Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 11

Seconds later, just as the goons were preparing to take another shot at him and Donovan, there was a huge explosion from above. The Ghost watched, awestruck, as a ma.s.sive chunk of ceiling plaster broke loose, surrounded by dark clouds of plaster dust and smoke. His aim had been precise. Particles of the stuff rained down from above, but the boulder-sized lump dropped like a stone, turning over and over in midair, landing squarely atop the cl.u.s.ter of three men with a sickening crunch. All he could see from where he was crouched was a shattered leg, protruding from behind the remains of the broken gla.s.s case.

Shocked, the remaining mobster lowered the barrel of his gun, his mouth agape in mute horror, and it was only a moment's work for Donovan to put a bullet in his temple before the man regained his senses and started shooting at them again. The man dropped where he stood, his dead finger nervously depressing the trigger of his gun as he fell, scattering hot lead over the marble floor for a handful of seconds. Then silence. Nothing but death, dust, and silence.

The Ghost peered around. There was no further movement, except the settling plaster dust and the slow swinging of a damaged chandelier. The hall had taken on the aspect of a grim charnel house, filled with exploded body parts, dark smears of stinky blood and spilled viscera, and the pa.s.sive, blank faces of the funereal statues, mourning for their lost kin.

He got to his feet. "Donovan?" He looked at the policeman, who was on his knees, staring wide-eyed at the scene of devastation. "Can you walk?"

Donovan nodded. "Yes. I can walk. I'm fine." But it was clear that he wasn't.

The Ghost crossed the floor, his feet crunching on the debris, and hooked a hand beneath the policeman's arm, hauling him to his feet. "Come on! We're not finished yet." They didn't have time now for Donovan to revel in his shock.

The Ghost left the exhibition hall at a run, his coattails flapping behind him, Donovan at his heels as he crossed the great hall in pursuit of the two moss men and their heavy burden.

There was no sign of them. He pressed on, retracing his steps from earlier, not caring now whether he brought attention to himself, whether anyone would hear him coming. He ran along the imperious Byzantine corridor, across the medieval hall, but still there was no sign of the lumbering golems. Unconcerned as they were with subtlety, the moss men had clearly made good progress in their escape whilst the Ghost and Donovan had been fighting for their lives in the other hall.

The Ghost reached the fire escape in the American Wing and ducked out through the door, sliding on the slick snow, just in time to see the large truck swerve away from the building. One of the rear doors was clanging open as it weaved away down the path toward the road, its wheels leaving a spray of watery slush in its wake. Through the sliver of the open door, the Ghost could see the two moss men propping the marble wheel against the inside of the truck. He raised his arm, let off a hail of shots, but to no avail. The driver was too quick, and the Ghost was too late. The flechettes skipped harmlessly across the surface of the road, fizzing and popping in the pale snow.

Donovan appeared in the doorway behind him, gasping for breath. "We lost them?"

It was a rhetorical question, but the Ghost nodded and answered regardless, his voice grim. "Yes. We lost them."

The roar of another engine sounded as one of the four parked cars up ahead suddenly screamed to life, peeling away from the museum and shooting off toward the road in the wake of the truck. Black smoke curled from its exhaust funnels. The Ghost thought about going after it, but then, as if the thought had entered his mind unbidden, he remembered his friend. He looked at Donovan. "Arthur! He's still in there, somewhere."

He charged back into the museum, nearly bowling the policeman over in the process. He leapt over the remains of the dead guard, nearly missing his footing and sliding in a puddle of greasy blood. He tried not to think about it as he ran on through the great hall, up the flight of steps, and along corridors until finally, out of breath, he came to the door to Arthur's office. He seized the handle and flung the door open. Inside it was dark. All the lights had been extinguished.

"Arthur?" No response. "Arthur, are you there?" He heard a whimpering from over by the desk. He crossed the room and found the curator cowering there, curled up, fetal, beneath the desk, his knees drawn up under his chin. The Ghost dropped into a squat. "Arthur, it's me. Gabriel."

Arthur turned his head to look at him, and for a moment there was no sign of recognition in his terrified eyes. The man was visibly shaking, frightened out of his wits. But something seemed to register in his brain: the sound of the Ghost's voice, or the appearance of the vigilante's disheveled face. He focused, and his eyes regained their usual l.u.s.ter. "Gabriel?" he whispered. "You came."

"Of course I came."

"They ... they're here for the marble wheel."

