Hell's Horizon

11

I spent the next few hours raising unholy hell. I summoned Velouria and her superiors, along with one of the managing directors who happened to be present. I ranted and raved. Made threats. Took out my gun at one stage and waved it over my head like an Indian shaking a tomahawk. Eventually they sent along my good buddy Dr. Sines to calm me down. He tried leading me away to a quiet anteroom but I stood my ground — I had crazy thoughts of the body’s being replaced while I was absent.

“Bodies go missing all the time,” he sighed, offering a cigarette — which I refused — and lighting up. The posse of doctors and nurses who’d gathered to watch the sparks fly was dispersing. “It’s no big deal.”

“He was my father!”

“A father,” Sines noted, flicking through the file, “you never visited or checked on until today.”

“I didn’t know he was here,” I growled.

Sines couldn’t have looked less sympathetic. “If his own son wasn’t interested in his whereabouts, you can’t be too surprised that we weren’t either.”

“You’re paid to take an interest!”

“No,” he corrected me. “We’re paid to check bodies in and stack them away. If we’re told to care for a body, we do. Otherwise it’s fair game.”

“Fair game for who?”

Sines asked if he could push in the slab and close the door of my father’s tomb. I took one final look, put the note back and said he could. Then he continued in a lower tone. “Any number of people could have made off with it. Your lot for starters. The Troops come here every so often and cart a corpse or two away.”

“What for?”

“The mind boggles — you can do a lot of things with a body. They’re your people, not mine. You figure them out.

“Then there are certain doctors — this is something I’d never admit in public — who act rather more freely with the bodies than they should. Corpses are hard to come by on the outside. If one of my colleagues needs a cadaver to experiment on, he takes one. No forms to fill in and no questions asked unless the body has been tagged for sanctuary, and those are never interfered with.”

“That’s sick,” I muttered.

“What if one of them finds the cure for cancer?” He smiled. “But let’s not get into that argument. Besides, I think the presence of the note precludes professional involvement — pathologists aren’t noted for their subtle sense of humor. My guess is it’s the Troops or one of the Fridge’s underlings.”

“A nurse?”

“Nurses, porters, watchmen, maintenance, canteen staff… take your pick.”

“What would they want with the body?”

“Use your imagination,” he chuckled. “Somebody wants to be the talk of a party, or wants to scare the wits out of his dear old grandmother, or wants to cut a head off and use it as a bowling ball. I could go on all night.”

“How do we narrow down the list of suspects?” I asked.

“We don’t,” Sines sighed. “Your father’s body has been here a long time. It could have been taken a week after his arrival or yesterday — there’s no way of knowing. An investigation can be instigated if you insist, but I’d advise against it, as the odds of revealing the culprit are slim at best.”

I’d calmed down — Sines had a soothing influence — and, thinking it over, I knew he was right. Raising a stink would be counterproductive. It would only draw attention to me. Plus it would eat into my time and distract me. This was a mystery for another day, when I didn’t have The Cardinal riding on my back.

“I’ll leave it,” I said, “but not indefinitely. That’s my father somebody’s fucked with. How would you feel if it was your old man?”

“Peeved,” he smirked. “Because I like you, I’ll ask around on the quiet. Pretend I’m fishing for anecdotes. Might learn more that way — a practical joker is usually incapable of keeping his lip zipped if he thinks he’s bragging to a fellow clown.”

“Thanks, Sines.” I hadn’t expected the offer.

“But on one condition,” he added.

“Name it.”

He shook his ID badge at me. “Would you please call me Dr. Sines?”

As I was making notes of my meeting with Sines back home I remembered something Rudi Ziegler had said. Flipping back a few pages I found my minutes. When I’d asked Ziegler if he thought the carving on Nic’s back had anything to do with the Incan brooch she was wearing, he said he doubted it. The Incas were sun worshippers and she had been killed at night. Besides, why kill her at the Skylight? If it had been Incas, a more suitable venue would have been the site of the Manco Capac statue.

I jotted down in capitals, “MANCO CAPAC STATUE — INVESTIGATE” and circled them with my pen. It was too late to go there now — they’d be closing down for the day — but first thing tomorrow…

I felt too agitated to stay indoors. If I sat around brooding, my thoughts would return to the bare slab, the hiss of gas and my father’s absent corpse. I needed to be active.

I took to the streets and asked after Paucar Wami again. Word of my interest had spread and many knew why — they’d heard about Nic and my connection to her. The rumor doing the rounds was that I loved her and had sworn a blood oath over her dead body to get even with her killer. I didn’t bother denying it.

I learned nothing new, though there was a lot more talk about Wami tonight. There’d been a few sightings of the killer and these, coupled with the questions I’d been asking, had convinced many people of his involvement. Several claimed to have seen Wami kill her, and a few poor souls swore blind they’d helped him, but when pushed, none could produce the slightest shred of evidence.

I rolled home late, legs stiff, notebook full of names, half leads and theories. Several people had mentioned Fabio — he allegedly knew more about Wami than most — but I didn’t want to call around so soon after our last meeting, making it look as if I were asking for a favor in return for my curative turn. I’d give it a couple of days and only try the centenarian pimp if all else failed.

I cleaned the apartment, hoping to tire myself out so I’d fall asleep quickly and not lie awake, tossing and turning, thinking about my father.

It didn’t work. Exhausted as I was, sleep proved elusive, and when I managed to drop off for a few minutes my dreams were filled with empty coffins, laughing skeletons and screaming, dislocated ghosts.

The building site was a hive of activity. Men popped in and out of portable sheds like ants. Foremen with megaphones coordinated their troops with tinny bellows. Overhead cranes shifted huge weights from one end of the site to the other. Most attention focused on the center of the industrial wasteland, where scaffolding circled two similar structures standing side by side — a huge pair of legs, I assumed.

I wandered around the site without being questioned, observing the bustle with interest. Judging by the size of the legs, the completed statue would be monstrous. I wondered who was financing its construction. I checked some vans and cabins for names, but there were several companies involved, all of whom had probably been subcontracted. The laborers were reluctant to be drawn into conversation — they were behind schedule, I learned, and would miss out on bonuses if they didn’t finish on time.

The guy must have been incredibly influential, whoever he was. This was a busy part of the city. Construction was interfering with traffic, and I’m sure the dust and noise weren’t welcomed by those in the neighboring buildings. You’d need friends in high places to nudge something like this along. I wondered if one of those friends was also a friend of Nick Hornyak’s, maybe the one who sicced Howard Kett on me.

I was wandering around, exchanging pleasantries with the natives, when I spotted a familiar figure near the scaffolding, talking to a foreman. I waited until he was alone, then sneaked up behind him and murmured in his ear, “Are you following me, Mr. Ziegler?”

Rudi Ziegler spun on his heels, blinking anxiously. He was dressed in a heavy plastic coat, industrial green overalls and rubber boots, and goggles to protect his eyes. When he saw me, he relaxed and raised the goggles.

“Al Jeery,” he smiled, fanning his face with his pudgy hands. “You gave me a start.” He frowned. “Why ask if I’m following you?”

“You were at the funeral yesterday — so was I. And now we’re both here.”

“You were at the funeral? I didn’t see you.” He exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “Then again, I didn’t notice much. I thought it was barbaric of them to have that transparent lid on the coffin. Her brother’s idea.

“As for being here, I’ve been coming three or four days a week for the last fortnight. I petitioned for a statue to be erected in memory of our Incan forebears some years ago, but it came to nothing. Now this.” He beamed like a child.

“That’s going to be Manco Capac?” I asked. “The sun god?”

“The son of the sun god,” Ziegler corrected me. “Manco Capac was the founding father of the Incan empire. His followers believed he was a direct descendant of the sun deity.”

I nodded studiously. “When and where did this guy live, exactly?”

“About 1200 ad, along the western coast of South America.”

“Mind telling me what we’re doing building a monument to him here, today?”

“This city has strong Incan roots. Didn’t you know?” From my blank expression he gathered I didn’t. “This was an Indian village in earlier times. A small winter settlement. In the sixteenth century — just before the Spanish invaded — a band of Incas arrived, settled and made it home.”

“How’d they get here?” I asked curiously.

Ziegler shrugged. “Nobody knows. It’s puzzled archaeologists for decades. When the signs were first unearthed, many thought it was a practical joke, that old Incan artifacts had been buried by pranksters. Further investigation proved that wasn’t so. Incas were here. Not only that — they made this city what it is, laying the foundations upon which the modern version was built.”

“That mean we’re a bunch of Incan offspring?” I asked.

“Our bloodlines are intriguingly mixed,” Ziegler said, readjusting his goggles as a dust cloud swept over us. “Many races have found their way here over the centuries. But those whose roots stretch back more than a couple of generations are almost surely linked — however tenuously — to the Incas.”

“And one of them’s decided to pay tribute at last.” I smiled. “Was it you?”

Ziegler smiled with me. “I wish. Actually, I’m not sure who the benefactor is. But yes, it is nice to see. For someone who’s spent his life dabbling with all things Incan, it’s a tremendously exciting development. They’re not just building a statue but a museum. They’ll be shipping in ornaments, manufacturing replicas, hosting wild Inca-style parties.”

“That won’t do your business any harm,” I noted.

“True — and don’t think I’m not making plans to cash in — but that’s not why I’m here. The financial aspects pale in the face of the staggering aesthetic majesty of the project.”

Ziegler stared lovingly up at the legs. I didn’t like to break into his reverie, so I studied them with him, watching as the cranes added to the lower sections, thickening them — I guessed — to support what would surely be a massive upper body.

“This Manco Capac,” I said. “How do they know what he looks like? I mean, 1200 ad… that’s a while ago.”

“It is indeed,” Ziegler agreed. “But even primitive cavemen boasted artists. I’m not sure which source the designers have gone with for the statue, but there are several possible portraits to choose from. The result may not be entirely accurate, but it’s the symbolism which counts.”

Symbolism. Symbols…

“Didn’t you tell me the Incas had a thing for human sacrifice?” I asked.

Ziegler nodded. “Almost every society has a history of offering its own kind to the gods. The Incas were no different, although they were more subtle about it than most.”

“How can you have a subtle sacrifice?” I laughed.

His face misted over. “They would pick the most desirable of their virgins — male and female — and deck them out in fine robes, adorn them with flowers, feed them exotic fruits and parade them around like celebrities. Then they’d slip them drugs to dull their senses, haul them up a mountain and leave them in an exposed place to freeze. There wasn’t much pain, just a gentle drifting off and a glorious union with the gods.” He sighed happily. “It must have been beautiful.”

I decided not to comment on that.

“Was that how they killed all their victims? They never varied the routine, used, for instance, knives?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “The Incas reserved the holy sacrifices for special occasions. I’m sure there were plenty of other, smaller, messier sacrifices. But not with knives — the Incas weren’t metallurgists.”

“They must have had cutting implements of one kind or another,” I said.

“Of course. Jagged rocks, crystals, sharpened bones.”

“So they had knives of a sort.”

Ziegler smiled thinly. “Of a sort.”

“The sort that could have been used to carve a sun symbol on Nic’s back?”

“I very much doubt it,” he sniffed.

“Remember what you told me about that when I came to visit?”

“Refresh my memory.”

“You said, if it had been Inca-related, they wouldn’t have killed her in the Skylight — they’d have done it out here. You still stand by that?”

He looked puzzled. “I think this would be a good place for a sacrifice to the sun to be made, yes, but she wasn’t killed here. She was killed at the hotel.”

I said nothing, but coughed discreetly and glanced away.

Ziegler stared hard. “Are you implying she wasn’t?”

I hesitated, pondering whether to play my ace, then opted against it — better to keep it quiet for the time being. “Of course she was killed at the hotel,” I said. “But maybe she’d been here beforehand. Did you ever discuss this place with her?”

“I might have mentioned it, but only in passing. She’d moved on from Incas and the sun by our last few sessions. Demons were more her style.”

A truck approached and we had to get out of the way. Ziegler led me clear, treading confidently, at home here. I spotted a tall man in robes standing not far from us. He seemed to be gazing at the statue but he couldn’t have been, because when he turned I saw that his eyes were white. They stared blindly in my direction, as the eyes of the man in the funeral parlor had. At first I thought it was the same guy but that was ridiculous — a man without the use of his eyes was hardly likely to be trailing me around the city.

