“Oh, right. You’re the engineer. So what’s Mick short for, anyway? Mickey?”

“Let’s do the couch,” Rizzoli cut in.

Mick redirected the lens. The couch fabric also glowed under UV, but it was a softer fluorescence, like snow under moonlight. Slowly he scanned the padded frame, then the cushions, but spotted no suspicious smears, only a few long stray hairs and dust particles.

“These were tidy people,” said Mick. “No stains, not even much dust. I’ll bet this couch is brand-new.”

Korsak grunted. “Must be nice. Last new couch I bought was when I got married.”

“Okay, there’s some more floor space back there. Let’s move that way.”

Rizzoli felt Korsak bump into her, and she smelled his doughy odor of sweat. His breathing was noisy, as though he had sinus problems, and the darkness seemed to amplify his snuffling. Annoyed, she stepped away from him and slammed her shin against the coffee table.

“Shit.”

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” said Korsak.

She bit back a retort; things were already tense enough in this room. She bent down to rub her leg. The darkness and the abrupt change in position made her dizzy and disoriented. She had to squat down so she wouldn’t lose her balance. For a few seconds she crouched in the blackness, hoping Korsak wouldn’t trip over her, since he was heavy enough to squash her flat. She could hear the two men moving about a few feet away.

“The cord’s tangled,” said Mick. The Crimescope light suddenly shifted in Rizzoli’s direction as he turned to free up the power cord.

The beam washed across the rug where Rizzoli was crouched. She stared. Framed by the background fluorescence of the rug fibers was a dark irregular spot, smaller than a dime.

“Mick,” she said.

“Can you lift that end of the coffee table? I think the cord’s wrapped around the leg.”