"Yes, Arthur." The Ghost's voice was low and soft, calming. "I'm afraid they got away with it, too. There were too many of them."

Arthur looked pained. "Was it Mr. Gardici?"

The Ghost smiled sadly. "I don't think your Mr. Gardici was quite who he claimed to be, Arthur. I suspect the man you were really dealing with was the person I know as the Roman."

Arthur's shoulders fell. "I wish I'd known, Gabriel. I would have done something. I would have tried to stop him." He was crestfallen, accepting the burden without question. As if he could somehow have prevented it all. This was the greater tragedy, the Ghost reflected, not the lost antiquities or the money it would take to repair the damage to the museum, but the impact it would have on Arthur. He would never forgive himself for failing to predict what had happened that night. He would blame himself for the deaths of the museum guards. He would be irrevocably altered by it. The Ghost knew this without question; he had seen it in fellow soldiers during the war, seen it even in himself. That perpetual, haunting question: What if? What if I had done something different?

The Ghost reached under the desk and clasped Arthur by the wrist. "I know, Arthur. I know." He pulled the curator out from the small, confined s.p.a.ce into which he had forced himself. "Come on, Arthur. We need to get you home."

Arthur looked unsure. "What about the exhibits, the collection? Did they touch anything else?"

The Ghost hardly knew how to break the news to his old friend, especially given his fragile mental condition. "It's a bit of a mess down there, Arthur. Probably best if you leave it for the morning. We'll get it cleaned up. I have a policeman with me."

Arthur nodded. "Very well." He leaned on the Ghost, and then, as if seeing him properly for the first time, he looked the vigilante up and down appraisingly. "You're a mess, Gabriel."

The Ghost couldn't hold back his laughter as, together, the two men set off in search of Donovan, and home.

he next morning, the Ghost woke feeling already tired. He was in his apartment on Fifth Avenue. He'd given Donovan the bed, deferring to the wounded man, and consequently he'd slept only fitfully in an armchair, waking almost hourly to find himself staring out of the window at the sleeping city below.

His thoughts were filled with Celeste. He kept replaying their conversation of the previous day over and over in his mind. He didn't know how he'd left things between them, didn't know how he'd be able to put things right. And in the small hours of the morning, sloshing bourbon into a gla.s.s tumbler and staring out at the distant stars, he admitted to himself how much she had hurt him by clinging on to her secrets, by not opening up to him with her concerns. He knew then, too, what he had done to her, and wondered if she was punishing him for that misdemeanor, causing him to feel that same sense of helplessness, of abandonment, a sickness in the pit of his stomach. It had started at the very moment he'd discovered she would not confide in him, and it had not yet abated. He closed his eyes and breathed out, slowly, fighting the nausea. All he had wanted to do was keep her safe.

He stirred again, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was nearly seven. He stood, stretching his weary limbs, and crossed to the bathroom, where he bathed, shaved, and otherwise tried to busy himself within inane activities for as long as possible. His body ached all over from the exertions of the last few days. The combat had put a strain on him, but he knew it was not yet over. He needed to discover exactly what the Roman wanted with the stone wheel, with Celeste. And he needed to find Reece and the three-funneled car. He had very little to go on.

When he emerged from the bathroom an hour later, dressed in an immaculate black morning suit, he found Donovan was up, fixing breakfast. He felt drawn to the steaming pot of coffee, which he knew would imbue him with more energy, banishing the lethargy of his sleepless night. Banishing too, he hoped, the gnawing sense of hollowness in his gut. He sat down, drinking deeply from a mug of the hot, oily liquid. Donovan was eating eggs from a plate balanced precariously on his knee. If his appet.i.te was anything to go on, the man was starting to get his strength back.

"Did you sleep well, Donovan?"

The policeman shrugged. "No. Not really."

It was an honest reply, and the Ghost wouldn't have expected anything less. "How's your shoulder?"

"Painful. I think I must have opened the wound last night at the museum." He spoke around a mouthful of food.

The Ghost nodded. "I'll help you strap it again in a while. I need to make a call first."

Donovan nodded, taking his cue. He quickly finished his breakfast, and then disappeared with his coffee into the bedroom, leaving the Ghost alone with the holotube transmitter.

