She sat on the floor in the corner, her brown hair flowing over her small, naked frame. Her blue eyes transfixed in a stare, her arms stretched out at her sides. Her white skin, immaculate, except for the deep gashes above her breasts, with dark red blood streaking down her trunk and spreading in front of her in a ten-foot oval. She was around eighteen, Morris guessed.

Morris punched “911” on the department mobile phone, breathless from having ran back to his car. In his three decades as a Los Angeles County Fire inspector, he’d seen dead bodies, but they had been charred corpses — blackened, skeletal remains. This was the first time, outside of a church or funeral home, he’d ever seen a corpse still recognizable as the person who’d died.

Finally, the operator came on the line and asked his name. He told her who he was (county fire inspector); why he was there (inspection of an abandoned house); and explained the situation (discovery of a dead body).

He went back inside the house, long ago a stately home here in Angelino Heights, the first suburb of Los Angeles, abutting downtown and Echo Park. He was drawn back upstairs, back to the girl. He looked down at her long legs stretched out in the blood pool. His eyes traveled up across her blood-streaked waist to her small breasts, down her arms, then, back at the breasts, down to her pubic hair. She seemed unreal, a mannequin. She was just too pretty; she shouldn’t have been here. Something had gone terribly wrong somehow, probably had to do with drugs. So damned tragic. A girl this beautiful would’ve had many loved ones. Although he’d never had children, he imagined her parents when confronted with the news of her death. He looked around the room for clothes but didn’t see them; her death had been quick.

Morris swallowed. He remembered, growing up, stealing his mother’s Vogue magazines, preferring those women to the ones in Playboy. He was mesmerized by their slender bodies to the point of envy. He himself had always been heavy and, since he joined the department, he’d gained well over 100 pounds.

He bent over and rubbed a few strands of her hair in his fingers. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s hair — probably not since his divorce more than twenty years ago. Yes, so long ago. He dropped his hand to touch her cold cheek and stared until he heard the police car pull up.

Outside, he talked to the officers who asked him few questions, as if this was commonplace. Now, with the inspection cut short, he had some time to kill and headed to Koreatown.

* * *

Inside the Hotel Normandie, the Asian cashier in a tuxedo shirt and vest nodded a toothy smile when Morris walked through the revolving door.

“Hel-lo Mister Morris!”

At this hour, the hotel lobby only had three Asian hookers. Morris pointed to a skinny girl wearing a black dress and red lipstick and followed her to one of his usual rooms, one with a single bed and lavatory.

She kneeled in front of him, naked except for underpants. “Blowjob fifty dollar.” Morris handed her the cash, and she started to unzip Morris’s pants.

“Wait,” Morris said. “Do you have your lipstick?”

When she didn’t understand, he made a gesture of putting lipstick on his lips. She handed him the tube from a pocket.

He made a mark across her body above her left breast. She flinched. Another short mark across her neck. She stared, confused. Then, he smeared the lipstick down her chin.

He nodded, then closed his eyes.

* * *

“Will it just be you joining us this evening, sir?” The Maitre d’ smiled at Morris the way at least most strangers did, with a combination of discomfort and pity. Morris looked past him at the oil painting above him of an old Union Pacific rail car, then down at the polished mahogany podium which had a small brass placard that read, “Pacific Dining Car, established 1921,” with the outline of a cow.

“Yes, just me.”

“Right this way, sir.” He followed the Maitre d’, a young, pale and skinny guy with red hair and long teeth dressed as an old-time train porter in a tight green coat with brass buttons and black trousers, sort of like the White Rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland.” He had a quick walk, with almost a skip – probably an actor, Morris thought.

Morris lumbered behind about ten feet while they passed through several rooms, all decorated differently but in the same classic style with white tablecloths and big wingback chairs and booths in leather and velvet – none of the modern chrome and mirror disco-looking crap that Morris hated so much.

“How is this table in the Astor Room, sir?” The Maitre d’ pivoted and pointed to a table in a sweeping motion. It was a round table by a marble fireplace with two red leather wingback chairs, one sitting near the wall, the other facing a window draped in heavy, striped curtains.

“Thank you.” Morris cleared his throated and started to sit down at the chair behind the table. Morris pulled the chair back to the wall, but there still wasn’t enough room for him to sit down so the Maitre d’ struggled to pull the heavy table far enough away to allow Morris to be seated. Finally, Morris settled into his seat and the Maitre d’ started to take away the second chair.

Morris held his hand out to stop him, “Just leave it, please.”

“Of course, sir.” The Maitre d’ smiled and handed him the menu, almost bowing, “do enjoy your dinner!” Then, he scurried away.

Morris opened the long black leather folder and studied the pages inside as he wondered what a girl like her would order. Normally, he would get a fourteen-ounce prime rib – one of the priciest options on the menu and the house specialty, with some fries or onion rings, maybe with a martini or some whiskey drink. But of course she wouldn’t get that. Such a girl wouldn’t do that. No, she would drink something fancy and have something light and dainty to eat.

He looked up, and the waiter was already at his table standing beside him in silence. The waiter was dark, with a thick gray mustache, beard, and crown of bushy white hair lining his bald head. He wore a similar uniform as the young Maitre d’ but didn’t have the same uncomfortable expression. He didn’t smile but he had no look of disgust or pity on his face. This man looked at Morris as though, somehow, he knew, he understood. Morris ordered a champagne cocktail.

Within minutes, the waiter arrived with the cocktail, and Morris ordered a filet mignon, medium, with a side salad tossed with green goddess dressing.

Morris looked at the cocktail’s crystal flute with dark red cherry and sugar cube at the bottom of the glass that emitted a tiny stream of fizz through the bubbling liquid to the top. The cherry at the bottom of the glass gave the yellow liquid a sort of faint pink cast against the white table cloth. It made him think of the color of the girl’s lips, her fingernails, her nipples. His heart pounded. What had become of the girl’s body? At this point, it likely was hidden away in some cold drawer at the County morgue, next to drawers of other corpses. There would be an autopsy of course. Morris shivered.

“Your filet mignon and salad,” the waiter said. “I hope you enjoy your meal, sir.” Morris nodded.

He looked at the white china plate, bordered in a gold scallop pattern along the edge, with its tiny brown filet and mound of green leaves and two small tomatoes covered in pale green dressing. It was a meal you could serve a princess. He thought about the girl’s skin and her blue eyes as she sat on the floor of the house.

He cut off a piece of the filet and took the bite. It was tender, moist, and salty, with a slight bitter taste due to some charring on the outside. His teeth slid through the meat, easy, crushing it into mash.

After a moment, he lifted the glass of champagne. His hands trembled as he brought it to his lips and drank.