Don't get the wrong idea. There was no way in Hell I was going to start another gangster killing spree. My neighborhood now was to my liking, and though I might decide later to launch some additional beautification projects, those would be much later.

Besides, the addresses that Pemberton had provided all were across the Harlem River in the Bronx, in a neighborhood known as Mott Haven. That area was nearly two miles from our little brownstone, a vast distance in the city.

No, the D-Train Defenestrator was retired. I would have a look around Mott Haven as soon as I had an opportunity, but the data I already had collected was, for the most part, to give me an excuse to see Agent Gaudin for the purpose of wheedling additional information out of her.

That was my new business, keeping a careful and steady eye on the police investigations into my previous atrocities. It was not to create new ones.

Well, that wasn't perfectly true. A group of young gentlemen had tried to stop me in the park on my return home. I wasn't convinced that their intentions were entirely honorable. Still, I was trying to stay away from murder and was feeling generous. I left one standing to help take the others to the hospital, and, despite the copious amounts of blood, I resisted the impulse to have a bite.

I felt like a new me.

It was nearly daylight by then, and the new me wanted some breakfast. I also needed some time to think, so I cleaned myself up a mite and headed down the street toward Central Park. Dawn had just come, and I knew of a place that had the best omelets. The 40-minute walk there would give me plenty of time to put 2 and 10 together.

Pemberton had been a wellspring of knowledge in the way the young sometimes were. In fact, it had crossed my mind that he was somewhat too well informed. Was the kid just shining me on with tales of Russians, arms deals, and kidnapped sex-workers?

At first, I thought that. But his story was too consistent, and his telling of it was far too convincing. By the end of hearing the lad out for an hour, it made a great deal of sense. I just needed to pick out a few figs of information that I could give to my FBI source.

But how to explain to the agent how I'd come by that information? She knew me as a hipster girl from the neighborhood, probably a trust-fund kid, not the kind that would have deep sources in the criminal underworld. I'd have to provide her some tidbits of information to which someone like me legitimately would have access. But what?

Well, I did help my sweet friend Fallon with her volunteer work, supporting abused and battered women. Who was more abused and battered than a trafficked sex worker? I could always dream up an anonymous source who didn't want to be identified. That was simple and also true. Pemberton wanted nothing to do with the cops or the feds. And I didn't blame him. I intended to do my best to make sure no grief came the kid's way for helping me.

Pemberton also had a pretty good idea that I'd killed two police officers. But in the end, so what? He likewise was fairly confident that I'd interred a dozen or more of his former colleagues. He was the last person in the city who would go to the authorities over it. And if he did? Pemberton knew a ghost, a fata morgana, a thing that went bump in the night. He did not know Bess Porter.

No. I needed information, and I had to get that information from someone. He might be a street kid, but I'd picked Pemberton out for a reason. He had a certain integrity and dignity about him that few people had, no matter their station in life.

So, I had nibbles of information for Special Agent Gaudin, three locations associated with trafficking in women in Mott Haven. Those probably were places the Russians would abandon the moment they found out the police were onto them, but that would happen whether I was involved or not. In any event, it didn't matter. I just needed that dram of information to justify contacting Agent Gaudin, which I did in the form of a short text message as I caught sight of Central Park in the distance.

To my surprise, the agent texted me back not five minutes later wanting to confirm a time and place to meet. Eating alone had never troubled me, but why not add a little company? Five minutes later, I had a date, and I stepped lively to get there early and to grab a table.

The FBI agent must have moved with the same alacrity, because no sooner had I staked claim to a table than the government woman arrived.

I'd miscalculated how pretty she was. That often is the case with gingers and me. There was a lovely shade to her hair and smoothness to her complexion that hadn't impacted me on first blush but now left my joints a little rubbery. My fault that.

Our greetings were short and sweet, because at that hour of the morning our server was there in a flash. Dani ordered coffee and a bagel, and I had tea and the works.

We breezed past the niceties, and, to her credit, she seemed sincere when she inquired about my happiness and health. Either she was the true empath I suspected her to be, or she was very well trained by the government. I opted not to think about it.

After the pleasantries, I spent some time explaining to her what I'd heard from a source, a person I had met through volunteer work, regarding Russian involvement in human trafficking in or around Mott Haven. I even provided her with the addresses that Pemberton had given me.

For her part, the agent seemed overwhelmed with the volume and the precision of my information. She also was very understanding when I refused to name the person who had provided the information. It was very common for folks not to want to get involved, so she placed not the least pressure on me to share any information that I was uncomfortable providing. She did ask some follow-up questions, some of which I was able to answer for her. The whole meeting was quite cordial and soon devolved into the chatting session that I'd hoped it would.

"By the way," I said after our second cup of coffee, "do forward my regards to Detective Moreland when you see him. I understand another officer on the department was killed. It was some sort of drunk driver, wasn't it?"

A pained look appeared on the agent's face. "That's a complicated story."

"So, not a drunk driver?"

"No ... well, that precinct is going through some rough times. First Keebler, and now officer McConnell.'

"Something connecting those two?" I asked.

The young agent cleared her voice.

"So, not a drunk driver?" I asked again.

She gave me a coy look over her coffee. "That's not what the papers are saying."

"Oof," said I. "Well, my best to Detective Moreland, anyway."

"Ah, that," she whispered. "I'm not exactly on speaking terms with anyone in the detective squad right now."

"I'm sorry. What ...?"

"We had a difference of opinion over some issues. It's like that with the PD and FBI sometimes, like cats and dogs."

I took a chance and asked, "Is it about your theories on that local vigilante and the serial killer?"

"D-Train and the Bruja," she said with a sweet smile. "Yup. That was part of it. They don't want to hear any more harebrained schemes."

"Any more?"

The young woman looked around and dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "I think there's something going on. But it isn't anything the local PD wants to hear."

"Please, don't taunt me," I said with my sweetest smile.

"Look, there's something going on, and I'm not a hundred percent certain why, but for once my boss is on board with it."

"Go ahead," I said in a voice that was my best effort at sounding captivated. It wasn't hard to do.

She looked around again before saying, "Do you believe in superhumans?"