The Ghost flicked the switch and dialed up a number in Long Island. He leaned back in his chair, grateful for the warmth of the coffee. The holotube unit hummed as it came to life, but no picture resolved in the mirrored cavity, and the only sound was the frustrating pips of a tone that told him the other unit was engaged. Someone was already on the line. He knocked the switch to the "off' position, quitting the transmission, and rocked back in his chair, staring forlornly at the silent unit. Five minutes pa.s.sed. He tried again, and this time the device chimed with its familiar tone, ringing out on the other end.

Someone flicked the receiver in Long Island. There was a crackle of static, and then a face emerged from the blue haze. It was a man in his fifties, balding, with a neat, clipped moustache. Henry. The Ghost smiled. "Morning, Henry."

"Morning, sir." The valet was hesitant.

"Is Miss Parker available to take a call?"

"Ah, that's just it, sir. I've only just got off the line with the police. Miss Parker isn't here."

The Ghost glowered at the flickering image. "What do you mean she isn't there? And what have the police got to do with it?" He felt a dawning sense of terror. Surely they hadn't found her, not there?

"Miss Parker borrowed one of your cars yesterday, sir, said she was going for a short spin to get some air. I expected her back within the hour. Only she didn't return."

"What?" The Ghost rubbed a hand across his smooth chin. Had she left him? Was that it? Had she run out at the first opportunity, disgusted with him, taking her secrets and her condescension with her?

"I fear there's more, sir. The Manhattan Police Department-they found the car abandoned in Times Square in the early hours of this morning. There was no sign of Miss Parker."

The Ghost felt panic welling up inside him. No sign of her? "And she didn't give you any indication of what she was planning, Henry? Where she might have been headed?"

Henry looked rueful. "No, sir. No indication whatsoever. Miss Parker simply requested that I prepare a vehicle for her and said she would return within the hour. I thought nothing of it, sir, until she failed to return."

"Very well, Henry." There was no point admonishing the man. He was clearly concerned, and he couldn't have been expected to see through her ruse. "Times Square, you say?"

"Yes, sir. That's what the police indicated when they called. I told them I would endeavor to get in touch with you this morning." The valet stared out at him from the cavity in the holotube unit, his image unwavering. "What can I do to aid you, sir? I feel responsible. I feel-"

"Henry." The Ghost cut him off. "Henry, this is not your fault, and not your responsibility. I will find Miss Parker, and I will bring her home. You are not to trouble yourself over the details."

Henry sighed. "Very good, sir." But the Ghost could tell that the man considered it far from very good. Beneath his calm exterior he was evidently riddled with anxiety.

"Now, if you could make the necessary preparations for Miss Parker's return, I'll be sure to let you know when I have any news." The Ghost kept his voice level, although he felt less than calm himself. It was best to keep the valet busy.

"Thank you, sir." Henry cut the connection. The Ghost watched the pale blue light of the hologram fade to nothing, like descending twilight, and then flicked the switch at his own end, powering off the unit. The humming ceased. He stared at the mute box, turning things over in his mind. He wouldn't allow himself to consider the worst; couldn't give credence to it, couldn't even acknowledge it as a possibility. He convinced himself she had abandoned the vehicle to teach him a lesson, that she was somewhere safe now, sleeping off a heavy night in a quiet hotel room, and that later, when she'd come to her senses, she would find him and shower him with playful kisses. But at the back of his mind he knew that there was a more likely explanation, and it gnawed at him, chewing him up inside.

What could she have been up to? She'd said she wanted to come to the city, and she'd found a way to do just that. Was it really boredom, that city-sickness that afflicts so many, dragging them toward the metropolis like so many moths to a flame? Or was it to do with her secret, that thing so terrible that she was reluctant even to discuss it with him? He knew then that he would have it out of her, one way or another.

He thought of her beautiful, pale face, framed by tumbling red waves. Imagined her bringing a cigarette luxuriously to her lips, drawing smoke into her lungs, letting it play out of her half-open mouth in long riffles. Saw her on the stage at Joe's, her voice the only thing that kept the world turning, the axis around which all of life revolved.

He would find her, and he would fix things. He would stop Gideon Reece. The Ghost had thought the man's absence from the museum the previous night was significant. What if he'd been busy in other ways? He couldn't bear the implication.

The Ghost got to his feet, reached for the suit jacket he had draped over the back of his chair. He didn't have time to change. He called to Donovan as he strolled purposefully toward the door. "Donovan? I'll be back in an hour. Don't go anywhere."

He didn't wait for a response.

