A gray panel truck sat backed into the alley between the hotel and the next building over. I couldn’t see what was going on. That was good. None of us wanted the activity there to be visible to passing cars. I was mostly worried about cops. They would be the only others out at this hour. A sharp one might wonder why laundry was being delivered at this time of the morning.

  Strome was one of the laundrymen. He’d turned up at the Nightcrawler with a couple of shut-mouthed goons, coverall uniforms, and the truck. An hour after the club was closed and the last straggling worker left, Strome helped the goons load in an exceptionally heavy laundry basket, then they drove off. Kroun and I followed at a distance.

  Things went without a hitch. About five minutes after parking in the alley, Strome and his crew were out again and driving away. They must have used the service elevator instead of the fire escape stairs to get up to the right floor. No matter, so long as they weren’t caught. Kroun had supplied the key. Wiped clean, it was to be dropped on the desk in the room, just like he told the clerk earlier.

  There would be a hell of a stink over this tomorrow. I felt sorry for the poor maid, who’d likely be the one to find the body. I also hoped the night clerk would be unhelpful about descriptions of Kroun and me. When it came down to it, we had a pretty lousy cover. Two mystery men go up to Caine’s room. Caine is found dead there the next day, but not seen to come in by the front entrance. Any halfway-good cop would tear into that pretty quick and backtrack to the Nightcrawler. The best I could expect from our interference was to confuse things, buy some time to find the killer. Then—if the hideous head pain would leave me alone for long enough—I could whammy him or her into marching into the D.A.’s office to dictate a complete confession. We’d all be off the hook.

  Of course, that was the ideal way for this to turn out. I focused on thinking about it, rather than the countless ways it could go wrong.

  Kroun had cut the motor for those five minutes. He started the car again, and the heater blasted air against my legs. I winced. “You still cold?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I’d been fighting off shivering again, vowing to buy a heavier coat.

  “Go home then. Get some sleep.” He didn’t look remotely tired himself.

  “I need to see to things.”

  “What things? We’re finished here. Even those guys are flying back to their roost.” He gestured ahead, where the taillights of the panel truck made a turn and vanished. “Where’s home?”

  “Just take me to my club.”

  “You live there?”

  “I flop in the office sometimes. When it’s a late night.”

  “That’s what we have here, ladies and gentlemen. A late night. Which way?”

  As before, I gave directions, and he drove. He seemed to enjoy hauling the big car around corners.

  * * *

  KROUN dropped me at the front of Crymsyn, and said he knew how to get back to his hotel from there.

  “Why are your lights still on?” he asked. “Someone inside?”

  “We leave ’em on to scare off burglars.” That was better than trying to explain about Myrna.

  He tossed an easy good night at me and drove off, the well-tuned Caddy barely making a sound. I hurried to unlock Crymsyn’s front doors.

  Kroun was right about this chill not being related to winter. I shook from it, but my teeth weren’t chattering.

  Shut the door against the cold, cruel night, turned to check the lobby. The overhead lights glowed, as well as the one behind the bar, almost as though Myrna knew I’d be coming in and would need them.

  I’d often been here before on my own, and each time noticed the silence. Of course, with my hearing I could pick up on every damn creak and pop, which was ignorable or twanged at my nerves depending on my mood. I was in a foul and fragile frame of mind for now. Something about Kroun bothered me. The way he’d been acting at some points was worry-making.

  The uncomfortable suspicion rolled through my head that Kroun might be immune to my kind of hypnosis. If he was crazy and able to hide it, then just pretended to be under the other night…I didn’t want to believe it.

  Distracted as I had been with the pain, he’d remained dead-eyed and not reacting the whole time—even when I’d vanished. No one could be that good at faking.

  Unless he’d met another like me and knew what to do, what to expect. That might explain it. I was one of a rare breed. If Kroun knew about vampires that would account for his changed manner. He might see me as a possible ally to cultivate. Make me a friend, then I cease to be a threat.

  Or I was imagining stuff, and this was all a load of crap.

  I could just about hear Escott agreeing with me, too. Whatever I was reading from Kroun was certainly colored by what I’d been through in the last week. There was no reason to trust any of it. I needed to take the advice I’d given to Gordy and get some rest.

  Perhaps Kroun was just…I guess relaxed would be the word. He sure didn’t match up with the ill-tempered man I’d first talked to on the phone or the commanding mob boss who could clear a room with just a look. Gordy said Kroun was scary. I wasn’t seeing that anymore. Or feeling it. That must be what set off the doubts in my gut. Gordy wouldn’t have used that word without good reason.

  Capone was known to be as charming as all get out when he was in the mood for it. He was still a killer.

  Maybe that was the scare about Kroun. Lull a person with the charm, then bang-bang-you’re-dead.

  Too late for me.

  I went up to my office—lights were on there, too. The ledgers with Bobbi’s neat entries were with that night’s respectable take in the desk safe, meaning a bank run tomorrow. I put the money bag back, along with the .38 Detective Special I kept there. Sure, I was fairly bulletproof, but if I could head off trouble packing heat of my own, then why not?

  Heat…

  I turned up the radiator and hovered over it, hoping to thaw out.

  It occurred to me that maybe I should have more blood inside my shuddering body.

  Rotten thought.

  I was not hungry, but the impulse strongly tugged to bring that living heat inside, to glut on it and drive away the death chill. In my mind I knew it would be futile, but the malicious darkness within urged otherwise.

  Phone up a taxi, it said. There was time to squeeze in a trip to the Stockyards before dawn. Time to drink myself sick again.

