Collecting together my last waning bits of energy, I got up and double-locked the door. I turned to the table and reached for the Glock.
And paused. Sitting on the table alongside the gun, nestled between its frame and trigger guard, was the ring she'd been wearing.
I picked it up and took a closer look. It was a silver band, with no stones or other additions. The design was simple, but had a certain elegance to it. It was also clearly handmade.
And the fact that she'd left it behind probably meant she intended to return.
Wonderful.
Dropping the ring in my pocket, I returned the Glock to its hidden holster beneath the tea table. Then, leaving my carrybags where they were, I staggered off to bed. Ten hours of sleep, and I might finally feel Human again.
I didn't get ten hours of sleep. I got exactly four hours before the sound of my door chime dragged me awake again.
I pried my eyes open and focused on the bedside clock. Three-fifteen in the morning. Even teenage clubbers had called it a night by now.
The chime came again. Fumbling for my robe, I worked into it with one hand while reaching under my bed for the Heckler-Koch with the other. There were very few people who paid social visits at three in the morning, and most of the ones who would be interested in my door weren't the type I wanted to meet unarmed.
The Heckler-Koch's holster was empty. Apparently, I hadn't sent Lorelei into the wilds of New York unarmed after all.
The door chimed again. Padding my way silently to the front room, I retrieved the Glock from beneath the tea table and stepped to the side of the door. "Who is it?" I called.
"Frank Compton?" a voice called back.
"Who is it?" I repeated.
"Police, sir," he called back. "Would you open up, please?"
I keyed the viewer. There were two men in uniform out there, all right, one of them pressing an authentic-looking NYPD ID against the plate. Dropping the Glock into my robe pocket, I keyed open the door. "I'm Officer Bagler, sir," the cop said, holding up a reader as he compared my face to the picture on my official government record. "Would you get dressed, please? We need you to come with us."
"What's the problem?" I asked, not moving.
"There's been a disturbance, sir," he said in that official give-nothing-away voice I'd often used myself during my years with Western Alliance Intelligence. "Detective Kylowski needs to see you."
"Then Detective Kylowski can come here," I said.
"Please don't make me insist, sir," Bagler said. His eyes flicked to my sagging pocket. "Just leave the weapon here, of course."
"Can you at least give me a hint?" I asked.
He sighed silently "A handgun registered to you has been involved in a murder, sir," he said. "Now, will you please get dressed?"
They took me to West Seventy-fifth Street and the familiar blazing lights and yellow tape of a crime scene. A dozen more cops were already on the scene, the uniformed ones guarding the perimeter and directing traffic, the plainclothes contingent milling around in the cold November air, collecting evidence or scanning for clues.
In the center of the stage were the guests of honor: one male, one female. Their torsos were covered by preservation cloths, but I had no trouble recognizing the dark gray clothing the woman was wearing.
Lorelei had said she was in danger. I'd been too tired to care.
A middle-aged man with receding hair and a serious seven-o'clock shadow stepped in front of me. "Compton?" he asked.
I pulled my eyes away from Lorelei's body. "Yes," I said.
"Detective Kylowski," he identified himself, holding out an ID badge. "Sorry to drag you down here at this time of night."
Sure he was. "What happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," he said. "Neither vic has any ID, and we haven't been able to track them down."
"The woman came to my apartment tonight," I told him, deciding to skip over the fact that she'd already been there when I'd arrived. "She said she was in trouble and asked for help."
"And you said …?"
"I told her to call the cops or try the women's shelter and sent her on her way."
"After giving her one of your guns?"
"I didn't give her anything," I said. "Obviously, she helped herself."
"Without you noticing?"
"I was very tired," I said. "I still am."
"Uh-huh," he said, looking closely at me. "And you're sure this is the same woman?"
"I recognize her clothing," I told him. "I doubt there are two women dressed that way who've had access to my apartment lately."
"Don't you think you should at least take a look at her face?" he persisted, gesturing me toward the bodies. "It'll only take a minute."
"If you insist," I said, frowning as I walked over with him. Usually homicide cops weren't so eager to foist the details of their gory little world on people.
"This might shock you a little," he warned as he crouched down, his fingers getting a grip on the edge of the preservation cloth, his eyes locked unblinkingly on my face.
"Thanks for the warning," I growled. Did he think the sight of a couple of dead bodies was going to shock an ex-Westali agent? "Go ahead."
He flipped over the cloth.
And I nearly lost my dinner.
Lorelei's face above and in front of her ear was blood-spattered but mostly intact. Her head and neck below the ear, in contrast, were effectively gone, shattered into a mess of blood and shattered bone and pulp.
I twisted my face away from the sight, keeping my stomach under control by sheer force of will. I was still standing there, staring at a storm-sewer grating, when Kylowski took my arm and steered me away. "You all right?" he asked.
"How do you think I am?" I managed between clenched teeth. Turning my face away from him, I smiled hard, an old trick I'd learned for suppressing the gag reflex.
"I understand," he said. "Come on—have a seat over here."
I let him sit me down on the curb. "I don't suppose you have any idea why anyone would want to do something like that," he went on, sitting down beside me.
I shook my head. My stomach was starting to recover, but my brain was still reeling with the shock of the mutilation. "Looks like a ritual murder."
"Yeah, that was my first thought, too," Kylowski said. "Trouble is, we don't have any of the other usual trappings. No robes, no weird jewelry or tattoos, no strangled chickens. Not to mention that they were killed and mutilated here on the street and not in some abandoned warehouse or tenement."
"Maybe it's a new—" I broke off as a key word abruptly penetrated the haze of nausea. "They were mutilated?"
"That's right," he confirmed. He was back to scrutinizing my face. "Both of them were done the same way."
I hauled myself to my feet, my stomach suddenly forgotten. One mutilation was a sick perversion. Two mutilations was a potentially intriguing pattern. "Let me see," I said.
We retraced our steps to the bodies. Kylowski crouched down beside the man and twitched aside the cloth.
His head behind the ear was a copy of the mess that was now Lorelei's, with the lower part of the skull torn to shreds. But there was one vital difference between his upper face and Lorelei's: right in the middle of his forehead was another thudwumper hole. "Which of them was shot with my gun?" I asked Kylowski.
"Funny you should ask," Kylowski said. "Both of them."
I frowned at him. "Both of them?"
"Near as we can tell," he confirmed. "Kind of a puzzle, isn't it?"
I stepped back over to Lorelei's body and lifted the cloth, searching her torso. This time I spotted what I'd missed on the first go-around: two small wet spots where blood had oozed rather than flowed.
The marks of snoozer rounds. "So much for your big puzzle," I said, pointing to them. "This guy and at least one friend got the drop on Lorelei and got in the first shot. Once she was out, they took her gun and did all this."
"The vic's friend did this to him?" Kylowski asked, gesturing to the dead man. "That's one hell of a friend."