“How big’s this thing going to be?” I asked, keeping an eye on the man in the robes, wondering what he was doing on the building site.

“About nine hundred feet,” Ziegler replied.

I gawped at him. “Christ! Why the hell are they building it so big?”

“It’ll be hollow inside,” Ziegler told me. “The museum artifacts will be housed in the body, for viewing on the way up. It’s also been designed to receive the fullest effects of the sun. The head’s going to be packed with mirrors, which will turn it into a giant sphere of light. You’ll be able to climb to the top when it’s finished and bask in a room so bright, it’ll be like sitting inside the sun.”

“Sounds dangerous. Light that bright could”—I looked around for the man in the robes, but he was gone—“blind you.” I frowned, shook my head, then pointed at the cranes. “How do they set those things up?”

Ziegler shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Puzzles the shit out of me whenever I think about it.”

“Why don’t you check with somebody who knows?”

“Each time it pops into my head, I mean to, but then I forget about it again.”

We didn’t say much for a few minutes. Just stood and stared at the towering cranes, immersed in our thoughts. Ziegler was probably dreaming about Incas. I was thinking about the symbol carved into Nic’s back.

Finally the mystic stirred. “I must be leaving. I’m seeing a client in an hour. By the time I get home, wash and change, it’ll be—”

He stopped and stared off into the distance. It took me a few seconds to spot what he was focused on, then I saw it, a fall of rain that looked like a vertical column to the heavens, a hundred feet beyond the statue.

Ziegler hurried toward it and I moved quickly to keep up. “What is it?” I asked as we ran.

“The rain of the gods,” he gasped, flushed with excitement. “Have you never seen it?”

“No.”

“It isn’t common. This is only my third sighting.”

We stopped short of the extraordinary fall of rain, which was hitting the ground in a fenced-off area. No guards or workmen were nearby. Ziegler was wringing his hands so much, it’s a wonder he didn’t squeeze them to pulp.

“Incredible,” he sighed. “I’ve never been this close.”

“It’s odd,” I agreed. The rain fell in a perfect rectangle, maybe six feet wide by a foot deep. The surrounding area was bone-dry, apart from some splashing at the edges.

“The villacs believed this was the voice of the sun god,” Ziegler informed me. “This was how they communicated with him.”

“Villacs?”

“Ancient Incan priests.”

While we were studying the shower, the blind man I’d noticed earlier emerged from the far side. He was closer to the rain than we were and his white robes were specked with wet spots. He was old, with short, white hair. A mole sprouted from the left side of his chin. His head bobbed forward and backward lightly, and he seemed oblivious to our presence.

I turned to ask Ziegler more about the villacs, when the blind man darted toward me, grabbed my left arm and spun me into the rectangle of rain. I opened my mouth to roar, but before I could utter a syllable the world disintegrated into shards of light and I had to cover my eyes with my hands.

When I removed my fingers after a couple of wary seconds, I was no longer in the yard. I wasn’t even in the city. I was standing on a rock at the edge of a cliff, gazing down on a fertile valley.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” someone asked. Turning, I saw the blind man.

“Yes,” I answered peacefully. Part of me knew this couldn’t be happening, but I’d fallen prey to the mesmerizing vision.

“We must leave soon,” the blind man said, and I nodded in reply. “We can never return.”

“Never,” I echoed.

“But we will build anew. And this time we will build forever. See the rivers?” He pointed to three tributaries that trickled down from the mountains to meet in the valley and form a large snake of a river. “Those are the rivers of blood. The Blood of Flesh.” He pointed to the river furthest left. “Dreams made Flesh.” This time he pointed to the river to the far right.

“And Flesh of Dreams,” I said, nodding at the middle line of red.

“Yes. And the place where they meet, do you know what that is called?” I thought for a moment but came up blank. “It is the future. And it’s ours.”

The blind man moved behind me and placed his fingers on my shoulders. I made no move to stop him as he gently pushed me. Nor did I scream or feel the slightest sense of fear as I fell. Instead I spread my arms, raised my chin and flew. I glided like a bird over the middle river of blood, close enough to touch it. When I reached the spot where it joined with the others, I hovered and stared down into the churning pool of blood at the intersection.

There were faces in the red pool, none of which I recognized. Old and young, male and female, black and white. They eddied around in the pool like fish caught between conflicting currents. After a while I realized there was a face beneath the others, far bigger than the rest. At first I thought it was my own face, but then the blood lightened a shade and I noticed murky snakes writhing down the specter’s cheeks. I knew it must be Paucar Wami. The thought didn’t frighten me. Nothing in this world of visions scared me.

While I watched, the vision of Paucar Wami opened its eyes — dark green slits — and smiled. Its lips mouthed the word, “Come! ” I dived into the pool in response. As soon as I parted the surface of the bloody waters, a red gauze dropped over my eyes. The red swiftly turned to black, then I was slipping out of the vision, out of the pool, back into the real world and…

… Rain.

I opened my eyes and gazed upward as the rain cascaded down. Then arms yanked at me. I was expecting the blind man who’d propelled me into the shower, but it was the less mysterious Rudi Ziegler who had hold of me.

“You’re drenched,” he tutted, tugging at the sleeves of my jacket.

“What happened?” I asked numbly. I took a step forward, lost control of my legs and slumped to the ground.

“Some crazy blind man in robes thrust you into the rain,” Ziegler said. “I’ve spent the last minute trying to drag you out. You seemed oblivious to me.”

“My mind was… elsewhere.” Then, as my senses returned, I glanced around. “Where’d the blind guy go?”

“Heaven knows,” Ziegler sighed.

“A pity,” I muttered, and stood. Ziegler helped me.

“Will you be all right?” he asked as I wobbled uncertainly.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, taking a couple of half steps. I felt more confident after that. My strength was returning. “Fine,” I repeated and smiled to show I meant it.

“The rain’s stopping,” Ziegler said. Glancing up, I saw the last drops fall. There were no clouds overhead.

“If you’re sure you’ll be OK, I really must be going,” Ziegler said. “My client won’t wait.”

“That’s fine. Go.”

Ziegler still looked concerned, but he nodded. “Are you coming?” he asked.

“In a while,” I said. “I want to rest a bit first. Dry off in the sun.”

“I can send someone to check on you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

He paused and I flashed him a grin. He smiled in return, bade me farewell and left. Once he was gone I sat again, stared at the spot where the fallen rain was seeping into the ground and pondered the meaning of my vision, in particular the face I’d half-glimpsed at the bottom of the pool of blood.

I changed into dry clothes back home. I couldn’t get the vision out of my mind. I’d never experienced anything like that. What brought it on? The blind man? The rain? Had somebody slipped me some LSD on the sly?

Since the questions were unanswerable, I put them to one side and went in search of Paucar Wami again. After the vision it seemed more important than ever to find the fabled killer.

It was a vain search. Rumors were rife — he’d been seen in the north of the city, he’d murdered a priest in Swiss Square, he was holed up on the fifteenth floor of Party Central with The Cardinal — but none could be verified. Nobody knew where he was, what he was here for or how long he intended to stay.

Hard as it was to not focus on the vision, in the evening I let my thoughts turn toward Rudi Ziegler. If he was Nic’s killer I’d eat my beret, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was tied in with it somehow. Maybe he had referred Nic to some other mystic when she spoke of wanting to take a demon lover. I needed to find out how he dealt with clients who wanted to go a stage further, whom he sent them to.

I could have sicced one of The Cardinal’s goons on him but The Cardinal hadn’t told me the truth about where Nic was killed. I couldn’t rely on him or those who answered to him. I’d have to use my own person, someone I could trust implicitly. My options were narrow. I didn’t want to involve Bill. That left Ellen.

She was suspicious when I asked her to meet me at Cafran’s for supper. She wanted to know what I was after. I wouldn’t say. That fueled her curiosity, so she agreed to meet me at nine, which gave me two hours to talk matters over with Priscilla and get rid of her.

I dropped a progress report off at Party Central — The Cardinal hadn’t asked for regular updates but I figured it was best to keep him informed — then headed home for another change of clothes.

As before, I didn’t know how to dress for my date with Miss Perdue, but decided to play it safe — smartest suit, shoes polished until I could see the cracks in the ceiling in them, cuff links, a snazzy tie. I even ran a comb through my hair — it doesn’t take much combing — and flossed my teeth. I wouldn’t be shown up by her, no matter where she took me.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early and wished I hadn’t, as it meant fifteen extra minutes of looking like a fool. Cafran’s was a nice place but it wasn’t a suit-and-tie job. Most of its customers were older than me, dressed casually, regulars who fitted in like the rubber plants. I stuck out like a sore thumb — King Kong’s.

Priscilla was twenty minutes late but didn’t apologize. She was dressed in the skimpiest of materials, a length of green rope around her torso — barely enough to cover her breasts — and a skirt so short it was little more than a glorified belt.

“My, my,” she smiled, “look at Mr. Penguin.”

“One insult and I’m out of here,” I replied gruffly. “Let’s just get to our table.”

“The night’s young, Al.”

“But I’m not. I have business after this. I’m in a hurry.”

“Very well.” She laughed and took my arm.

We sat by the front window, where everybody could gawp at me. I settled into my chair, trying not to twitch in the stifling suit, and picked up the menu.

“You should have told me this was…” I stopped talking and listened to the music. “Is that ‘Yellow Submarine’?”

“They play all those corny old songs here,” she said. “That’s why I like it.”

“Great,” I groaned. “Makes my suit all the damn dumber.”

“Cheer up,” she giggled. “You’re distinctive. And don’t bother with the menu — since you’re in a hurry, we’ll do without the meal. A quick drink and I’m gone.” A short waiter in red suspenders, with an i love cafran’s badge pinned to his breast, approached. “A pi≁a colada,” Priscilla said promptly. “Al?”

“Mineral water, please.” The waiter nodded dutifully and went to fetch the drinks. We talked about the funeral and the mourners. Priscilla hadn’t noticed the blind man but knew most of the others and filled me in on their relationships with Nicola. I’d only meant to dwell on the preliminaries for a couple of minutes but one anecdote led to another and soon the time was flying by. When I found myself reminiscing about my nights of passion with Nic, I halted in mid-sentence, glanced at my watch, realized eight o’clock — and two more drinks — had come and gone and knuckled down to business.

I steepled my hands, cleared my throat and crab-talked up to the big questions. “You remember you told me you wanted to help find out who killed Nic?” She nodded. “You know I’ve been making investigations?” She nodded again. “Well, there’s a few… That is, if you don’t mind, I’d like to…”

She laughed. “Spit it out. I won’t take offense, whatever it is.”

“It gets pretty personal,” I warned her.

She tipped her glass at me and lowered her lids. “Here’s to getting personal.”

I stared at the table, even though I should have been watching her face to gauge whether she was answering truthfully or not. “You lied about not knowing Rudi Ziegler.”

A brief pause, then, “Yes. I go a couple of times a month. It amuses me. I let him play with his mirrors and summon fake spirits. I gasp, clap my hands and shake in my chair, like on a ghost train, then pay up and trot along home. He’s a fabulous entertainer.”

“Have you seen him since Nic’s death, apart from at the funeral?”

“Yes. I introduced Nic to him. If he was involved in her murder, I would have felt partly to blame. I asked if he knew anything about it. He told me he didn’t. I believed him.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know.” She tossed her hair. “Maybe I didn’t want to seem like a silly girl who throws her money away on cheap spooks.”

“Maybe there were other reasons.”

“Maybe,” she admitted coolly.

I waited for her to break the silence. I didn’t want to push any more than I had to. Finally she sighed and took a drink.

“OK. There were things I didn’t want you finding out. Seeeecrets.” She made a big production of the word. “I thought if you knew about Rudi, you might worm them out of him.”

“Why mention him at all if that was the case?”

“I figured you’d know about him anyway and it would look suspicious if I played dumb.”

“These secrets,” I said, watching my fingers curl into involuntary fists. “Was one of them about you and Nic? What you did in your spare time?”

A long silence. Then, “Don’t play it coy, Al. What exactly are you asking?”

I blurted it out. “Were you and Nic hookers?”

