As Gunter turned to face them, the older of the two produced a battered leather wallet from his breast pocket and flipped it open, revealing a NYPD shield.

  "Ja, I am Gunter Nonhoff,” the photographer replied warily. "What is this about, officers?"

  The detectives exchanged looks and the good-looking cop spoke. “We're trying to locate a William Delbert Simms.”

  Gunter shook his head and started to turn his back on the cops. "Never heard of him. Now, if you don't mind, mein Herren, I have work to attend to..."

  “Perhaps you know him by another name?” The younger cop flipped open a small spiralbound notebook he kept in his breast pocket. He squinted at his handwriting, as if unsure of what he was reading. “I believe he works under the name Brat- no, that's not it... Brute?”

  Gunter turned back around to face the policemen, an alarmed look on his face. "What's happened to him?"

  "I take it you know him, then?" the older cop said with a crooked smile.

  “Yes. Yes, I know Brut. What happened to him? Where is he?"

  "That's something we'd like to know ourselves, Mr Nonhoff."

  A look of befuddlement crossed Gunter's face. "Has he done something?"

  "No, sir. We just need to find him to make an identification. You see, this really isn't about him. It concerns his girlfriend, Rosemarie Dupree."

  "Rose is dead." Gunter did not speak the words as a question, but as a statement of fact.

  The cops exchanged glances once again, their interest piqued by the photographer's odd reaction to the news.

  "Yes, sir. We're sorry to say that is the case."

  Gunter leaned against the table on which his photographic gear was arranged, trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. "How... how did she die?"

  "We're not really at liberty to discuss that with anyone but Mr Simms, sir. But it should be sufficient to say that she met with an unfortunate accident. One that is currently being investigated by Homicide.”

  "I though you said it was an accident?"

  "Yes, sir, I did. But it's Homicide's job to investigate unusual deaths to rule out the possibility of foul play. And Ms Dupree's death certainly qualifies.”

  “If you simply need someone to identify the body, I can do that for you. I photographed Rose scores, if not hundreds of times.”

  "Thank you for your offer, Mr Nonhoff, but regulations require that we try and utilize next of kin or a spouse, if possible. Ms Dupree listed Mr Simms on her medical paperwork as her next of kin. Do you know where we might find him, sir?"

  "Did you go to his condo? He lives off Park Avenue South, near Gramercy."

  “Yes, sir. We went there first, as it was also listed as Ms Dupree's domicile. We had the super let us in. He wasn't there, but we did find a notepad with your home address and phone number on it. We called your home looking for you, but your cleaning lady said you were at your studio and gave us your address.”

  "I think I know where he might be."

  "Where is that?” The older cop asked as he fished a ballpoint pen out of his front pocket.

  Gunter hesitated. Although he did not particularly like Brut, he was not comfortable with telling the police what he knew of the model's hobbies. "I'd rather not say. Look, if he's where I think he is, I'll bring him to wherever it is you need him to go.”

  The older cop shrugged and stepped forward, handing Gunter a business card. “That's the Medical Examiner's Office's address, over on First Avenue. Bring him there. They're open twentyfour/seven.”

  "I'll do that, officer,” Gunter promised as he escorted the detective out of the studio.

  Once he was satisfied the cops were gone, he called the models slated for the Tag Heuer shoot that afternoon and told them he needed to reschedule. He then called the housekeeper and told her that he would be getting home late that evening and under no circumstances was she to tell Cabby about the cops calling the house, should she telephone from her grandparents' place out on Cape Cod. He then walked over to the closet and got out a hooded sweatshirt and slipped it on, then, after a moment's consideration, he went to his desk and unlocked the drawer where he kept his gun.

  Gunter had not been in the Bronx for some time and as he picked his way across the empty lot besides the shooting gallery, he was reminded why.

