, a low heel, and a tiny strap in the front, but the strap of the right shoe was torn and the shoe lay just off the foot. “Shoe’s broke,” he said, making a sketch, and Kovich nodded.
    “Probably ripped it when she fell backwards, like when she was being stabbed.”
    “You’d think it would just fall off. The shoe has no back. Stupid shoes.”
    “Sexy, though. They do it for me. You know what else I like? I go for those big shoes. What do they call them? Platforms. The ones they wear in porno. I like the white ones with the high heel. Or the red. I love the red.”
    “You’re a highbrow guy, Kovich.”
    “Damn straight.” Kovich knelt closer to the floor and braced himself on his hand. With his butt in the air and his broad nose grazing the rug, he looked like a big dog at play. “You’re about to thank me, Mick.”
    “Why?”
    “Look.” Kovich pointed beyond the body, on Brinkley’s side. In the path of the tech’s vacuum cleaner glinted something tiny and gold. It was wedged in the thick wool of the patterned rug, which was why Brinkley hadn’t seen it from his angle. Kovich waved off the tech with the vacuum and both detectives leaned closer.
    “Wacky-lookin’ thing,” Brinkley said. A gold twinkle sat embedded in the swirling Persian paisley. It looked like a tiny piece of jewelry. He looked closer but wouldn’t move it until it was photographed. “What is it?”
    “An earring back. My kid, Kelley, loses them all the time.”
    “What’s an earring back?”
    “It’s for pierced ears. It holds the earring on. Don’t Sheree have pierced ears?”
    “No.” Brinkley didn’t say more. Someday he’d tell Kovich that he and Sheree had separated. Meantime, he looked at Honor Newlin’s head at the same time as Kovich. She still had her earrings on; a single, large pearl on each lobe. He leaned over on his hand, peered behind her ear, and squinted. The left earring back was still on. “This one’s fine. You check the other.”
    On his side, Kovich tilted his head like a mechanic under a chassis. “Okay here, too.”
    “So they’re not hers.”
    “Wrong, skinny.” Kovich righted himself. The body lay between them like a broken line. “They could be hers, just not to these earrings.”
    “Fair enough.”
    “See? You’re not the only dick in the room.”
    “Just the biggest.”
    Kovich laughed and stood up, as did Brinkley, hoisting his slacks up with a thumb and giving the body one last going-over. It stuck in his craw that the techs had grabbed the knife. Couldn’t leave the murder weapon in place. Had to get it tested stat. That was the problem with a goddamn box job. Everybody rushed around like a chicken and things got messed up. In the most important cases, they should be going the slowest, not the fastest. He looked away in frustration.
    At the end of the dining room table sat the two place settings, untouched. It was fancy china, white with a slim black border, and in front of each plate stood wine glasses and water goblets of cut crystal. Brinkley hailed one of the crime techs with a print kit. “There should be a Scotch glass, two of them,” he said.
    “There were two, Detective. They’re already bagged. Rick there”—she waved toward a red-haired young man—“he’s got the Polaroids.”
    “Terrific.” Brinkley wanted to scream. He strode to the red-haired tech, got the photos, and examined them one by one. Shots of the body, from every gruesome angle. Where were the glasses?
    There. A crystal tumbler lay on its side next to the body, with liquor spilling out like a dark snake. Three separate views. Another Polaroid of a matching tumbler shattered on the parquet floor. Five