She reacted calmly. “Yes. I introduced her to that as well.” A slow, measured drink. “Some friend, huh?”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

She finished her drink and crooked a finger at the waiter. I left my glass where it was. She didn’t say anything until the next pi≁a colada arrived.

“It wasn’t about money. Not for Nic anyway — she was loaded. I did it for the cash occasionally, but most of the time for fun. Picking up rich guys and taking them to slums. Latching on to a bum and treating him to a night at the Skylight. Doing things we could never ask our boyfriends to do.”

“How long had this been going on?”

“I’d been doing it since my late teens. Nic only started a year or so ago.”

“Was she doing it while dating me?” I asked, thinking of the times I’d made love to her without a condom.

“Not often — the game had lost a lot of its appeal — but yes. The night of her murder…” She stalled.

“Go on,” I prompted her.

She shook her head and gasped, “I can’t.”

When a long silence followed, a silence she showed no sign of breaking, I prodded her back into life. “I know you were at the Skylight.”

Her head shot up. She’d been on the verge of tears but the shock froze them at the corners of her eyes. “How?”

“I told you I’ve been investigating.” A smug grin almost made it to my lips but I thrust it back just in time.

Priscilla slowly twisted her glass, first to the left, then to the right, eyes on the drops of condensation as they slid toward the base. She started talking and didn’t look up until she was finished unburdening herself.

“Nic set up a trick. We were meant to do him together — she liked three-way action. I arrived in advance and booked the room. Eight-one-two. Signed in as Jane Dowe, as I always did in hotels. Headed for the bar. On the way I ran into an old customer. I don’t have regulars, but this was a Chinese businessman I’d been with several times. He asked me up to his room. I said I had a prior engagement. He told me to name my price.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“None of your business,” she responded sharply. “Besides, he was only here for a couple of days. He’s back in Hong Kong now.”

“Hard to check on,” I commented.

“If I’d known what was going to happen,” she said bitterly, “I’d have arranged a more convenient alibi.”

“Let’s get back to the Skylight,” I said quietly. “He told you to name your price. Then?”

“We haggled — the Chinese love to haggle — and arrived at an acceptable sum. He had some business to attend to. Gave me the card to his room, told me to let myself in. I struck for the bar first and ordered a drink. Nic turned up. I explained the change of plan.”

“How did she react?”

“She didn’t mind. Business is business.”

“She didn’t seem scared or apprehensive?”

“No.”

“You don’t think she had any idea of what was coming?”

“Hardly.”

“What happened next?”

“She went her way, I went mine.”

“That was it?”

“Yes. I gave her the card to 812 before she left.”

“She went straight up?”

“I presume so. I didn’t leave with her — I’d slipped off my shoes, so I stayed a few seconds to put them back on.”

“Did she tell you the name of her john?”

I could see Priscilla’s withering smile in the panels of the glass. “We’d hardly be sitting here talking if she had. I wouldn’t have let shame stop me from revealing the name of her killer if I knew it.”

“You didn’t see him? He wasn’t in the lobby?”

“Nic had gone up by the time I came out of the bar.”

“She didn’t say anything about him? His nationality, job, if he was rich or poor, what he looked like?”

“Nothing.” Her fingers stopped twirling the glass and she gripped it firmly. “My Chinaman was in poor form that night. I finished early — about half past eleven — and started for home. I was on the sixth floor. As I got into the elevator, I thought about joining Nic and her companion. I almost did.”

“What stopped you?”

She sighed. “I was tired. Went home and got a good night’s sleep instead, rare for a Friday. I rang Nic the next day. Didn’t think anything of it when there was no answer. I didn’t connect her absence with the trick in the Skylight until…”

She broke off and took several deep breaths. The tears had forced their way back and were rolling down her cheeks.

“From what I read, she was still alive at half past eleven,” Priscilla moaned. “If I’d gone up, or if I’d gone with her earlier, when I was meant to…”

“You might have been killed too,” I said, touching her hand briefly, wishing to be supportive without seeming forward.

“Or I might have saved her,” she sobbed. “She was alone. The first time she pulled a trick, she begged me to go with her — she was afraid. I told her not to be silly and sent her off with him, laughing. I should have been there. I…”

Again she broke off, and this time I knew there’d be no recovery. Our interview was at a close. I covered her hands with mine — I felt confident enough to make real contact this time — and made soft, cooing noises, gently guiding her back to normal conversation.

She smiled weakly once the worst had passed. “Thank you,” she said.

“For reducing you to tears? I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“No.” She took one of her hands from mine and wiped tears from her face, then tenderly laid her palm against my left cheek. It was cool from the glass. “It was good that you confronted me. I needed to confess. It was tearing me apart. This way it’s out in the open. I can cry about it now and maybe start to forgive myself.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I assured her. She made a face, then set about restoring her looks, wiping away the worst of the tears, applying makeup while I sat twiddling my thumbs, wishing I were holding her hands again.

Snapping her compact shut, she rose. I was getting up to walk her to her cab when she laid a hand on my forearm and smiled. “It’s OK. Finish your drink. I’ll settle the check on my way.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said, but she squeezed lightly and stopped me.

“Please, Al. I’d like to be alone. I’ll give you a call soon, when I feel better.”

“OK,” I said. “But let me pay. I arranged this meeting, so it’s only fair that—”

“I won’t argue about it.” She grinned, made a fast turn and scurried away, only to find her path blocked by another woman. They collided, clutched at each other to prevent a fall, then separated. “I’m sorry,” Priscilla said. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Not at all,” the other woman replied. “You had the right-of-way. I should have… What the hell are you doing in a suit?” This last part was addressed to me.

“You know each other?” Priscilla asked, politely standing aside so that Ellen — early for once in her life — had a clear view of me.

“Yes.” I rose awkwardly, as if caught in a clandestine embrace — for a second I forgot we were divorced — and welcomed my second guest of the night. “Priscilla, I’d like you to meet Ellen Fraser. Ellen, Priscilla Perdue.”

“Doubling up on dates, Al?” Ellen mocked me. “You’re getting cheap in your old age.”

“Please,” Priscilla said quickly, “don’t get the wrong idea. We weren’t here on a date. It was merely a—”

Ellen laughed and raised her hands. “No need to apologize. I’m not dating the sap either.”

Priscilla blinked and looked at me questioningly.

“Ellen and I used to be married,” I muttered.

“Oh.” She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and made the sign for buttoning her lips. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Ellen said.

“I was going anyway,” Priscilla told her, then winked at me and said goodbye.

Ellen watched Priscilla march away in her skimpy top and skirt, a sly smile twitching the edges of her mouth. “New girl?” she asked casually.

“A friend of a friend,” I answered truthfully.

She turned the full force of her gaze on me. “So that’s what friends of friends are wearing these days.”

“Skip it,” I mumbled gruffly. “Let’s order.”

“Yes, Romeo,” she said, hiding behind a menu to cover her smirk.

Ellen asked what the occasion was while we were waiting for the meal to arrive. She always came straight to the point.

“You heard about the girl who was murdered in the Skylight last Thursday?” That was the official public date of her death.

“Sure. The papers have been making a meal of it. They love taking jabs at The Cardinal. It’s not often they get the chance.”

“I knew her,” I said.

Ellen frowned. “Socially?”

“We were lovers.” I’d meant to present a condensed version of the facts — keeping The Cardinal and the extent of my involvement out of it — but I’d never been good at keeping secrets from Ellen. Soon the whole story was tumbling out. I told her about my fling with Nic, how I’d found her, when she’d been killed, what I’d learned of her since then, my meetings with The Cardinal, Priscilla, Ziegler and the rest. The only cards I played close to my chest were Paucar Wami, the vision I’d had and my father. Knowing about Wami might scare her off when I asked her for help. I would have been embarrassed talking about the vision. And Tom Jeery was my concern alone.

The tale took us through dinner and dessert, and on to coffee. She listened quietly, displaying no emotions other than an occasional raised eyebrow, and kept her questions to a minimum.

When I finished she shook her head, sipped at her coffee and said, “Wow.” I held my tongue, knowing there’d be more once she’d thought on it some. “The Cardinal. After all these years. Is he as impressive as they say?”

“He’s more imposing than anyone I’ve met, but there’s something small-time about him, like he’s this tough kid in the biggest sandbox in the city.”

“You used to say you’d run for the hills if The Cardinal took a personal interest in you,” she reminded me.

“I almost did. If not for Nic…”

“How close were you two?”

“Not very. I hadn’t guessed how duplicitous she was. I knew she’d been around but I’d no idea she was a…” I didn’t like to say it, so I didn’t. “There was very little romance in it.”

“So why get involved now that she’s dead?” A blunt but fair query.

“Because she was a friend and I value friendship.”

“Or because you like the idea of cracking the case and being king for an hour?” Ellen suggested, seeing inside my mind as she’d always been able to.

“Would it be so bad if I did? You always said I was meant for better things.”

“Absolutely. I deplored the way you settled for so little. It helped drive me away from you. Ambition’s good, Al. But there’s a difference between standing tall and standing up to your neck in shit.”

“You think I should ditch the case?” I loved the way she put it so plainly.

“Not necessarily. If this is what you want, go for it. But it’s a messy business. I’ve had dealings at work with detectives. What those guys go through isn’t pretty — hours spent following people, bugging phones, invading privacy. Detectives destroy relationships, people, lives. I’m not sure you’re cut out for that.”

“But this is different. It’s personal. I won’t hurt anybody.”

“You can’t make a pledge like that. You might have to.”

I stared down at the table. “You think I should stop?”

Ellen sighed. “I’m not your wife now — what you do is none of my business. All I’m saying is, think before you act. Don’t rush in halfhearted. Do it right and know what you’re doing, or don’t do it at all.”

Ellen watched intently as I pretended to mull her words over, saw that I had no intention of letting matters drop, and tutted impatiently. “You should let me know when I’m wasting my breath. You don’t have the slightest intention of quitting.”

“Not really,” I chuckled apologetically.

“So why drag me out and bare your soul if not for my sage-like advice?”

I smiled sheepishly and said, “For your help.” Then I drew her back to Rudi Ziegler and explained my hunch, how I felt the murderer might be connected to him, how I needed to learn more about the mystic.

Ellen said nothing until I’d finished, then fixed me with one of her iciest stares and snapped, “You’re insane.”

“Is that a no?” I quipped.

“This guy could be a killer!”

“I doubt it. He’s meek as they come.”

“But he might send his clients to killers? Forget it! Look somewhere else for a stooge. I wouldn’t touch something like this if you paid me. If that’s a problem — if you think I owe you — tough. I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t owe me,” I snapped back. “I never—”

I broke off before I said something I’d regret. I began to wish I hadn’t started this but it was too late to back out now.

“I’ve no right to ask this of you,” I muttered, “but I’m asking anyway, because I have no one else to turn to. You wouldn’t be in danger. I wouldn’t ask if I thought there was any degree of risk involved.”

Ellen sighed. “I know.” A long pause. “But I’ve got work to consider. We’re real busy. I couldn’t—”

“It wouldn’t interfere with work,” I said quickly. “You could fit it around your office hours. It would be fun. A dibbling of divertissement.” That was one of Ellen’s favorite expressions — she’d made it up herself. She smiled and I knew I’d almost won her over.

She made a show of pondering my words, then finally let her head roll back and sighed wearily. “OK. I’ll listen. But I’m promising nothing. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“You better!”

I wet my throat before continuing. “You’d go along to a couple of sessions, have your palm read, your future told, that kind of thing. Get to know the guy, laugh at his jokes, flirt with him a bit. Then ask to sit in on a séance and express interest in going further, tell him you want to make meaningful contact with the other world and find a lover among the shades of the dead.”

“What?” she squealed, delighted in spite of her misgivings.

“That’s what Nic was after,” I grinned. “A spirit lover, a ghost she could get hot and horny with.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I bet you had some fun with her beneath the sheets.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I smiled. “Made certain other parties I’ve slept with look like dead fish.”

“Watch it,” she growled, tweaking my nose.

“Whatever your story, however crazy, act like you’re serious and he’ll treat you with respect. He deals with cranks all the time. If he thinks you believe, there’ll be no problem. Say you want to delve into the secrets of past incarnations, mumbo jumbo like that. Mention Egyptians and Incas — he’s got a passion for Incas — anything along those lines you can think of.”