The snow of the previous evening had begun to melt, reducing into a miserable gray slush that sloshed around the Ghost's ankles as he walked. Cars hissed by, spraying gobbets of the stuff into the air, their wheels splashing in the newly formed rivers that ran along the gutters in glistening rivulets.

He set a brisk pace for the walk to Times Square, but the Ghost was unable to stop his mind from wandering, imagining a hundred and one different scenarios of what he might find when he reached his destination. Had she left him a note in the car? Could she have been back to collect it in the intervening hours since the police had found it? Where had she stayed last night?

As he made his way along 48th Street he pa.s.sed a stall selling fresh rolls and his stomach growled hungrily at the comforting smell. He kept walking. There would be time to eat later.

Entering Times Square was like walking into a brightly lit circus of towering billboards and gaudy theater fronts, alive with splashes of the brightest colors and lit with thousands of electric bulbs of the most brilliant yellow. Cars flew by; people negotiated the press of the crowds, even at this hour; theater owners plied their wares to the pa.s.sersby. Here was Broadway in all its glittering glory. The Ghost couldn't stand it. To him it was redolent of fakery, of pretence and showmanship. It was the opposite of Celeste's soulful music; it was loud, obnoxious, and not at all for him.

He found the vehicle easily, pulled up to the curb at a jaunty angle, apparently abandoned, just as the police had described it to Henry. It was black, like all his other cars, with long sweeping curves, two tall exhaust funnels, and a cream leather interior. The coal hopper on the back was pristine, almost as new. The vehicle had hardly been driven since he'd bought it.

The Ghost looked around. There were a few people milling about nearby, but none of them were paying him or the car any attention. Good. He reached over and clicked the driver's side door open, bowed his head, and looked inside, searching for any clue Celeste might have left him as to her whereabouts. He felt his heart lurch. There was a message there, certainly; a message of the type he had feared. Two perfect, shining Roman coins rested on the driver's seat, catching the streaming sunlight that was pouring in through the windshield.

The Ghost stepped back from the car and slammed the door closed. He could feel the panic, which until now had remained buried in his gut like a lead weight, beginning to take hold, flooding into his chest; a cold compress that made it difficult to breathe. The icy wind whipped his sandy hair into his face, stinging his eyes, as he stood on the sidewalk trying desperately not to visualize what Reece and his goons might have done to the woman he loved. He could only hope that it was not too late. He would rather die than see her defiled in a similar way to Landsworth or Williamson.

The Ghost had to remind himself that this was not personal for Reece or the Roman; they did not know of his affair with Celeste, so her abduction could in no way be construed as an attempt to strike a blow at the vigilante who had already foiled so many of their plans. He couldn't believe they had worked it out. He'd been too careful, covered all of his tracks. No, there was something else at play here, something about the woman that the Ghost did not know. Something to do with whatever it was she was so afraid of. He had no idea what to do next, not even how to respond, but he knew he had to find a way to get to her.

He ran his hands over his face, then reached inside his pocket and withdrew a cigarette. He pulled the tab, watched it flare, sucked the nicotine deep down into his lungs. He felt it bite. How the h.e.l.l was he going to get her back? He shuddered to think of the head start that Reece already had on him. If she'd been taken during the night, then it had been what-ten, twelve hours?

And then it hit him, like a sharp slap in the face: Jimmy the Greek. Jimmy might know where they'd taken her. It was an outside chance, but it was all he had.

He flung his half-smoked cigarette toward the gutter, where it fizzed out in the melting snow. He didn't have his weapons with him, hadn't even brought his service revolver. But there was no time to lose.

The Ghost opened the car door again. Yes! The keys were still in the ignition. He could hardly believe that the car had not been stolen during the night. He slid into the driver's seat, fired up the engine. It choked, and then sputtered, failing to take. It was cold and unwilling to cooperate.

He leapt out again, ran around to the trunk, and extracted a shovel. He proceeded to scoop shovelfuls of dusty black coal from the hopper, throwing it into the furnace, fanning the fire with a small pair of bellows. Once the engine was running again the hopper would feed the hungry flames as needed, but abandoned, the fire had been left to die down to a faint yellow wisp.

A few minutes later, sweat dripping from his brow, the Ghost slid back into the driver's seat. The front of his suit was filthy and his hands were black claws, but now the engine was stoked and it fired with a familiar growl. He grabbed the wheel and swung the car away from the curb, forcing it into the flow of traffic.

