"No," Dutton said. "Oh, she willingly shared certain pieces of information whenever she heard anything that might affect my business interests, and there was never any charge to me. That was part of our arrangement. But otherwise her little hobby was her own."
"Only now it's yours by default," Jay suggested. "You wouldn't want to put all those snitches out of work."
"Perhaps not," Dutton said. "Undoubtedly her files contain items of considerable interest, and others of considerable value; I won't pretend otherwise. Still, it's nothing I'd bloody my hands for. I could have bought and sold Chrysalis a dozen times over, I didn't need to murder her."
"So who did?" Jay asked.
"I'm mystified," Dutton said. "She was privy to a great deal of dangerous information, of course, but that very thing kept her safe. Alive, she could be dealt with. Kill her, and who knows what skeletons may come out of the closet."
"There are a lot of closets in the Crystal Palace," said Jay. "You take my meaning then," Dutton said. He shrugged. "I wish I could give you something more to work on. Truly I do."
"It's okay," Jay said. He took a last swallow of coffee and stood up. "Well, time to shuffle home to bed. You got a back door on this place?"
"A side exit on the alley," Dutton said, rising. "Come, let me show you."
The joker led him back through the labyrinth of silent wax, their footsteps echoing down the long corridors. They were crossing a small rotunda when Jay heard something behind them.
He stopped, looked back. Nothing moving. "Are we alone here?"
"Quite," Dutton said. "Is something wrong?"
" I heard something," Jay said. "And I've got a funny feeling. Like we're being watched."
Dutton smiled. "That's very common. It's the waxworks. People say their eyes follow you around the room."
Jay glanced around. They were passing through the Gallery of Beauty. In the shadows he glimpsed Peregrine: Aurora, Circe. "Peregrine's eyes can follow me anywhere," he quipped, but somehow he didn't think that was it.
"This way," Dutton said.
They turned a corner. Jay took Dutton firmly but quietly by the arm and pulled him back into a dark alcove beside a towering metal-and-wax likeness of Detroit Steel. Jay held a finger to his lips. Dutton gave a small, quick nod.
In the stillness, Jay heard soft padding footfalls. Coming toward them.
It couldn't be the Oddity Whatever it was was lightfooted as a cat. And barefoot by the sound of it.
Jay shaped his hand into a gun.
A shadow darted past them, faster than Jay thought possible. It was small, no more than knee high, and it was out of sight before Jay could react. He jumped out of hiding, saw it-a hairless gray monkey thing, with too many arms-and pointed. Only it was faster than he was. It skittered up the front of a diorama, sliding over the glass quick as a lizard, and Jay popped a waxwork joker right out of his orgy and into the Aces High meat locker.
"Damn," he swore. He pointed again, but the monkey thing jumped before he drew a bead, swung on a fluorescent lightning fixture, and somersaulted right over Jay's head. He turned to give chase and bumped into Dutton. "Where did it go?" he said.
"Into the rotunda," the joker said, "but…"
Jay ran. It was gone when he hit the rotunda, but he caught a glimpse of motion down one corridor. He sprinted after it, turning the corner just in time to see it grab hold of an overhead pipe. It paused long enough to hiss like a feral cat, then ran down the pipe into a pitch dark room. Jay went after it. He was looking up at the ceiling pipes, running flat out. He never saw the display pedestal.
It was like running into a telephone pole. Jay clutched his stomach and sat down hard, gasping with pain. The pedestal wobbled back and forth, and toppled over on top of him. Glass shattered. Liquid drenched him, and something soft and pale and slimy flopped onto his chest with a wet squish. There was an overwhelming smell of formaldehyde. He closed his eyes.
There were footsteps behind him. "Are you all right?" Dutton's voice asked.
"No," Jay said.
"I tried to warn you," Dutton said. He flicked on the lights.
"Am I where I think I am?" Jay asked, eyes still closed. He thought he sounded surprisingly calm, all things considered. "I'm afraid so," Dutton replied. "Welcome to the Monstrous Joker Babies. Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes," Jay said. "You can get it off me!"
By the time he did, the monkey was long gone.
11:00 P.M.
Brennan smelled Ackroyd even before he opened his apartment door. Moving with sure, swift-grace, he caught him by the elbow, propelled him in a half circle, and slammed him against the wall. Jennifer materialized from nowhere and shut the door.
"Keep quiet and don't move," Brennan ordered. He had Ackroyd in a painful wrist lock, grinding the detective's forearm into the small of his back.
"Jesus Christ," Ackroyd muttered aggrievedly, his face mashed up against the wall. "I think you broke my goddamn nose."
Brennan's own nose twitched. "What the hell have you been drinking? You smell like you've been dipped in a vat of bad booze."
"Close," Ackroyd muttered as Jennifer looped a rope on his free wrist and twisted it gently to his back where she tied his hands together.
Brennan turned Ackroyd around and shoved him onto a plush chrome-and-leather sofa that looked wildly out of place in Ackroyd's shabby apartment.
The PI fell onto the couch with a loud 'Oooof' and wiggled around uncomfortably on his hands. He sniffed and held his head back, trying to keep the blood that was seeping out of his nose from dripping onto his chest. He squinted at Brennan.. "Yeoman, I presume. Since we're all such good friends, can I call you Dan?"
"How do you know my name?" Brennan said quietly. Ackroyd shrugged. It was difficult to do that and keep the blood from running onto his shirt. "One of the first things I learned in detective school was how to find out stuff. Like the names of masked vigilantes."
"Why don't you just answer my question?"
"Or what?" Ackroyd said angrily. He struggled to find a comfortable position on the sofa. "You think you can just come in here and-"
Jennifer stepped between them. "We don't `think,' Mr. Ackroyd, we have," she said practically. She found a bunch of Kleenex in her handbag and stanched the flow of blood coming from his nose. She felt it gingerly and Ackroyd winced. "It doesn't seem to be broken." She made a face herself and stepped out of close smelling range.
"Thanks," Ackroyd muttered grudgingly.
Jennifer gave Brennan a significant look. He took a deep, calming breath and began again.
"Mentioning my real name to the wrong parties would cause me no end of trouble-"
"Trouble," Ackroyd interrupted. "What about the `trouble' you caused all those people you killed? How many was it? Do you even remember?"
"Every face," Brennan said in a slow, hard voice. He sank down on his haunches so that he and Ackroyd were eye to eye, and stared at the detective. "You don't like me or what I do, and I couldn't care less. I do what I have to."
"Ambushing innocent-"
"I can't point my finger at people and make them go away," Brennan said in the same hard voice. "And no one I killed was innocent. Maybe not everyone deserved to die for what they'd done, but they were playing the game, consciously and willingly. I'm not to blame if they were too stupid to realize the consequences of their involvement."
"Game?" Ackroyd asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Brennan gestured angrily. "I'm not going to justify myself to you. I'll just say this. It is"-he stopped, looked at Jennifer and corrected himself-"was me against the Shadow Fists. One man against hundreds. I did what I had to do. I don't regret any of it. Nor have I forgotten any of it."
"What you had to-"
"That's that," Brennan said flatly. "We have more important things to discuss. We don't have to be friends. We don't have to like each other. We don't have to work together. But we should talk."