“That sounds harmless so far,” she said. “What next?”

“If he says he doesn’t do stuff like that and turns you away, you walk — thanks for the help, end of your involvement, adios. If he leads you on, play along, but push him toward a conclusion.”

“What sort of conclusion?”

“Insist on results. If he can’t provide them, ask him to send you to someone more in touch with the dead.”

“If he does, what do I do? Go see them?”

“No. If he gives you a name, pass it along to me and leave it there. I’ll check it out. The other guy will never know about you. See? Just as I said, no danger.”

She weighed up the pros and cons, then grimaced. “What the hell. I’ve been meaning to visit one of those fakirs for years. Maybe he’ll direct me toward the man of my dreams. I’ve tried every other approach.”

“You’re a peach.” I leaned across and kissed her, a chaste kiss between two old lovers who were now mere friends.

“When do you want me to start?” she asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“What if he draws a connection between the two of us?”

“How could he? If you don’t mention Nic or me, he has no reason to be suspicious. Treat it like a joke at first. Don’t start off serious. Let him make you believe. Let his act convince and propel you further along.”

“All right. But you’ll owe me big for this. I’ve got a birthday coming up and I won’t settle for a box of chocolates. Understand?”

“It’ll be diamond tiaras and slippers of gold,” I vowed.

“It’d better be,” she snorted, then raised her mug in a toast. “Here’s to Fraser and Jeery, the Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot of the twenty-first century.”

“Marple and Poirot,” I repeated, and we grinned stupidly as we clinked mugs and downed the coffee as if it were champagne.

12

I spent Thursday morning checking for news of Wami. The streets were teeming with stories and unsubstantiated sightings but no real leads. I toyed with the idea of offering a reward for information leading to his whereabouts, but that would have brought the crazies out in full.

I stopped in at Party Central and looked for Frank. I wanted to ask him about the Troops guarding the Skylight the night of Nic’s murder. His secretary paged him — he was in a meeting but would be free in a quarter of an hour. I said I’d be back and moseyed down to the canteen to catch up on the latest gossip.

I passed Richey Harney in the corridor on my way, the guy who’d originally been destined to haul Nic back from the Fridge with Vincent.

“How’d the party go?” I asked.

“Party?” His face was a blank.

“Your daughter’s party.”

“My…?” The lights came on and he chuckled edgily. “It was great. Thanks for letting me off the hook. If you ever need a favor…”

He hurried on and I wondered what he had to feel edgy about. Maybe he skipped the party for a rendezvous with a mistress, or simply went off for a beer.

No sign of Jerry or Mike in the canteen. A couple of guys I half knew saluted me. I waved but didn’t go over — they were watching the horses and that’s something I had no interest in. I sat and watched a different channel, then took myself back to Frank’s office. He arrived soon after.

“Al. What’s up?”

I asked if he had a list of the guards at the Skylight. He did. Could I have a copy? Normally, no, but since I was The Cardinal’s current favorite…

Thirty-six names in all. “Any dirt on these guys?” I asked halfheartedly, not savoring the idea of investigating that many suspects.

“Every Troop’s clean, Al, you know that.”

I grinned. “Sure. Clean as angels. You know what I mean. Are there any you have doubts about, guys stuck at the Skylight because you don’t want them getting in the way here?”

Frank took the list and examined it. “Nobody I’m at odds with,” he declared. “Good soldiers, the lot. What are you looking for?”

I told him about Nic and how she hadn’t been killed at the Skylight. It was the first he’d heard of it. His face darkened as I broke the news.

“That bastard,” he snarled. “I can’t believe I wasn’t told. I’m the head of the goddamn Troops for Christ’s sake! I should be the first he comes to with—”

“Frank.” I whistled. “Calm down before your head explodes.”

He glared at me, then relaxed. “He gets on my tits, Al. You’ve got no idea what it’s like working close to that maniac.”

I thought — from my brief experience of The Cardinal — that I had, but kept the opinion to myself.

“The sooner he moves me on and lets that prick Raimi take over, the better,” Frank grumbled.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m on my way out,” Frank huffed. “He hasn’t said as much, but we had a few conversations recently and I got the whiff. I’m not as dumb as he thinks. My days as head Troop are numbered, thank fuck.”

The Cardinal had told me that at our first meeting, but I figured it would be better not to mention it to Frank. Instead I asked who “that prick Raimi” was.

“Capac Raimi. Theo Boratto’s nephew. You know him?”

“Yeah. I heard he was being groomed for big things. Didn’t realize he was up for your job, though. Vincent mentioned him the night we picked up Nic from the Fridge. He doesn’t like Raimi either.”

“Not surprised. Vincent always fancied himself as Ford’s successor. The way Raimi’s going, he’s gonna leapfrog us all. The Cardinal’s got the hots for him. He’ll take my place, Ford’s, even The Cardinal’s in the end, you wait and see. Fucking golden boy.” Frank muttered a few more curses, then shook thoughts of Capac Raimi from his head. “Anyway, the Skylight. If she wasn’t killed there, what makes you think one of our guys might have been involved?”

I shrugged. “I know the Troops at the Skylight aren’t the sharpest, but I can’t picture them missing a guy dragging in a corpse.”

“Only her back was cut up,” Frank reminded me. “The killer could have draped a coat over her, pretended she was stoned, waltzed her through in front of everyone. You wouldn’t get away with it here, but at the Skylight…”

“I’d like to check on them anyway. No objections?”

“It’s your time — waste it as you see fit. But have a word with me before you hassle any of them. I can do without insurrection in the ranks, especially with that fucker Raimi snapping at my heels.”

I decided to leave before he went off on another rant. I was on my way out with the list of names when I stopped on an impulse. “Do you know Richey Harney?”

Frank closed his eyes for a second, putting a face to the name, then nodded.

“He said he was at his daughter’s birthday party last week. Could you check—”

“Richey Harney doesn’t have a daughter.”

I paused. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Is he married?”

“In the middle of a divorce. No children.”

“Then I must have been mistaken. See you, Frank.”

Richey had left the building when I went looking for him. I was about to get his address and track him down when I spotted Vincent Carell chatting up a secretary. I decided to have a word with him instead. He wasn’t happy to be interrupted but came when I said it was important.

“What’s bugging you?” he growled. “Couldn’t you see the sparks zapping between us? I was this close to—”

“You recall our trip to the Fridge?” I cut in.

“Do I look like a goldfish? ’Course I fucking remember. What about it?”

“You asked Richey Harney to go with you first.”

“Yeah?” Growing guarded now.

“He said he had to go to his daughter’s birthday party. He told us he missed her First Communion and if he missed the party on top of that, he’d be in the doghouse with his wife.”

“So?” Vincent said unhappily.

“Richey Harney doesn’t have a daughter.”

“He doesn’t?”

“He’s in the middle of a divorce.”

“He is?”

I leaned in closer. “You can tell me what’s going on, or I can worm it out of Richey. Either way, I will find out.”

“Harney won’t say anything. He’s got more sense.”

“But he’s also got less to lose than you. If he talks in exchange for my oath that I’ll swear everything came from you…”

Vincent’s nostrils flared. “Don’t fuck with me, Algiers.”

“I won’t. Not if you play ball. Tell me what that scene was about and I’ll keep it to myself. Not a word to anyone. It’ll be our little secret.”

Vincent took a deep breath. “If you say anything…”

“I won’t.”

“Ford set me up to it.”

“Up to what?”

“He said to wait until you came down, then go in after you. Harney would be there, waiting, ready to respond when I said what Ford told me to.”

“ And? ” I pressed.

“Ford thought you’d take pity on the fool and offer to step in for him. If you didn’t, we were to have an argument on the way out and I was to storm back in and tell you to take his place.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“Vincent…”

“No shit, Algiers. Ford didn’t know either. He was following The Cardinal’s orders. Neither of us knew about your girlfriend.”

“You didn’t know it was Nicola Hornyak lying out there on the slab?” I snorted skeptically.

“I’d never heard of her before you ID’d her. Ford hadn’t either.”

“The Cardinal knew.”

Vincent shrugged.

I stepped away and thanked Vincent for his cooperation. He made a face, warned me again not to tell anyone he’d told me, and went back after the secretary. I found a chair and sat down.

I knew The Cardinal had known about Nic from the start — the file was proof of that — but it never occurred to me that I’d been deliberately sent to discover the body, that he’d arranged things to make it look as if it were my choice.

I recalled card tricks I’d learned as a kid, and how important the force was. A good magician could force his chosen card on a member of an audience, making it seem as if that person had chosen for himself. My trip to the Fridge had been an elaborate force, arranged by The Cardinal to look like an incredible coincidence. Sap that I was, I bought it.

Now that I knew about Vincent and Richey, I got to wondering what other tricks Mr. Dorak may have been playing. I’d assumed Nic was the reason The Cardinal had taken an interest in me, but maybe it was the other way around. He’d confessed to having had his eye on me since I joined the Troops. Perhaps he’d decided it was time to wind me up and see how I jumped. Could Nic have been killed on his orders and planted for me to find? If so, I was on a fool’s quest. There could be no justice for Nicola Hornyak if The Cardinal had signed her execution slip.

I spent the rest of Thursday and most of Friday stuck in Party Central, checking on the thirty-six Skylight Troops, scouring the files for incriminating evidence, of which there was plenty. Nineteen had chalked up at least one kill, twelve had served time, four were junkies, nine were being or had been rehabilitated. One had served as a covert agent in the Middle East, an authorized anarchist who suffered a moral crisis after bombing a school full of children. Three used to be rent boys. Two were fashioning alternate careers as pimps. Most gambled, drank a lot and screwed around outlandishly.

But there was nothing to link them to Nic, Rudi Ziegler or Paucar Wami. I devoted a lot of time to the rent boys and pimps, figuring they might have moved in the same circles as Nic, but if they had, it wasn’t recorded. I made a note to have a few words with them in private, but there was no rush. I had other fish to fry in the meantime. Namely, Paucar Wami.

There’d been no confirmed sightings since he annihilated Johnny Grace, though several bodies had been discovered bearing some of his numerous trademarks. I made inquiries that Friday by phone, which wasn’t the best way — people were always inclined to reveal more face-to-face. I planned to wrap up my investigation into the private lives of the Troops early Saturday and spend the rest of the day pounding the streets. If nothing turned up, I’d go see Fabio on Sunday.

I cycled home late, bleary-eyed, head pounding. I wasn’t accustomed to all this paperwork and screen time. I felt drained. I dropped into Ali’s and got a couple of bagels. I couldn’t face a book, not even a magazine, so I just ate the bagels, brewed a hot lemon drink to soothe the throbbing in my head and went to bed. I was asleep within minutes.

The sound of dripping woke me. Soft and steady, too gentle to disturb an ordinary sleeping ear. But I’d been trained to spring awake at the faintest unfamiliar sound — footsteps, the creak of a door, an unexpected drip.

I knew it wasn’t coming from my taps — I checked them every night, as water-conscious as every good citizen should be in these days of global warming. Besides, the position was wrong. My bathroom was on the other side of the wall at the head of my bed, the kitchen lay to the far right of the apartment, but the drips were coming from the center of the living room.

I swung my legs out smoothly. My fingers felt beneath the mattress and located the gun I kept there. I stood and started for the door, naked, moving stealthily, primed to open fire.

I pressed an ear to the door. The steady drip continued but I tuned it out and listened for other sounds, such as heavy breathing or the beat of an anxious heart.

Nothing.

Leaving the light off, I turned the handle and let the door swing open, stepping to the left in case there was someone on the other side waiting to barge through.

No movement.

I stepped out, left hand steadying my right as I led with my gun.

Nobody there. The room was full of shadows but I knew after a brief once-over that it was clean. Except for the object hanging from the lightbulb in the center of the room, the source of the drips.

I moved toward it swiftly, head flicking left and right, not letting my guard drop. As I closed on the object the sounds of the drips magnified. Again I focused to tune them out.

A foot from it, I stopped. I was staring at the back of a severed human head. It was hanging from a wire and revolving slowly.