He hurtled along the roads, the tires sliding on the slushy ice as he careened dangerously around each corner, but he was determined to make up for lost time. He counted the minutes as he rushed toward Jimmy the Greek's run-down apartment block in Greenwich Village.

The Ghost slung the car toward the sidewalk at speed, mounting the curb and sliding six or seven feet along the street before he managed to bring the vehicle under some semblance of control, and then, finally, to a stop. Black smoke belched from the abused engine funnels. The Ghost climbed out. He left the door open and the engine running, not caring, as he bounded to the main entrance of the tenement building, crossed the lobby, and then flung himself up the stairs.

He'd stand for no evasiveness from Jimmy the Greek. If the snitch showed any sign that he knew where the Roman's men might be holding Celeste-even the slightest hint of information-then the Ghost would know it too, by whatever means necessary. If that meant a beating, so be it. He was resigned to that already. Nothing could get in the way.

He was panting for breath when he came to the old brown door of Jimmy's apartment. He took a moment to compose himself. Then, hearing no sounds from within, he rapped loudly, five times, with his bare knuckles, and waited. The sound echoed out around the empty building. Nothing. There was no answer, and no sounds from within. No familiar cursing, no scrabbling around inside to hide his embarra.s.sing photographs. No sounds at all. He knocked again. "Jimmy? Answer the door, Jimmy!"

Still nothing. He tested the handle. The door was locked. Was he out? The Ghost glanced at his watch. More likely the snitch was asleep in bed; he'd have no reason to be out at this early hour of the day, and the Ghost knew from experience that Jimmy was nocturnal, a creature of habit. He tried knocking once more, hoping to rouse the lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d from his bunk. "Jimmy? I'm coming in there, Jimmy, whether you answer the door or not!" There was still no response, no sounds from within the apartment. No sounds from anywhere else in the whole tenement building.

The Ghost looked from side to side. The stinking heap of garbage across the hall lay undisturbed. He backed up, raised his foot, and kicked out, hard, at the lock. The impact jarred his ankle, and he remembered he was only wearing a pair of brogues and not his usual reinforced boots. Nevertheless, he tried again. The door rattled in its frame, but the lock held. He backed up a little further, gritted his teeth, and charged forward, presenting his shoulder to the door. This time the frame burst with a loud, splintering crack, and the Ghost stumbled into the room, carried forward by his momentum. The door bounced back against the wall with a loud bang. He looked up, and then paused, in horrified awe, at the grotesque sight before him.

Jimmy the Greek was dead. His body had been strung up, his arms outstretched, pulled taut and bound with thin, silken ropes, which had been suspended on hooks from the ceiling, each one in the far corner of the room. The result was that Jimmy had been posed like a crucified Christ, his head hanging to his chest, his feet bound and pointing toward the floor. He'd been suspended about three feet off the ground, facing the door. His eyes were open, fixed in a terrified stare that caused the Ghost to shudder from across the room. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been aware of what was happening to him.

The Ghost stepped closer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the appalling sight. Jimmy had been stripped to the waist and the word "SNITCH" had been rudely carved into his chest with a sharp blade. Blood had run from the wounds, pooling on the floor beneath his feet. The blood loss had caused his skin to take on a pale, waxy complexion. His hair was lank and sweaty and hung loosely around his neck.

But most disturbing of all, Jimmy's lips had been crudely st.i.tched shut with coa.r.s.e black twine. Clearly, someone hadn't liked what Jimmy had had to say.

The Ghost shook his head in abject dismay. It smelled like the man had s.h.i.t himself, too. Not surprising, really. The Ghost looked around, trying to get a sense of what had happened there, in that room, of who had done this to Jimmy. He had his suspicions, of course, and they proved well founded; on the kitchen counter he found a pile of Jimmy's photographs, heaped upon the envelope that had once contained them, and on top of those two perfect Roman coins, of the sort the Ghost had found earlier on the seat of his abandoned car.

He looked back at Jimmy, at those terrible, bruised lips, wired painfully shut. He wouldn't be spilling any more secrets, that was for sure. And if he had known what had become of Celeste, wellsomeone had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him from sharing that secret.

The Ghost put his hands on either side of the grimy sink and leaned over, spewing forth a stream of gaudy vomit, his body wracking as he coughed up the remains of yesterday's meal. He felt giddy and light-headed. He stood there for a moment, forcing himself to breathe. Then, after it was over, he ran the tap, washing the coal dust off his hands and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He noticed he was shaking.