  He headed toward the rear entrance of the building, passing the remnants of an air conditioner, a junked twenty-six inch television set turned on its side, plastic buckets half-full of stagnant rainwater and possibly less wholesome fluids, as well as broken boards pulled off the windows and doors of the abandoned six storey tenement. Upon reaching the door, he had to bend over to climb through the hole where the bottom panel had been kicked out. As he did so, his hand tightened around the Ruger pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. Had the cops shown up at his studio any later in the day, then Gunter probably would have simply told them where to find Brut and left it at that. This was certainly no place to be after dark.

  Once he was inside, Gunter straightened up quickly and looked around. Slivers of light streamed into the darkened hallway from a room to the right. Inside, scattered on the floor like jackstraws, were dozens upon dozens of used syringes, orange syringe caps, empty beer and pop cans, a broken commode laying on its side, potato chip bags, a plastic Big Gulp cup, Deer Spring water bottles, copious cigarette butts and numerous bloody tissues. The air was thick with the smell of urine and feces.

  The floorboards overhead creaked and he could hear more than one person coughing and someone else retching in the shadows. As he moved toward the stairwell, he saw that the flight leading to the second floor was crowded with junkies. Everywhere he looked there was garbage, most of it human. They were squatting along the wall, huddled in a sort of crouch, too intent on finding a vein to do more than lean out of the way as he climbed over them. The junkies' total indifference to being trodden upon reminded him of the filthy droves of pigeons that filled Tompkins Square Park.

  The worst of the ones cluttering the stairs looked like escapees from Night of the Living Dead, with gaunt faces and dank, grayish skin, regardless of their ethnicity. They were drenched in junk sweat, their hair caked with grease and filth, as they lay slumped senseless against the nearest upright surface.

  Once Gunter reached the second floor, a tall, thin Hispanic with a pockmarked face seemed to materialize from the shadows at the top of the stairs. He said nothing but held up three fingers. Gunter nodded and handed him three dollars. The pockmarked man handed him a metal bottle cap, a cotton ball and a pack of matches, then stepped aside. Gunter stuffed the paraphernalia into his pocket and stepped over a man propped up against the doorway, his rolled-up sleeve revealing a forearm caked in blood. He had just paid the toll that would allow him to run up smack in the relative safety of one of the rooms in the shooting gallery. The junkies he had climbed over could not afford the three dollar "rent" and had to make do with the stairwell, which cost a dollar instead.

  Gunter stepped into the front room, which faced the street and looked around. It was a good thing he was there to try and find Brut and not shoot up, because it was clear he had showed up too late to get a decent place to nod out. The best spots were against the walls, even though they were caked with blood from squirting syringes, because they could lean back without falling over.

  As the photographer looked around, he saw a white guy with long, filthy dreadlocks the color of stale urine roll up his trouser leg and inject himself in the calf. The meat of the man's leg was covered with weeping abscesses and scars that made him look like a human ashtray. Next to him a young woman in a spaghetti strap, Baby Doll tank top that read "Nashville Pussy" lifted her left arm over her head and expertly shot up into her exposed arm pit. Next to the wall, a man sat passed out on a red kitchen chair, his chin on his chest. A used syringe lay at his feet, while two more rested under the chair.

  Gunter found Brut collapsed atop a badly stained and torn mattress in the far corner that smelled like it served double duty as a cat box. The male model was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed. For a moment Gunter was afraid he'd reached him too late, but then he saw one eyelid flicker partially open.

  "Brut.”

  The second eyelid fluttered open. “Gu... Gunter?" It came out slow and slurred. "You really there, dude? Or am I tweaking?"

  "I'm really here, Brut. Come on, you have to get out of here!"

  "Why?"

  Gunter looked around nervously and lowered his voice. "The cops are looking for you."

  A look of befuddlement slowly slid across the younger man's face. “Me? Why?”

  "It's Rose."

  "What about the bitch?" Brut snarled, his handsome features quickly changing into something decidedly unpleasant.

  Gunter had originally wanted to break the news to Brut as gently as possible, but the ugliness of the model's response made him change his mind at the last minute. Screw pulling his punches. "She's dead, Brut."