As the face spun into view, I thought this was one of my nightmares come to life, Tom Jeery’s ghost head. My breath caught in my throat and the nozzle of my gun lifted. I almost let the head have a full clip, but controlled myself before I fired. The head posed no threat and firing would be a waste of ammunition and a sign of blind panic.

I watched breathlessly as the face crept into view. I knew it couldn’t be my dead father, but I couldn’t shake the fear that this was his spirit come to chastise me for not taking care of his mortal remains.

Then I caught sight of two twisting snakes running down the sides of the face and all thoughts of supernatural specters fled. This was no phantom. It was the solid, disconnected head of the city’s emperor of death—Paucar Wami!

13

Years of training evaporated. I froze, arms dropping, eyes widening. Wami’s face filled my vision. The sound of his blood splattering onto the floor crowded the cavities of my ears and deafened me to all else. The city could have gone up in flames and I wouldn’t have noticed. There was only the head, its eyes gouged out, the skin at the sides of the nose peeled away to create a pair of thumb-size holes, chin chipped in two (hammer and chisel? a drill?) where the heads of the snakes should have met.

I was so obsessed by the head, I didn’t stop to ask how it got there, who hung it from my lamp and where he was now.

A hand slid over my right shoulder and fingers gripped my throat. Another hand darted around the left side of my face. On the middle finger was a ring, a four-inch spike protruding from it. It was one stroke away from making a gooey puddle of my left eye.

“Drop your weapon, relax, do nothing stupid.” It was a soft but confident, cruel voice. I let the gun slip from my fingers and allowed my arms to hang by my sides.

“Sit,” my captor said and I felt the edge of a chair — it must have been the one I kept by the window of my bedroom — bite into the backs of my legs. If the head in front of me hadn’t been so distorted by pain, I would have sworn it was laughing.

The hand around my throat withdrew. Seconds later, so did the hand with the ring. A fool would have dived for the gun. I sat firm.

“Where were you?” I asked, sickened to be caught so cheaply.

“Under the bed,” he chuckled. “Isn’t that where all the bogeymen hang out?”

It must have taken more than the few seconds I was frozen for him to slide out, fetch the chair and cross the room after me. Why hadn’t I sensed him? Even a ghost would have made some kind of noise.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“In time,” he replied, then reached forward and poked the head. “Know who this belongs to?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

“Say his name. I want to hear it.”

I licked my lips. I didn’t know what was happening but I had to play along. Whoever this guy was, he’d killed the man many said couldn’t be killed. He wasn’t to be taken lightly.

“It’s Paucar Wami,” I croaked.

“Indeed?” He sounded amused. There was a long pause. I came close to bolting. Managed to stay in check, though it wasn’t easy.

“Do you know why I am here?”

The question caught me by surprise. I couldn’t answer. Then I felt something sharp scratch along the width of my bare back and the words tumbled out.

“No. I don’t even know who you are. How could I—”

“Enough.” He patted my right shoulder. “I am not here to kill you.” His hand crept forward and he pointed at the head. “I have had enough killing for one night.”

“Could I have that in writing?” My chattering teeth made a mockery of the show of bravado.

“I will write it for you in blood if you wish,” he teased. Then, “Do not, at any stage, turn around. If you gaze upon my face, I will have to kill you.”

“Who are you?” I asked, calmly this time. It was possible he was playing with me, and had no intention of letting me live, but things didn’t seem as desperate as they had at first.

“Ask instead who I am not,” he replied cryptically.

“OK. Who aren’t you?”

“I am not him.” The hand poked the head again. “And he is not Paucar Wami. His name is — was — Allegro Jinks.”

I frowned and focused on the tattooed features hanging from the thin wire. The face was the image of how I’d pictured Wami. I began to mutter, “I don’t follow. If he isn’t—”

Then the penny dropped and I groaned.

Paucar Wami — as my assailant most surely was — laughed. “I see I have no need to introduce myself. Good. I hate formal introductions.”

“Why are you here?” I asked. “What do you want?”

“I want nothing, Al. I come as an ally, bringing you this fine head as a goodwill token. I was going to send it by mail, but I thought you might appreciate the personal touch.” I felt his breath on the back of my neck as he leaned in closer to whisper, “You were looking for me. Asking questions. Spreading rumors. You said I killed the Hornyak girl. I could not stand for such slander. Normally I would have put a quick end to the lies. But I could not understand why you were so sure of my involvement. I did some digging and discovered she had been seen with a Paucar Wami ringer.”

“A ringer?” I almost looked over my shoulder, then remembered the warning. “It wasn’t you with Nic?”

“I never met Nicola Hornyak or even heard of the girl until your queries drew my attention to her.” I felt him pressing into my back. I didn’t move, though the temptation to shy away from his touch was great. He stroked the dead man’s cheeks, caressing the writhing snakes, one after the other.

“These beauties belong to me and no other. No one else has a right to wear the snakes. When I heard of the impostor, I made the rounds of various tattoo parlors, to find out who had copied them without my permission. A slim Chinaman called Ho Yun Fen was the guilty party. Quite an artist. A shame to kill him, but lessons must be taught. Ho Yun remembered the snakes, the customer’s name and that a pretty white girl had been with him at the time.”

“When was this?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of my fear.

“Five weeks before her death. Yes,” he said as I opened my mouth to form the question, “the girl was Nicola Hornyak, though that only came out when I paid a call on Mr. Jinks. He protected her identity as vigorously as he could, given the circumstances, but in the end was forced to part with the secret, painful as it was.”

I stared at the ruined face of Allegro Jinks and made up my mind to tell Wami anything he wanted to know, the second he asked.

“Did Jinks kill her?”

“No,” Wami sighed. “She rang him earlier that night and told him to stay in, that she would come to see him. He fell asleep waiting for her. Heard nothing more of her until she made the papers the next week.”

“That was his story?”

“That was the truth.” I could feel Wami’s smile. “Men don’t lie when you scoop out their eyes, then start on their genitalia.”

My testicles retreated at the thought.

“Did he know who killed her?” I asked, driving the picture of the dismembered Jinks from my mind.

“No. He was not acquainted with her ways. She picked him up a fortnight or so prior to his tattooing. Gave an alias. Never told him where she lived. Used him as she pleased.”

“For sex?”

“And more. The tattoos were her idea. He did not want them. She performed acts of wanton abandon — which I blush to think about — to win him over. She also made him shave his scalp — he had a full head of curly locks when they met.”

“Did she say why?”

“She told him it would make him look sexy.” Wami chuckled. “Which, dare I say, is true enough.”

Once again my eyes fixed on the snakes, but now I focused on the shaven head and noticed it was covered by a light layer of bristle. As I stared, trying to make sense of the craziness, Wami spoke again.

“So much for my story. How about yours? Any idea why your girlfriend would have kitted Allegro out like this?”

“She knew a medium called Rudi Ziegler,” I answered, client confidentiality be damned. “She took Wami — Jinks — to see him. Said he was her demon lover. Maybe she’d heard about your exploits and thought this was how a demon would look.”

“Interesting. Allegro mentioned her interest in the occult. Do you think I should pay a call to Mr. Ziegler?”

“No. He’s a harmless old quack. He had nothing to do with her death.”

“Then who had?”

“I don’t know,” I groaned. “I thought it was you until you turned up with that.” Meaning the head.

“It was not you?” Wami asked casually.

“Me? ” I blinked.

“Concern is a fine form of camouflage. Nobody is going to suspect a man so determined to bring her killer to justice, a hero who charges around, accusing all but himself.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“It makes no difference to me if you did or not. I will let you live either way. But confessing can do wonders for a man’s soul.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Stiffly this time.

“Very well,” Wami sighed. “Just thought I would ask.” There was the briefest of sounds as he stood. “I will be off then.”

“That’s it?” I asked, startled.

“Unless you want to share a beer and pretzels,” he laughed.

“That’s all you came for? To show me the head and tell me about Jinks?”

“And clear my name. I need not have. Many murders in this city are attributed to me, and usually I care not what people think. But I knew of your connection to The Cardinal and also…” He paused, then shrugged (I knew by the rustling of his jacket). “It was pride. I solved the mystery and wanted someone to share it with.”

“You only solved part of the mystery,” I reminded him. “You didn’t find out who killed Nic.”

“That is of no interest to me. I wanted to know who was impersonating me and why. If the Hornyak girl was alive, I would pay her a visit and ask why she demanded the makeover, but even I have never managed to pry secrets from the dead.”

“How can I trust you?” I asked. “You might have ordered Jinks’s tattoo yourself, to serve as a red herring.”

“To what end?”

“To stop me sniffing around after you.”

Wami laughed loudly. “I said you interested me, Al Jeery. You never irritated me. If you had, I would have sent you the same way as Allegro Jinks. You may inquire after me further, if you wish, but I would not recommend it.”

“What about Jinks?” I asked, sensing — more than hearing — Wami begin to retreat. “Aren’t you taking him with you?”

“Al,” he chuckled, “I disposed of the body. It is only fair that you take care of the head.”

“But if I’m caught with it…”

“You will not be.” My bedroom window slid open and there was a slight creaking as Wami eased through. The fire escape at the rear had collapsed years before. He must have been clinging to the wall, like a bat. “Count to fifty,” he said. “And Al?”

“Yes?”

“Count slow.”

Then he was gone, leaving me to make the slowest count of my life.

I wanted to take Wami’s revelations and run with them. What had Nic been up to with Allegro Jinks? Why the façade? Had it been a game, making her lover up to look like a famous serial killer for a thrill? Or had somebody put her up to it?

I pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on the problem closest at hand — the head. I had to get rid of it quickly. Paucar Wami could whistle carelessly while carting heads around, but if I was found with this, I’d be screwed. There were people — Howard Kett for one — who’d love to send me down for a long stretch, and this would provide them with the perfect opportunity. For all I knew, that was what Wami was setting me up for.

I cut down the head — the knots in the wire would have taken too long to unravel — and stuck it in a plastic bag, wrapped that in a pillow case, then dumped the package in a black bag and tied it shut. Quickly wiped up the worst of the blood with a rag and squeezed it into the sink. I’d clean up properly later. Disposing of the head was my first priority.

I dressed in dark clothes, grabbed the bag and skulked down the stairs. I had no basket on my bike so I rode one-handed, the other holding the bag above the knot, ready to toss it away at a moment’s notice.

I arrived at the Fridge unimpeded. As I keyed in the security code, I was certain a posse of cops would spring out of nowhere, but they didn’t. When the door slid closed behind me, I fell against a nearby wall and relaxed, feeling safe for the first time since I awoke to the sound of drips.

A male clerk helped me check in the head. He didn’t raise an eyebrow when I dumped the bag on the counter and told him I wanted to make a deposit. “Will you be requiring a casket or a box?” he asked politely.

“Are you kidding me?” I growled.

“No, sir. The choice is yours.”

I told him a box would be fine. When he asked for the corpse’s details I said I’d rather not provide any. He keyed something into his computer, then swiveled the terminal around and handed me the keyboard. “Do you have a clearance code, sir?” I shook my head. “Then please type in your name and position, then press Enter.”

“I don’t want to give my name.”

“I understand, sir. I won’t see your name, only your status. I need that to ensure you have clearance.”

I did as he asked and pressed Enter, not turning the screen back to him until I’d seen my name disappear to be replaced with a string of coded numbers. The clerk examined the data, nodded, then handed me a brief form and an envelope.

“Please fill in the name of the deceased and any details you care to include. Age, address, known relatives, et cetera.”

“Do I have to?”

“I’m afraid so. You have blue clearance. That requires a form. It will be locked away unseen, and may only be retrieved by direct order of The Cardinal.”

“And me.”

He shook his head. “No, sir. Only The Cardinal.”

“You mean, once I drop this off, I can’t reclaim it or check on it?”

“You can do anything with the bag, sir, take or move it as you please. It’s the form you can’t touch. That remains the property of The Cardinal.”

“Where does it go?”

“I can’t say. But I assure you, only The Cardinal or someone with his express authorization can access it.”

“I don’t have to include my name?”

“No, sir.”

“What if I made up a name for the…?” I shook the bag.

The clerk smiled. “You may lie to The Cardinal if you wish, sir.”

I scowled, then scribbled the name of Allegro Jinks. Since I knew nothing about the man, I left the rest of the form blank, sealed it and passed it back to the clerk.