There was little he could do for Jimmy, now. The man had made his own bed, and now, alas, he was lying in it. But there was one thing, one small gesture. The Ghost took the bundle of glossy photographs and threw them into the sink. Jimmy had wanted to keep his private life a secret. He could oblige that much, at least. When the police came later the whole place would be turned over. There was no need for them to find these. He wouldn't have people laughing at the dead snitch. Not for this. Not for a few dirty photographs of clockwork women.

He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and dropped it into the sink. The flames soon caught the crisp paper, and a few moments later, all that was left was a pile of smoldering ash.

With a heavy heart, the Ghost quit the apartment, pulling the door shut behind him. Donovan could send his men down later, clean up the whole sorry mess. For now, though, he needed to focus, needed to concentrate on finding a way to help Celeste. She was in grave danger, and he intended to wreak vengeance on the men who had put her there.

onovan was growing impatient. The Ghost had been gone for hours-three, at least-and while the other man had asked him to wait for his return, Donovan thought that there were better things he could be doing with his time than lounging around, staring out of the window at the hazy Manhattan morning. He'd already washed and bathed, eaten a small breakfast, checked over his wounds.

The fragment of gla.s.s embedded in his thigh had been a trifling matter, and he'd extracted it the previous evening upon their return to the Ghost's apartment. Now the leg was sore, but the pain was nothing in comparison to his shoulder, which still throbbed with a dull ache, pulling painfully when he moved it. He supposed it was remarkable, really, that they had managed to get out of the museum alive, both of them relatively unscathed.

But what had they learned? That was the question plaguing the inspector. Perhaps nothing that would help them in their quest to bring down the Roman. Yes, of course, it was d.a.m.ning evidence-the Roman's men had stormed the Met, a national inst.i.tution, wreaked havoc, and destroyed hundreds, if not thousands, of priceless relics in their efforts to steal one of them. But to what end, what purpose? What did the Roman want with an ancient marble wheel? The Ghost didn't seem to know, and nor did the curator, who Donovan had questioned quietly and firmly in the back of the Ghost's car as they drove him home.

Donovan cursed himself. If only he'd been fit, perhaps they wouldn't have gotten away. Perhaps now they would have a lead. As it was, he was left stewing in the vigilante's apartment, wondering what was in store for them next. Donovan didn't like that thought much. He could hardly believe how things had changed in the course of the last few days; how his life had been so easily disrupted, threatened, knocked out of sync. He only hoped that Mullins had managed to get the message to Flora, telling her to take an extended break, to go somewhere with Maud, to visit another state. He'd promised to tell her more when it was over. He hoped she would trust him. She needed to trust him, at least until he could bring this whole matter to an end, once and for all. After that ... after that they could figure it all out together.

Donovan fingered the b.u.t.t of the handgun in his jacket pocket. There was one thing he could be doing: he could check on Mullins. After all, it was likely Mullins would have been roped in that morning to clean up the mess at the museum, and Donovan felt he owed the man an explanation. The Commissioner would have to wait. But Mullins deserved to know what was going on.

He fixed his resolve. That was what he would do. He would leave a message for the Ghost at the apartment, then head to the precinct and search out the sergeant. He was unsure why the other man had left in such a hurry that morning-something relating to the call he had made-but he guessed the Ghost would return later with news.

Heaving himself up out of the chair, he scratched a note on a piece of old card and propped it on the table beside the half-drunk bottle of bourbon before taking his leave.

He knew the Ghost would find it there.

The precinct building was a hive of industry as Donovan entered through the revolving doors. He wondered if the Commissioner had seconded more hands from the other nearby precincts to cope with the mess his inspector had been leaving in his wake. Men in blue uniforms milled about with apparent purpose; people he didn't recognize, unfamiliar and, therefore, somehow suspicious. But Donovan was oddly comforted by the sight of Richards, the precinct administrator, who stood behind an oak desk in the lobby, coolly regarding the inspector over the top of the shifting rabble.

Donovan approached the desk, realizing for the first time since leaving the apartment that he was still wearing the suit from the day before, now torn and b.l.o.o.d.y, and slept in. G.o.d, he was losing his edge.

Richards seemed to recognize his discomfort and gave him an appraising look, as if weighing up how to approach the impending conversation. "Good morning, sir," he said hesitantly. "Is ... everything alright?"

Donovan sighed. "Yes, Richards, everything is quite alright."

"Very good, sir." The man sounded unconvinced, but wisely left it at that.