I reached home a little after sunrise and had myself a light breakfast. First things first, what to do about the threat to Fallon? It wasn't perfectly clear where to start, so I went to the Internet and did a search on police complaints in our part of the city.

I was unable to find much. There forever are grievances against police officers, many of which are just nuisance complaints. I was able to find a website where such things were talked about and identified one woman not far from our neighborhood who had complained of police planting evidence on her boyfriend.

That sounded hauntingly familiar, so I made a note of the woman's name and where she worked. That might be worth following up later. I even dropped a short note to one of my lawyers, asking if he had any insight. The fellow had connections on the force and might know something.

I then went through the news of the city over the last few weeks, especially seeking reports of violent crimes and abductions. My kind are predictable in their predations, and, as I said, sometimes patterns simply jumped out at me when I kept abreast of the news.

There was no doubt there were blood drinkers in the city. Large cities have always attracted creatures like me. I even knew of a few. But I very much wanted to know if any held a grievance against me.

Sadly, my quick look at the news didn't tell me much. There was an increase in missing persons in the Bronx and Queens, which didn't necessarily mean anything to me. Like as not there was at least one hungry blood drinker out there. That individual might be a youngster, a person recently reborn, who had not yet learned to control his or her hungers. It wasn't clear.

I needed to look harder, to go into the streets and see with my own eyes, and maybe go by the library where they had a better selection of information.

At a little before 10:00 in the morning, I heard a knock at the door. After slipping on my mask, I was surprised to find a smiling Detective Moreland waiting for me.

"Hullo," I said. There was something about the man that appealed to me. "Detective Moreland, isn't it?"

"It is, miss. Do you have a few minutes."

I hesitated not a single moment. Guilty people always hesitated, and I wasn't sure why the man was at our door. So I invited the policeman in and offered him some coffee, which he declined.

"I was hoping to have you come down to the precinct to look at some photos," he said.

"What kind of photos? ... I wasn't there when the bodega was robbed last week."

"No, of course. But we did pick up a few suspects. It would be helpful if you took a look at them and tell us whether you saw them in the area that night."

It seemed an odd request. Why hadn't the detective merely brought the photos with him? And why come to our home? There were no doubt other witnesses.

"You could've just emailed me the photos," I said.

"First-hand looks are always better," he replied. "And we're on a deadline."

It struck me that it never hurts to have a friend or three in the police. Officer McConnell certainly was not going to be one of them, but the nice detective seemed honest to me.

"Where do I need to go?"

"I can drive you down and drive you back," he said. "It won't take an hour."

Okay, that shouldn't be a problem. So I slipped on some shoes, locked up behind me, and joined the detective in his late-model Crown Vic. The moment my backside hit the seat, I opted for candor.

"So, detective, why did Officer McConnell try to plant drugs on my friend the other night?"

A look of embarrassment crossed the stocky policeman's face, and then it was gone. "That was a big misunderstanding," said the policeman at last.

"Oh?"

The man nodded. "I think so. He saw something on the ground and jumped to conclusions. It happens. Nothing to fret about."

"So that's the last my friend is going to hear about that? ... No need to contact the army of white-shoe law firms that represents us in all things?"

He gave a sweet chuckle, one that was deep and resonant. "Now that's for you to decide. You're well within your rights to call a lawyer ... or to file a grievance once we get to the precinct."

By that time, we were already driving, and I twisted my lips several times as if trying to make a decision. Finally, I said, "No, you seem like a standup guy. I'll take your word for it."

We chatted a bit more about various things as we drove—the neighborhood, crime, and policing, as well as other, more mundane, topics. I really did like Detective Moreland. He honestly struck me as a wonderful guy. But there was something in the way that Moreland had reacted, something in the way he deftly fielded the question about Officer McConnell and the man's awful behavior, that led me to believe that he knew, or at least suspected, something was not on the up-and-up with that officer.

There was little to no chance we had seen the last of McConnell.

Well, I'd deal with that later. By that time, we were at the precinct, and a few minutes later we were in the office of the detective squad.

Almost from the beginning, I sensed that something wasn't right. Most of the detectives present were at their desks hard at work, but there were far too many people standing and evidently doing nothing, and it came to me that those standing were my reception committee. Foremost among those was Moreland's partner, Keebler, who I'd met the night of the bodega robbery. He was charming and handsome, perhaps a bit too much of both, and he was a chap upon whom I hadn't yet gotten a bead.

I began to suspect that I now had a bead, because the moment he saw me a brief smirk glided across his face. He was standing amid a small knot of men and women in suits but with badges visible. Those others were FBI agents.

That was when I saw her, sitting at a table in an office just beyond them. Dark hair, godawful pretty face, and one helluva scream. The woman sitting at the table was the very same woman who had spotted me helping silly-ass Bogdan toss himself from the roof.

Well, shit.

What was she doing here? I'd made it a point to usher Bogdan from this mortal coil halfway across the city for the sole reason that I didn't want it tracing back to this part of town and, very possibly, to me. Now, here that pretty little thing was, darkening my door so to speak.

I pretended nothing was happening and waited for Moreland to show me which way to go. It took only a moment for the detective to deposit his firearm at his desk and grab a file folder, and then he began to lead me in the direction of the assembled FBI agents.