“I don’t want the object taken out of the bag,” I told him.

“Very good, sir.”

“How would I retrieve it again if I wanted it?”

“I’ll give you a slip when I’m finished processing it,” he said. “The box’s number will be on it.”

“Will I be the only one who knows the number?”

He shrugged. “We’ll have a record saying the box is occupied but that’s all the information that will be in the system.”

I was going to leave it at that when I had a brain wave. Only Wami and I knew what had happened to Jinks. If Nic had been encouraged by another to persuade Jinks to reinvent himself, that party might come looking for their missing puppet.

“Is there a way of tagging names?” I asked. “Of setting things up so, if someone asks about a certain name, I can be informed?”

The clerk nodded. “For those with clearance, yes.”

“Do I have clearance?”

“Most certainly, sir.”

“Let’s do it.”

He keyed up another screen and again handed control to me. “Type the corpse’s name at the top. Tab down, then add your own and how you wish to be contacted. If anybody asks us to search for it on our system, you’ll be notified.”

“What if they don’t give their name?”

“Then we will simply inform you of their interest.”

“Is there any way, by doing this, that they can trace the corpse to me?”

“No, sir. Not unless The Cardinal authorizes the release of your details.”

I typed in the two names and my number, pressed Enter and watched the information disappear with a beep. Seconds later it was finished. The clerk handed me a slip of paper while the bag was placed on a tray, soon to be removed and boxed. I let myself out, cycled home and began mopping up blood.

14

If Wami was telling the truth — and, as he said, it would be easier for him to kill me than lie — I’d have to look for a new prime suspect. It was a pain having to start over again, but at the same time a relief to know he wasn’t involved. And it had done my confidence no end of good — if I could survive a confrontation with Paucar Wami, I figured I could survive just about anything.

I spent Saturday digging for connections between Allegro Jinks and the Troops at the Skylight. Jinks had a string of arrests and convictions stretching back to his childhood, four years as a juvenile detainee, a total of eight years behind bars since he turned eighteen. He was hooked on crack, did some dealing when he was low on cash. Affiliated with several gangs at different times, but none since he’d snitched on two of his brothers in exchange for leniency.

There was surprisingly little violence in his past. Jinks was a coward. Avoided fights whenever possible. Stole from his women — the few there’d been — but never beat them. Never killed anyone, though he’d boasted of it. Maybe Nic was taken in by the boasts. Perhaps the thought of bedding a killer had excited her and, when she discovered the truth, she’d made him over as Paucar Wami in the hope that some of the killer’s dark passion would rub off on a look-alike.

I couldn’t find any direct links to the Troops. One lived a couple of blocks from where Jinks had boarded since completing his last prison spell. Another six had grown up in the same neighborhood, so might have known him as kids. A further three — one of whom was a rent boy, which sounded promising — had served time in prison while he was there.

I cleared it with Frank before talking with the jailbirds. Two were on duty at the Skylight; the other was at home. Frank summoned all three to Party Central and I went one-on-one with them, quizzing them about their pasts, Nic Hornyak and Allegro Jinks.

None of the Troops had known Nic personally, though all were familiar with her name following the furor at the Skylight. The rent boy remembered Jinks from prison. He said he’d bought grass from Jinks a couple of times — Jinks managed to smuggle in a stash, and for a while made a tidy profit, until he smoked what he had left — but that was as far as their relationship stretched.

None of them knew what Jinks was doing these days, where he was staying or what had become of him. They seemed to be telling the truth, so I crossed them off my list and looked to pastures new.

Priscilla called late Saturday. A long conversation. She was more open now that I knew the truth about her. Talked freely about Nic and the tricks they’d pulled. I asked if she was prepared to provide me with a list of Nic’s boyfriends. No, but she said she’d introduce me to friends, colleagues and customers of theirs. She also promised to get in contact with Nic’s old beaux and ask them to talk to me. We agreed to make a start in the morning.

“Not too early,” she giggled. “I spell Saturday night P-A-R-T-Y.”

While Priscilla went to party, I returned to my mire of papers — they covered the floor like a plague — and panned through them for a clue that would place me on the track of the killer.

Nic’s friends were understandably loath to discuss their private affairs, and if I’d been alone I’d have gotten nothing out of them. But Priscilla sweet-talked them and got most to open up. We didn’t learn anything. A few had tricked with Nic in the past but none had seen or heard from her the night of the murder. They didn’t know of any dangerous customers she’d been with. Nobody recognized the name of Allegro Jinks.

A few mentioned Nic’s interest in the occult. A teenager with a line of holes up his arm like a seam had seen Nic crouched over a paper bag in an alley once. “Her face was painted like those Indians in the movies. Or the Africans. The ones with war paint or whatever the hell. Squiggly lines, circles, triangles, that sorta shit.” She’d been naked, staggering around, muttering to herself, lifting the bag to her face and inhaling. After a while she dumped the bag in a trash bin and staggered away. The kid went for a peek.

“It was a dead rat!” he squeaked. “The paper was soaked through with its blood. That’s what she’d been sniffing. I steered clear of her after that.”

One of her friends said Nicola had tried interesting her in black magic. “She was always urging me to read weird books—tomes, she called them. I looked at a few. Ugly, horrible things. Photos of dead animals, lurid masks, incantations to raise the dead.”

I asked if Nic had invited her to spiritual meetings.

“A couple of times.”

With whom?

“Some Ziegler guy.”

Rudi.

There were more like that, with similar stories. Nearly everyone who’d known her said she’d been mixed up in witchcraft, sorcery, dark magic, “shit like that.” I decided maybe I should give the human sacrifice theory more thought.

I called Ellen on Tuesday and asked how she was getting on with Ziegler. She wasn’t happy to hear from me.

“I said I’d call when I had something to report,” she snapped.

“I know. I was just—”

“Don’t pressure me.”

“I’m not—”

“If you call again, the deal’s off.”

And that was that.

I enjoyed the couple of days I spent with Priscilla. She insisted on linking arms whenever we were walking and had a nice habit of resting her head on my shoulder and mumbling in a low voice that only I could hear. I never made a pass, but I spent a lot of time imagining the two of us getting it on, undressing her with my eyes when she wasn’t watching.

Tuesday night, she said I’d have to do without her until the weekend. She’d been neglecting her job at the salon but couldn’t call in sick indefinitely. She invited me out Friday, after work, to meet more of her friends. I said I’d think about it and get in touch. She favored me with a kiss as we parted, a sisterly peck. There was nothing romantic or promising in the kiss, but I spent most of the night dreaming about it.

I meant to dive back into the paperwork on Wednesday — looking for links between Ziegler, Jinks and the Troops — but when I stared around at the files and their bulging intestines, a switch clicked off inside my head. I’d been cramming my brain with profiles, theories, facts and figures for nearly two weeks. I needed a break. And, since I was my own boss, I took one.

I cycled to Shankar’s for breakfast, a full meal to set me up for the day. I ate by myself, not wanting anything to distract me from my day of rest. Went for a long walk by the river afterward, two hours at medium stride. The scenery wasn’t much but it was nice to watch the boats drift by. I’d always dreamed of owning a boat. If I cracked the case, maybe I’d ask The Cardinal for a small yacht by way of a reward, take a few months off and sail up and down the coast.

It was a sweltering day and I was soaked with sweat by the end of the walk. I was heading for home and a shower when I had a better idea, located a public pool and went for a swim. Did forty lengths, changing strokes at regular intervals. Felt like a fish by the time I got out.

I went to a bar called the Penguin’s Craw later. A quiet drinking hole, no music, TV or gimmicks. Just alcohol, a bar and plenty of chairs. I ordered a cup of coffee and watched a couple of guys in their sixties playing darts. I got to chatting to them about their children, what they’d worked at before retiring and how they spent their time these days.

I cruised the city after that, walking aimlessly, mingling with the late-night crowds. I popped into a twenty-four-hour bookshop and picked up a James Ellroy page-turner. Wandered down to the river again and observed the boats, now lit up and filled with drunken revelers. Went for a late supper in a pirate-themed restaurant called Blackbeard’s Galley. Got home about one and went to bed.

I enjoyed the break so much, I took Thursday off as well. Alas, my second day of rest was cut short when my cell phone buzzed as I was just starting the Ellroy book.

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Mr. Jeery?” A female voice. Unfamiliar.

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Monica Hope. I work at the Fridge. You wished to be notified if we received any inquiries regarding Allegro Jinks?”

My heart beat fast. “Yes.”

“There’s been one.”

I grabbed a pen. “Did he leave a name?”

“Yes, sir.”

Touchdown!

His name was Breton Furst and he was one of the Troops who’d been guarding the Skylight the night of Nic’s murder. One of the cleaner of the clan, never served time, no illegal habits, married since nineteen, three kids, trustworthy.

I didn’t ask Frank for permission to interview him — I’d have had to tell him about Jinks if I did, and that was something I’d prefer to keep between myself and Furst. I checked his whereabouts with Party Central and learned he was at home on a day’s leave. I got the address and shot across town.

He was on the street when I arrived, loading a basket into the back of his car, preparing for a picnic. His two oldest kids — a boy and a girl — were in the backseat, leaning on the headrests, watching their father. His wife emerged, youngest kid in tow, and asked if he had everything. He said he did and she shut the door and started for the car.

“Mr. Furst! Breton!” I yelled, propping my bike against a wall and hurrying over. He glanced at me suspiciously, right hand edging toward the pistol I could see strapped to his left side. I smiled and showed my empty palms. I recognized his face from photos in the file, but he didn’t know me.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His wife had stopped on the pavement and was passing a bag to the kids in the backseat. The youngest had wandered toward his daddy.

“My name’s Al Jeery. I have to—”

“I’ve heard of you. You work at Party Central, right?”

“Right. I have to talk to you.”

He frowned and looked at his wife and children. “Can’t it wait?”

“It’s about Allegro Jinks.” His face dropped and he glanced around. An elderly gentleman was on the sidewalk farther up, washing his car. A woman pushed a stroller along the opposite pavement, a second kid following behind.

“You’re just here to talk?” He looked nervous.

“That’s all.”

He sighed. “I don’t think I can help, but come on in. Just let me—”

He was turning to tell his wife about the delay when he staggered and took a few steps back. I thought he’d lost his footing, but then I spotted a red stain spreading down the front of his shirt. I realized the twitching in his hands was the start of a death rattle, not a feeble attempt to regain his balance.

“Breton?” his wife asked sharply. She moved toward him, to steady him on his feet, but he hit the ground before she cleared the car. “Breton!” she screamed, and darted forward. She opened her mouth to scream again. Before she could, a bullet made a fleshy rag of her throat. She collapsed to her knees, then crawled to her already-dead husband.

“Stay back!” I roared. Stunned as I was, my gun had leaped into my hand and I was covering the rows of houses across the road. But the assassin had struck too quickly. I hadn’t managed to pinpoint his location. “Mrs. Furst! Don’t come any—”

The top of her head fanned out in a cloud of blood and hair and she fell facedown. The two kids in the backseat began to scream their lungs out. The girl hammered at the window, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” The boy kicked wildly at his door, which must have been child locked.

“Stay down!” I shouted. “Get your heads the fuck down!”

They didn’t hear me. The boy abandoned the lock and rolled down the window. He was halfway out when his chest erupted in a forest of red, bony splinters. His head flew back, connected hard with the roof — not that it mattered by this stage — then slumped forward.

I made the marksman — two houses to the left, second-story window — and fired. But I was on the ground with a handgun. He was in an elevated position with a rifle. I should have saved my ammunition.

The glass in the rear window of the car shattered over the girl. She shrieked with pain and covered her face with her hands. She fell out of sight and for a few seconds I thought she was going to stay there, out of harm’s way. Then she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, yelling about her eyes, pleading for help, calling for her mommy. There were two soft popping sounds — like damp lips peeling apart — and she cried no more.

I was on one knee now, gun braced, focused on my target. I hit the window — no small feat from where I was — and the sniper drew back. My eyes swiveled to the youngest of the Furst children, the sole survivor. He was by his father, tugging at the dead man’s bloodied shirt, bawling, too young to understand what was happening but old enough to realize something was seriously amiss.