  Brut was quiet for a moment, then he brought his hands to cover his face. Since he couldn't sit up, he curled into a fetal position. His chest heaved up and down. Gunter grimaced and cursed himself for being such a prick under his breath. He stepped forward and took the model's hands and pulled him up off the floor until he was sitting upright. It seemed to take a lot out of Brut, so Gunter crouched down in front of him.

  "Brut, you have get out of here. This isn't a safe a place even if Death wasn't breathing down your neck," he said in a harsh whisper.

  Brut sniffed and rubbed his snotty nose on the sleeve of his Hilfiger jersey. "How... did she die?”

  "I don't know. The cops wouldn't say. They just told me they need you to come identify the body. Make sure it's her."

  Brut's face crumpled like a tissue paper rose. "But I don't wanna see her body, Gunter!"

  "I know that, but you can't stay here, regardless of anything else. Come on, Brut. Stand up." Gunter put his right shoulder under Brut's left armpit, wrapping his arm behind the other man's back and levered him up off the dingy mattress.

  As Gunter tried to maneuver Brut out the door, the pock-faced Hispanic reappeared, blocking the exit.

  "Bro say he done wanna go, man."

  Gunter met the drug dealer's gaze-the only unclouded eyes he'd seen since entering the hellhole--and spoke in a flat, clipped voice, trying hard not to sound either scared or intimidated. "Believe me, you don't want him here. The cops are looking for him."

  The drug dealer's eyes flickered from Gunter to Brut. The photographer could almost see the other man's brain tabulating the risk/reward factors involved in keeping a good paying customer in his establishment versus having the law disrupt his business. The drug dealer nodded his understanding and stepped aside without further argument.

  It took Gunter ten minutes to get Brut down the stairs and out the back door and another fifteen before he was able to hail a cab willing to stop and pick them up. As he loaded the male model into the back of the taxi, he realized there was no way he could take him to the Medical Examiner's Office in the state he was in. Brut was in no condition to identify his own left foot, much less his girlfriend's body. Instead, he gave his home address as the destination and could see the hack's eyes light up in the rear-view mirror. At least it was going to be a good day for somebody.

  ***

  "Motherfucker! Stop it!" Brut yelled, spitting out the cold water from the shower as it ran down his head, plastering his hair to his skull and into his mouth. The male model was standing in the shower/bath of the townhouse Gunter shared with Cabernet, still dressed as Gunter had found him in the shooting gallery, save for his expensive Italian leather belt, which he'd used to tie off and had probably been boosted by one of the junkies while he was on the nod.

  "I'll stop it when you sober up, scheisskopf!" Gunter snarled, pushing Brut back under the showerhead as the model lunged forward.

  "I'm not taking you somewhere crawling with cops while you're high as a damn kite!”

  "What the hell are you talking about? Take me where? And why are my goddamned clothes still on? Jesus Christ, man. These are leather shoes. And you've ruined them.”

  Gunter gave Brut a hard look, but it was clear from the confused outrage on the other man's face that he did not remember anything that had happened before being shoved into the ice-cold shower.

  "The cops need you to go downtown to identify Rose's body."

  Brut's face went slack, as if all the muscles had been severed. It was a disconcerting sight, as if someone had suddenly pulled a plug out of a wall and what Gunter had assumed to be a living, breathing human was revealed to be nothing more than a collection of pulleys and gears. The only sign of life were his eyes, which flickered back and forth, as if he was watching a game of ping-pong. Then Brut took a deep breath and his facial muscles contorted into something that resembled the tragic mask of classical drama and he began to scream. However, the anguish he felt was not for his deceased girlfriend.

  "Oh, God! I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!"

  "Calm down, Brut!”

  "I don't wanna die, Gunter!" Brut lunged forward, grabbing the front of the photographer's shirt with both hands. "Don't let him get me!"

  "Let who get you?”

  “The old man."

  "You mean Death?" Gunter asked, puzzled by the reference.

  A look of startled surprise, as if he might have said too much, crossed Brut's face, but was quickly gone. "Yeah, that's what I meant. You won't let him get me, will you?"