"Miss Porter," Keebler said with a nod.

The feds said nothing, but they made space near the door to the room where the young woman sat at the table. Moreland touched me gently on the shoulder and guided me in. He lay some papers on the table and motioned for me to sit.

"Miss, I'd like you to take a look at a few photos. If you recognize anyone, we'll need you to make an in-person identification."

I nodded, glanced over at the young woman opposite me, and then gave the woman a friendly wave. She smiled back. There wasn't a whisp of recognition in her eyes. I then looked carefully at the dozen pictures that Moreland lay in front of me one right after the other.

I instantly recognized three of the men pictured from the neighborhood. They were three of the scuzzier shrubs that I hadn't yet gotten around to pruning. Perhaps Moreland might do it for me, but probably not. I didn't recognize any of them from the night of the bodega robbery, which is what I presumed the detective was asking for.

"That one, that one, and that one," I said, thumping each picture in turn with my index finger. "I've seen them all around the neighborhood, hanging out on street corners and what not." I pointed to the one on top. "That one has tried to get me to buy drugs more than once. As if ...."

"But none of them on the night in question?"

"I'm sorry, detective."

"Nothing to be sorry about, miss. You do have a keen eye, though. All three of those mutts are connected with a street gang that operates just north of your area.

"I wish I could be of more help."

The detective sat back in his chair and assumed a lazy sprawl. "You just might be able to. Those fellas just outside the door are federal agents. They're hoping you might be able to help them with ... um, what do they call it? ... Atmospherics in your little stretch of the city."

"Okay," I said. "But wouldn't patrol officers have a better eye for those kind of things?"

"Local policing," he muttered. "It shouldn't take too long."

I shrugged, and the detective motioned the agents to enter. Keebler came with them, a bemused, almost silly look on his face. After the group introduced themselves, the man who seemed to be in charge, a silver-haired and squared-jawed lunk named Special Agent Grebe, slid an open folder across to me in which there was a photo of poor dead Bogdan.

"Do you recognize that man?" he asked.

That was a sudden and unexpected change in direction, but I played innocent. "Oh, he's a hard one to forget. Jackass hits on me damn near every time I go to the gym, both coming and going." Every word of that was true.

"When was the last time you saw him," asked the only female agent present, a slim redhead who had introduced herself as Special Agent Gaudin.

"I dunno, a week, week and a half, maybe."

"And where was that?"

"About a half block from my gym, Steam Boxing."

Agent Gaudin switched to her assertive voice, and I needed to resist the urge to smile.

"A woman matching your description was seen with Mr. Slobodan soon before he was murdered in Hell's Kitchen," the agent said. "Are you sure you want to stick with that story?"

It seems they truly weren't going to play around. I gave the young woman a flat look. There was something appealing about the agent that took the edge from the annoyance I was feeling for her and the others at that moment, but only a little.

"First off, it isn't a story. Second off, I don't know the man beyond seeing him in the area." I sat back in my chair and flashed Detective Moreland a look that wasn't quite poisonous, before adding, "And of all the 4 million women who reside in this city, how exactly was it you settled on me?"

Agent Grebe spoke. "The woman in question wore a slit skirt that night and had a dragon tattoo that ran the length of her right thigh. I'm going to ask you to step into the lady's room, and Special Agent ...."

Before the idiot finished his sentence, I stood, unbuckled my britches, and dropped my blue jeans to just below my knees. I made it a point to pivot and show the sides of both of my flawless legs. I didn't have any tattoos, and I hadn't the foggiest idea where the notion of a tattoo had developed. Perhaps a witness, perhaps this witness, had seen the late idiot Bogdan Slobodan with someone else. At that point, I didn't care.

At the sight of my perfect, tattoo-free legs, the room was silent.

I pulled up my trousers, gave Detective Moreland another withering glare, one which he tried to avoid, and left the room without another word.

"Y'all a bunch of fuckin' idiots," I heard Moreland say in his gruff baritone as I made my way to the far side of the squad room and headed down the stairs.

I'd dodged a bullet. How the FBI had put me in Hell's Kitchen on the night in question, I had absolutely no idea in hell. It wasn't by facial recognition. Not everyone wore masks now. The pandemic had wound down and about a quarter of the folks you saw still had them.

I wore mine all the time. I hadn't taken it off on the night I'd assisted in Bogdan's suicide save to flash him a glimpse of my pretty mug, and I hadn't taken it down at any point at the police station or elsewhere. I'd even remembered to slip it on when Detective Moreland came to the door earlier.

What the hell was going on? I was a tall, leggy and athletic thing, true. Not one in ten-thousand women had a physique like mine. But things were not adding up.

And how was I so outrageously wrong about Detective Moreland? I'm usually a keen judge of human character.

Something wasn't right.

Well, fuck it. I went outside, checked my text messages, and immediately hailed a cab. Good news for once. A friend who did such things for a living had found a smidge or three of information on the Koreans from the night before. More important, he'd managed to trace their automobiles and get me an address. When the cab pulled up, I hopped in and headed across town. I was gonna get me some rocks.