I should have held my position or ducked behind the car, but how could I leave a kid out in the open, at the mercy of a killer who had shown none?

Praying the sniper wasn’t back in position, I dived toward the boy, grabbed him with my left arm, pulled him off his feet and spun around.

A bullet nicked the top of my right arm. Red spray arced up into my eyes. I held on to my gun, useless though it was now that I was temporarily blind. Stumbling, unaccustomed to the weight of the child, I fell on my ass, presenting a ridiculous target. I started to pull the boy into my chest, planning to turn over and shield him, so at least one of us might walk away from this, but before I could make the ultimate sacrifice his face disappeared in a howl of red and I found myself staring down into a nightmare of blood, bone and brains.

Cradling the boy in my arms, I let my gun drop and waited for the killer to finish the job. Seconds passed. I thought the sniper was reloading but eventually, as stunned neighbors crept from their houses, it dawned on me that he’d wrapped up for the day. I’d been spared.

As I gazed at the lifeless swath of bodies through blood-filmed eyes, I found little to be grateful for. In the face of so much tragedy it seemed that this must be the most cynical act of charity since God let Lot go but turned his wife into a pillar of salt, just for looking back.

I refused to surrender my hold on the boy until the ambulance arrived. I sat in a cooling pool of blood and rocked him lightly to and fro, unaware of the pain in my arm, heedless of the crowd forming around me, staring dead ahead at nothing.

The first cops on the scene approached me warily, eyeing the gun, shouting at me to kick it away. An old man — the one who’d been washing his car when the madness began — stepped into their path and told them what had happened, how I’d been injured trying to save the child. They relaxed after that and lowered their guns. One asked if I was OK. I nodded. Did I want to let go of the kid? I shook my head.

When I eventually handed over the boy — they put his tiny body on a gurney, covered it with a sheet and wheeled it away — a medic crouched beside me and attended to my arm. A light graze. Nothing a bandage and a few days rest wouldn’t cure. The supervising officer checked to make sure I didn’t require hospitalization, then had me loaded into the back of a squad car and escorted to the local precinct for questioning.

They went easy on me, allowing for shock, asking if I wanted anything, a drink, something to eat, a lawyer. I replied negatively to all offers and told them I just wanted to tell my side of the story and go home.

Three cops handled the interrogation (polite as they were, that’s what it was). One was in uniform, one in a suit, the third in casuals. They gave their names but I found it easier to identify them by their clothes. The one in uniform was an asshole, and though he refrained from harassing me, he was the least sympathetic of the three. They noted my particulars, name, address, occupation. Their ears pricked up when they heard I was in the Troops. I saw Uniform’s eyes narrowing.

“Do you have a license for that gun?” he asked, even though he could tell by the make that it was standard Troop issue.

“Yes.”

“Breton Furst was in the Troops too, wasn’t he?” Casual asked.

“Yes.”

“Were you good friends?”

“I never saw him before today.”

They glanced at one another, then Casual gave Uniform a nod. “So what were you doing at his house?” Uniform blurted out.

I had to think quickly to come up with a lie that would sound legitimate. It wasn’t easy after what I’d been through.

“Breton works — worked — at the Skylight. My post’s at Party Central but I was thinking of changing. I’ve been trying to find out whether switching to the Skylight is a good career move or not. One of my friends said to try Breton — he’d been at the Skylight nearly six years, so if anyone knew the setup, it was him. I called today. He said he was going on a picnic but I could tag along and we’d discuss work over a hot dog and a beer.”

“Do you drink a lot?” Uniform asked.

“I’m teetotal these days but Furst didn’t know. As I said, we hadn’t met before.”

“Go on,” the cop in the suit encouraged me softly.

“There’s not much more. I got there, walked over to greet him, next thing I knew…” I drummed my fingers on the table, putting sounds to the volley of bullets the marksman’s silencer had muted.

“You didn’t see the assassin?” Suit.

“I saw where he was but couldn’t get a make on him.”

“Any idea who had it in for the Fursts?” Uniform.

“No. I didn’t know them.”

“You don’t think it was connected to your being there?” Suit.

“No.” A bald-faced lie.

“No chance the sniper was after you?” Uniform asked, and even his colleagues looked embarrassed by the question.

“Yes,” I said, smiling grimly. “But he was a lousy shot. An accidental ricochet accounted for the five others.”

“Must have been the same rubber bullet that killed Kennedy,” the casually dressed cop chuckled, then looked contrite when Uniform turned on him.

It went on in that vein for hours. When they made up their minds that I was unbreakable or innocent, they let me go. New clothes had been purchased for me during the interim and I was led to the showers to wash. I could hear reporters clamoring for news. The suited cop stepped into the locker room as I was slipping on my socks and asked if I wanted to confront the media. I said definitely not.

“What about my name?” I asked. “Was it released?”

“No, but it’ll probably leak.”

“Any way of holding it back?”

He shrugged. “We won’t be able to keep the press quiet, but your guys might. The Cardinal’s more accustomed to glossing over scandals than we are.”

“What happens when I leave? Am I free to come and go as I please?”

“Sure. Stick around the next few weeks, in case we need to get in touch, but I doubt you’ll hear from us again, not unless we catch the guy who did this.”

“Think you will?” I asked.

He snorted.

When I was ready to leave, he told me there was someone waiting to escort me home. I’d been expecting one of the Troops but it was Bill. “Tasso called and told me,” he said. “He thought you’d rather I came to pick you up than one of the party faithful.”

I smiled weakly. “He was right. I guess I have you to thank for the clothes.”

“I picked them up on the way. Want to go back to your place or mine?”

“Yours. I can’t face home.”

“Give me a moment to clear it.” Bill told the officers on duty where he was taking me, gave them his number if they wanted to get in touch, and asked them to let him know if they turned up any evidence. A few of them knew him and he had to spend a couple of minutes chatting. He made his excuses as soon as was politely possible, led me out a side door, tucked me down in the backseat of his car and started for home. As we turned our third corner, I asked him to switch on the radio and I spent the rest of the journey listening to some MOR station, not saying a word, thinking about the boy and how light his lifeless body had felt in my arms.

Bill lived in a crumbling old house in the suburbs. A wreck of a place, but it was his family home and he loved it. I entered ahead of him while he parked the car. I ran my eyes over some of the many bookshelves in the hallway while I waited. Bill was a bibliophile. He owned thousands of books, rare first editions, some of them hundreds of years old, many signed by their authors. He spent a small fortune on his hobby. Had most of Dickens, Hemingway and Faulkner — his three favorite writers — and a fabulous collection of mystery novels.

Bill kept the books neatly stacked on innumerable shelves throughout the house. They were valuable but he didn’t believe in locking them up. He kept them where he had ready access to them. He read and reread them all the time, even thumbed down the corners of pages to mark his place. Librarians and fellow bibliophiles would have shot him if they’d known of his irreverent handling but Bill didn’t care. He collected for himself and didn’t give a hoot what happened to the books when he passed on. “When I die and go to hell, the books can burn or rot,” he often declared. “I’ll have protected them as long as I’ve had a mind to.”

“I got an Ellroy novel last night,” I said as Bill entered.

“Ellroy’s great,” he said, trying to sound as if everything was fine, but failing.

We moved into the front room and I took my place in a large rocking chair opposite Bill’s. My back was directly to the huge front window and I could feel a draft. This place should have been double glazed years ago but Bill wouldn’t hear of it.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Later.”

Uneasy seconds ticked by.

“You had a lucky escape,” Bill muttered.

“No,” I sighed. “I was spared. He took them out one by one. Gave me this”—I tapped my wound—“when it looked like I might save the child. It would have been simpler to kill me, but he wanted me alive.”

“Any idea why?”

I shook my head.

“Anything to do with Nicola Hornyak?” He spotted my wary look and shrugged. “I’m a cop. Part of my job’s talking to people and keeping up with what’s going on. I couldn’t help but hear about what The Cardinal’s set you up to.”

“How long have you known?”

“A week. I hoped you’d come to me about it. When you didn’t, I figured it was a deliberate snub and I should keep my nose out.”

“It wasn’t a slight, Bill. I just didn’t want to bother you with it. If I find her killer, he won’t be brought in for trial. Didn’t think you’d want to get mixed up with shit like that.”

Bill smiled drily. “Well, I’m involved now. So tell me, any link between Nic and the Fursts?”

“I think so,” I said guardedly, not wanting to draw him in too deeply. “I went there to ask questions about her. I’m sure the executions were related.”

“The killer didn’t want Furst speaking to you?”

“Guess not.”

Bill frowned. “But why take out the others, the wife and kids? Afraid he’d discussed it with them?”

“I guess. Husbands tell their wives things. Kids overhear.”

“Would have been a lot simpler just to shoot you,” Bill mused.

I nodded slowly.

“Any idea who it might be?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be here if I did. I’d be out nailing the bastard’s balls to the clouds.”

“I heard you were looking for Paucar Wami. Think he could have—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Wami’s clean.”

“You reckon?”

“He told me he didn’t kill Nic. I believe—”

“He what?” Bill almost leaped out of his chair. “You’ve met Paucar Wami?”

“He paid me a visit.” I told him the story of my midnight encounter with the angel of death.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill gasped. “If that was me, I’d have run for the hills, down the other side and into the ocean. What were you thinking? I know you don’t mix with the fair and timid, but Paucar Wami!”

“Don’t give me a hard time,” I pleaded.

“I won’t, but surely this implicates the son of a bitch. Whoever slaughtered those kids was a monster, and that’s Paucar Wami to a tee. We should—”

“Bill, please.” I dropped my head to hide my tears.

“Al?” He came over and crouched by my side. “Are you OK?”

“I was holding him,” I sobbed. “I saw his face explode and then he was dead.”

I broke down. Bill paused a moment, then wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “It’s OK. It’s over, Al. You’re all right. It’s OK.”

It took a long time for the fit to pass. An age of sobbing, cursing the unknown killer, then myself for not moving quicker. I tried explaining it step by step to Bill, so he’d know I wasn’t to blame, so I could prove — to myself as much as him — that I’d done everything I could. But Bill only patted the back of my head and whispered softly, “Easy, now, easy,” as if I were a shy horse in need of calming.

When, late into the night, I’d recovered and wiped the tears away, I told Bill I’d like that coffee now. He made some sandwiches and broke open a packet of cookies. We spent the next twenty minutes tucking in and didn’t mention Nic or the Fursts again.

Later, Bill led the way downstairs to the cellar. It was a huge room, full of crates and boxes, packed with every kind of firework imaginable, barrels of gunpowder, even explosives he’d bartered with the bomb squad for. Bill had plenty of contacts on the force and could get almost anything he wanted.

Bill was a pyrotechnics expert. He’d been staging fireworks shows for decades. If he wasn’t putting one on, he was acting as safety inspector for somebody else’s. It was his only interest aside from his books and the occasional fishing trip.

He was getting ready for a big show, an annual event for orphans. There’d be film stars, the mayor, everybody who was anybody in attendance, so he wanted to make it a good one. He was buzzing with excitement.

We spent a few hours examining the boxes. They were brightly illustrated and Bill explained how they’d work, the shapes they’d make, the way he’d interweave them. I preferred his speeches to the actual displays. His face lit up when he spoke of the animals and caricatures he would build in the air. Timing was everything, he’d say. If you timed it right, you could make marvels out of a fistful of gunpowder, cheap cardboard, a child’s chemistry set and a pocketful of tinsel. If you got it wrong, all the money and technology in the world wouldn’t help.

I think Bill was wasted on the force. He should have been designing magical aerial shows somewhere exotic, like China or Japan, where he’d be appreciated and revered.

“Will you come to the show?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t. After my brush with disaster today, I’d be too busy to bother with fireworks. I’d decided, while sitting in the gutter with the remains of the youngest Furst boy in my lap, that I was going to get this killer. No matter what else happened to me, I was going to make that bastard pay.

“Come on, Al,” he groaned. “It’ll be great. I’m getting in a couple of big model planes and I’ll fly them through the middle of a huge shower of rockets. There’ll be explosions all around, inches to the left, inches to the right, above and below, but they won’t even rock the planes.”

“What about air turbulence?”

“Got it covered. Like I always tell you, with explosives you can account for everything. You wait and see. It’s going to be like those old war movies, where the planes fly through seemingly impassable barrages.” He tapped the lid of a box. “It’ll be my best performance yet.”