  "You know I can't promise you anything like that, Brut..."

  "You're all the same!” The male model shouted, staggering back under the spray from the showerhead. "No one cares about me.” He began to cry great, wracking sobs, but it was hard to tell if the water running down his face was actually tears.

  “Damn it, stop sniveling," Gunter snarled, bitch-slapping Brut as hard as he could. He was sorely tempted to close his fist on the second pass, but refrained from doing so. "If you can't be a man, then shut the hell up and at least act like one!”

  Brut cowered away from the photographer, pressing the flat of his hand against his bruised cheek, his eyes flashing both fear and anger, but stopped his histrionics.

  “Let me make this perfectly clear, before we go any further. I find you to be a sniveling little shit, and under normal circumstances I couldn't care less if you overdosed or fell under a subway train, but for some ungodly reason you and I are trapped within the same nightmare. For that reason-and that reason only-I am willing to try and help you stay alive. But if you ever pull another dummkopf stunt like running off to the worst neighborhood in the city and sticking a spike of heroin in your arm, or leg or wherever the hell you choose to shoot up, putting not only yourself but anyone trying to find you in mortal danger, then you won't have to worry about the Grim Reaper coming to claim you, because I will kill you myself! Do you understand me?"

  "Y-yes, sir," Brut stammered, his demeanor that of a very small child.

  "Gut. Now strip down and clean yourself up. You should be able to wear my clothes. I'll be downstairs, making espresso. Once you're presentable, I'll see to it that you get to the Medical Examiner's."

  As Gunter was pouring Brut his third cup of espresso, the kitchen phone rang. Upon picking it up, he heard Cabernet's voice on the line.

  "Gunter? What the hell is going on down there?"

  "What do you mean, liebchen?" Gunter was thankful she could not see the grimace on his face as he spoke.

  "I'm talking about Chardonnay. It's all over the cable news. Why didn't you call me?"

  “Darling, please understand I didn't want to upset you.” He glanced over at Brut. “But I see now that it's no use. As it is, I have even more bad news.”

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm afraid Rose is dead.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When she finally spoke again, he was surprised at how composed she sounded. "How did it happen?"

  "I don't know. I'm about to take Brut downtown so he can identify the body."

  "He's actually there with you?”

  “Yes. The cops came by my studio earlier today looking for him. That's how I found out about Rose being dead. I had to go drag him out of some shit hole in the south Bronx. I've been sobering him up for the last couple of hours."

  "How is he taking the news?"

  “I wouldn't exactly call him the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  "That settles it. I'm coming home."

  "No, honey. Please don't." Gunter's grip on the receiver became a stranglehold.

  "What are you talking about? Don't be silly, sweetheart. I was going to come back to the city for Chardonnay's funeral, no matter what. And now I have a double funeral to attend. I couldn't possibly stay up here. Besides, my due date is almost here, and my OB/GYN is in Manhattan. As much as I love Cape Cod, I have absolutely no intention of giving birth to our baby up here. Don't worry, darling. I'll have my father drive me down to New York tomorrow. He drove in from Boston yesterday evening. I'm sure he won't mind.”

  Gunter sighed and nodded his head in resignation, even though she was not there to see it. “Very well, Liebling. I'll see you tomorrow then." He knew there was no arguing with Cabernet once her mind was made up about something. She could be a very stubborn woman at times, but that was one of the things that caused him to fall in love with her in the first place.

  "Bye, honey. Tell Brut I'm sorry."

  "Will do. Bye." With that, Gunter hung up the phone and turned back to face his houseguest, who was watching him with raw, red-rimmed eyes.

  "Will do what?” the model asked.

  "Stop at the grocery store to pick up some cinnamon ice cream. Cravings, you know. Come on. Get your shit together. It's time to go."

  The New York City morgue was a four storey building on First Avenue and East Thirtieth, located in the basement of the Medical Examiner's Office and, as the cops had promised, was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Upon entering the reception area, they saw a deputy seated behind a large desk.