When we got back upstairs it was nearly two-thirty. I was tired but this was an ordinary time for Bill to be up and about — he was an insomniac and rarely went to bed before three or four. He offered to make more coffee. I refused and told him I should be getting home.

He blinked. “I thought you were staying here tonight.”

“So did I. But now…” I smiled shakily. “I think I’ll be better off by myself. It’s been a long time since I cried that hard. I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. After what you’ve been through, a few tears were the least anyone could expect. Stay, Al. The spare room’s ready.”

“I want to go.”

“Well, let me drive you. I’ll come in with you and—”

“No. Thanks, but no. The walk will do me good. I might cry some more on the way.”

He didn’t like it but knew better than to argue with me. “Give me a ring when you get there?”

“If it’s not too late. Otherwise I’ll call in the morning.”

“Al?” he stopped me as I started for the door. His face was grave. “Be careful. You had a fortunate escape today. Next time — and we both know there’ll be some kind of next time — you might not be so lucky.”

“I know,” I sighed.

“I’d hate to bury you, Al.”

“Wouldn’t be too keen on it myself.” I grinned sickly, then let myself out. It was a long walk home but that didn’t bother me. While I was walking, I couldn’t dream about the boy and the gap where his face should have been.

15

I kept my head down the next day, in case reporters were on the prowl. As things turned out, I had nothing to fear. The Cardinal’s people must have been hard at work because although the news bulletins on the radio made heavy mention of the Fursts throughout the day, my name never cropped up. They didn’t even report that there’d been a survivor, and only a few of the papers commented on it.

A cop came by with my bike around ten—“Compliments of Bill Casey,” he smiled — but apart from that I saw nobody until I ducked down to Ali’s in the afternoon for bagels. I passed a beggar on my way, going from door to door, selling photos of one kind or another. Ali was discussing the Furst slaughter with a customer when I entered. It was a disgrace, in their opinion, and the man who killed so immorally deserved to be roasted alive without a trial. I didn’t want to join the conversation — afraid my emotions might betray me — so I just paid for my bagels and made a hasty departure. Passed the beggar again on my way up. He was close to my apartment and would be calling on me soon. Inside, I got some change ready and stood by the door, waiting for him.

The beggar knocked twice. I opened the door and held out the coins. “Here you go,” I started to say, but stopped when I saw his walking stick and dark glasses. I immediately thought of the blind men I’d seen at the funeral and building site, but this guy looked nothing like either of them. He was younger, shorter, dressed in ordinary clothes.

The beggar smiled and held out a small group of photos bound together by a rubber band. “Visions of the city,” he intoned. “Can I interest you in visions of the city”—a moment’s pause while he sniffed the air—“sir? Best snapshots money can buy. Swiss Square at night. Peacock Wharf. Pyramid Tombs. Very scenic postcards. Ideal for framing or sending to—”

“How much?”

“Donations are voluntary.”

I dropped the coins into the tin hanging by a string around his neck. He listened, head cocked, judging their worth by the sound, then smiled and pressed the photos on me. I had no use for them but took them anyway, to humor him.

“May the gods bless you, kind sir,” he said, bowed politely and moved along to the next door. I glanced at the top “vision”—a tacky shot of Pyramid Tombs, where wealthy fools paid to be buried in the manner of ancient Egyptians — then tossed the package to one side and tucked into my bagels.

I returned to the Ellroy book in the afternoon, radio on as I read. The pages flew by in a blur and I was soon caught up in his reconstruction of earlier times — supposedly more innocent, but, as he wrote it, just as deadly as today — and two hundred pages further along before I set it down and rested my eyes.

I listened to the six o’clock news and, satisfied that my name wasn’t going to air, stuck a bookmark in the novel and went for a walk. At the end of the street I chose a direction at random. It was a surprisingly cool day and I was glad of the light jacket I’d brought. The exercise stimulated my appetite, so I bought some fruit and bread from a stall and chewed as I strolled.

Back home I spotted the postcards on the floor as I was shrugging off my jacket. I decided to take a closer look, picked them up and removed the rubber band. I studied the photo of Pyramid Tombs and read the blurb on the back, when the cemetery opened for business, who built it, how it was an exact scale replica of the Egyptian original, some of the famous names housed there.

The villas of Versailles were next. That was a part of the city I was unfamiliar with. It had been established by a band of fleeing French aristocrats shortly after their Revolution and to this day the language favored there was French. The ornate houses were walled off from the surrounding suburbs and many had been converted into hotels, even though the tourist trade here had never been brisk.

As I turned the card over to read about its history I spotted the third photo and let the first two flutter to the floor. I checked the final pair — Swiss Square and Conchita Gardens — before disposing of them and concentrating on the joker of the pack. Unlike the others, this was an ordinary photograph, not a card, and the setting and subject could have been of interest to nobody but me.

It was the lobby of the Skylight. Impossible to tell whether it was day or night — the photographer must have been standing with his back to the windows. A couple of people in the background, but they weren’t important. It was the man at the center, caught unaware as he turned from the register, who mattered. He was heavily made up, wearing a veiled hat to obscure the finer details of his features. But the face was unmistakable — Nicholas Hornyak.

Turning the photo over, I discovered a short, printed, mocking message. “Guess the date, Clouseau, and win Furst prize!”

It was easy to confirm that the photo dated from the night of Nic’s murder (which I assumed was what I was meant to deduce). I had a copy of the Skylight’s register and there were many samples of Nick’s handwriting in his file. It took less than five minutes to make a match. He’d booked in under a false name — Hans Zimmermuller — but the writing was unmistakably his. And the room number for “Mr. Zimmermuller”? Eight-one-four, the room next to Nic’s.

I couldn’t find Nick. I tried his home, the Red Throat, a string of gay pubs and clubs he was known to frequent, with no success. Lots of people I spoke to had seen him earlier in the day, but nobody had spotted him in the last few hours. A drag queen told me he often made early nights of the weekend, whisking a lover home or off to some hotel or other. He preferred to party late during the week.

I didn’t sleep much — still wary of nightmares about the boy — and spent most of the night and following morning pawing through my files, trying to link Nick to Allegro Jinks and Breton Furst. I came up with squat. In the evening I hit the streets again, resuming my search.

The Red Throat first. No sign of him, but the barman said he might be in later — few Saturdays went by without his making an appearance. I swung around a few more of his favorite watering holes, then returned, determined to grab a table and wait.

I parked around back and nipped in by the fire escape when someone staggered out to be sick in the alley. The Red Throat was busy now. I was heading for one of the few vacant tables when I spotted Nick by the jukebox, looking immaculate in a kilt and matching tartan top, chatting to a pudgy man. I barged my way over and squeezed between the two. “Hi, Nick. How’s tricks?”

He stared at me, then placed my face and broke out in a smile. “Al! You came back. How charming.”

“Who is this man, Nicholas?” his companion asked, peering indignantly at me.

“Beat it,” I said, nudging him aside.

“Nicholas?” he asked uncertainly.

“Run along, dear,” Nick told him. His companion made a sour face and clacked away in a huff. “So,” Nick purred, “what can I do you for, Mr. Detective?”

“I know you killed your sister.”

“Really?” he drawled, unfazed. “How dreadful of me. It’s so unpleasant when siblings turn on one another.”

“You were at the Skylight the night of her murder, in the room next to hers.”

His face blanched. “You can’t prove that.”

“I’ve a copy of the register. Your name’s different but the handwriting’s the same.” I grinned. “Mr. Zimmermuller.”

“I was with a date,” he stammered. “I never saw Nic. I wasn’t there when the murder took place.”

“No?”

“I swear it wasn’t me. I was with a guy called Charlie Grohl. He’ll vouch for me. We left the Skylight about midnight, hours before Nic was killed.”

“Hours before she died,” I corrected him. “The attack took place earlier.”

He shook his head vehemently. “It wasn’t me.”

“You know I work for The Cardinal. If I tell him it was you, he’ll take my word for it, then…” I smiled tightly.

Nick took a deep breath. “All right. I was there, with Charlie, as I said. I ran into Nic in the lobby when she was checking in. We decided to get adjoining rooms for the hell of it. She said to rap on her door when I was leaving and if her date had left, she’d let me in.”

“She was there with a date?”

“Obviously.”

“Not a john?”

“John who?” he asked. I let it pass.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re lying. Nic didn’t check in.”

His face caved. “What?”

“Her date signed for the room.” I kept Priscilla’s name out of it.

“But I thought…” He trailed off into silence.

I said nothing for a minute. Then, earnestly, “Why did you kill her, Nick?”

He looked confused and afraid. “I didn’t!”

“You lied about meeting her in the lobby.”

“No. I mean… yes. But only because it sounded more feasible. The truth is, it was an accident, us ending up in rooms beside each other. But I didn’t think you’d buy that.”

He was lying again. A child could have seen through him. But I thought he was telling the truth about not killing her.

“Maybe you helped,” I suggested. “Set her up accidentally for the killer?”

“No! I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t kill her. I don’t know who did.”

I considered pushing him for more details but there seemed little point — he was panicked but not hysterical. Better to let him wander away and think things over, then hit him again later, when I had more evidence.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll back off for now. But I know you were at the hotel. It’s only a matter of time before I prove you were in her room. I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

I looked for the exit. Nick grabbed my shoulder and I glanced back at him. “I didn’t kill her,” he snarled. “She was my sister. I loved her.”

“Tell me the truth — why you were there and how you ended up in the room next to hers — and I might believe you.” He bit his lip and shook his head. I brushed his hand away. “Later, Nick.” He didn’t stop me this time.

The alley was deserted. I stood over my bike, thinking hard, head bowed, eyes closed. I didn’t think Nick was the killer but he was implicated. The question was, how much? Was he covering for someone, maybe this Charlie Grohl he’d named, or was he afraid of—

An arm snaked round my neck, cutting off my air, throwing my thoughts into disarray. As my hands rose defensively, someone clutched my midriff and jerked me backward. I connected hard with the ground. My assailants were on me before the stars cleared from my eyes. One kicked me in the ribs. The other swung a club hard at my head.

I dodged the club but not the foot that scythed in at my face. It caught me clean on the chin. The one with the club dug it into my stomach. I struck back blindly, but met fresh air.

A second later, the club slammed down on my back. I writhed. One of them went for my face with a boot again, but he only scraped it this time. Then a barrage of blows followed and it became impossible to tell one strike from the next.

My body rocked between the kicks and punches. The men — laughing and panting like dogs — were clumsy and scuffed a lot of their shots. If I’d been in better shape, I could have dealt with them. But they’d hurt me already. I could only lie there, take it and pray they didn’t do any serious damage.

Finally, one of them had a brain wave. Picking up a glass bottle, he smashed the top off and waved it under my nose. His partner yanked me to my knees and giggled.

“Gonna slice you, nigger,” the one with the bottle whispered. “Cut you so bad, you won’t have a face left.”

“I want to cut him too,” the other pleaded.

“You’ll get your turn,” came the promise.

I watched with sickened fascination as he drew the glass back. It wasn’t the slicing I was worried about. What terrified me was the thought that he might go too far. I could live with ugly — as long as I lived.

There was movement to my right. A figure darted forward silently, swiftly, almost invisibly. There was a snap to my assailant’s wrist and suddenly he wasn’t waving a bottle any longer, but was backing off, screaming about a broken hand, cradling it to his chest.

The guy holding me didn’t know what to do. He shoved me at the mystery man, but not hard enough to create a problem. The Good Samaritan leaped over me and went after his prey like a tiger.

My head was spinning. I felt consciousness slipping away. Rolling onto my back, I saw my savior disarming the one who’d been holding me, clubbing him to the floor, then turning to wrap things up with the disabled bottle-wielder.

My labored breath caught in my throat. Though it was dark, I could see the coiled snakes running down the sides of his face and knew it was Paucar Wami. But that wasn’t what stunned me. It was the face itself that sent me spinning into shock before I blacked out, a face almost as recognizable as my own. It had been many years since I last looked upon it, there’d been no snakes back then, and a thick mane of hair had adorned the now-bare skull. But there was no mistaking the all-too-familiar features.

It was the face of my father.