  I fought it off by telling myself it was too much trouble, would endanger me if I got caught by an early-morning yard worker. I ran through a few dozen other discouraging excuses of varying degrees of likelihood. All served to delay until the craving passed, and depression firmly took over, finally immobilizing me.

  It’s a sad thing when self-pity becomes a safe and welcome alternative for heading off self-destructive activities.

  Left the office, went down to Bobbi’s dressing room. I had some spare clothes shoved into the back of the closet there. No need to move her stuff out now that Jewel was dead.

  Damnation.

  Stripped and turned on the shower water as hot as possible, risking a scald to just stand with the spray square in my face. With no need to breathe I was there for a long while, the water hammering my eyelids. Lost track of how many times I soaped and scrubbed, soaped and scrubbed. I emptied the club’s huge hot-water tank. Finally warm, or at least not cold, my skin was cherry red when I emerged.

  Except for the long, thin, white scars.

  I decided it was time to look at them. Adelle had said the face of the enemy. I should lose my fear of this, lose my hatred of them. On one hand the memory of getting them was as sharp as Bristow’s knife, on the other, it was as though it had happened to a different man who had told me about a harrowing, but long-ago experience.

  They still didn’t seem to be fading. Was their trauma so great that they’d always be with me? How would Bobbi react to them?

  If she saw them. If we ever made love again. Certainly never as long as I was unpredictable, out of control. I didn’t dare touch her.

  And it wasn’t a big help standing here in her empty dressing room in front of an empty mirror.

  I dressed quickly, went up to the office where the radio I’d not turned on now played. I didn’t recognize the band or their song, must have been new, and sprawled on the sofa and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think of anything at all.

  And, God, it hurt.

  Too much.

  This time I foiled the seizure by vanishing quick, before it could peak.

  The floating helped. No heavy body to twitch and flop, no pathetic groaning. Instead, through my muffled hearing I picked up the radio’s music. The song, whatever it was, helped steady me. I hovered over the couch. Its cushions each had a bag of my home earth sewn inside for those sleepover days. I didn’t know if its proximity would help.

  I held formless for a long time and thought about how I’d floated in the stock pond as a kid. This was very much like it, except back then I didn’t have to shut out bad memories.

  One other sense was left to me in this state: touch, and it was more muffled than my hearing. I could feel objects, get a general idea of something’s shape, size, and the space around me. And people. I could touch them, leaving behind a profound cold.

  I felt someone in the room with me. Couldn’t think who it might be, but wasn’t unduly alarmed. Escott and Bobbi had keys. Why would either of them come here at this late hour, though?

  They wouldn’t, not without making more noise. Bobbi usually said hello to Myrna. Escott would have called out to me by now.

  So who was here? Kroun? He could have picked the lock to get in. I reached out, thinking whoever it was would soon have to move or complain about the cold, and I could identify the voice. Only that didn’t happen. The person stayed put.

  So I moved. I floated into the hall through the door and re-formed, then stepped back in the office again.

  I fully expected to see someone sitting on that couch.

  Nothing. I was seeing nothing. A lot of it.

  But I had sensed…uh-oh. Mouth dry again. I cleared my throat.

  “Myrna?”

  No reply. But I knew.

  In taking a breath to speak I was overwhelmed by the scent of roses.

  10

  WOKE up on the dot of sunset, about one minute later than the previous evening. The year was turning, the days getting longer. Shorter nights. Lucky me. Less time to be in oblivion.

  The rose scent was much faded by now. That had been…spooky. Okay, it had thrown me, but I could figure that Myrna had again been trying to give comfort, that’s why I chose to remain on the office couch rather than retreat to my other bolt-hole under the tiers in the main room. How I’d actually been able to feel her as a physical presence was something else again. Maybe it was because I was on her side of the veil half the time. Dead.

  I’d have given a shiver, but wasn’t cold. Now that was good news. The radiator had been chugging away for hours; the place must be jungle-hot by now.

  I got up to turn it back to normal and listened to familiar activity going on below. Lady Crymsyn was waking, too. She’d started the process earlier, but for her it took more time. A dame’s privilege.

  Someone had been and gone. Escott, probably. A stack of newspapers lay on the desk like a no-nonsense message. He’d have made a connection between my uncharacteristically spending all evening at another nightclub that was now violently minus its star act. Certainly he’d want to know the real story. The papers sure didn’t have it.

  The evening headlines were big and harsh, their theme murder-suicide. Apparently after Caine’s body was found the cops went to question his ex-wife and in turn found her. Facts were thin, with no mention of Evie Montana or gambling debts. There was no official verdict yet, but Jewel was getting the blame for Caine’s death.

  My heart sank. Jewel deserved better than that. How the hell could they be so stupid? If Kroun and I could figure out she’d not killed herself—and how could they screw up so badly about the faked crime scene in Caine’s flat? Was this some kind of misdirection to throw off the killer, make him think he was safe?

  I phoned the Nightcrawler and got Derner. Mindful that the line could be wired, I was as vague as could be managed. “How did things go today?”

  “A little rough, but it turned out all right,” he cautiously told me. “Everything’s fine here.”

  “What about our guest and his pal?”

  “Haven’t seen either of them today.”

  “What about that party I want found?”

  “Nothing yet. They’re being scarce.”

  Damn. “Is my car ready?”

  “Not yet, Boss.”

  “What d’ya mean? It’s just changing tires.”

  “Uhh, well, the tow truck guy didn’t understand exactly and took your car to Cicero.”

  I considered that one a minute before asking, in what I was certain was a very reasonable tone: “Why?”

  “Uhh, they’re gonna fix it up for you.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like the way the Caddy’s fixed up.”

  “What?” I had visions of my humble Buick outfitted with steel armor, thick glass, and a motor that should be driving a battleship, not a car. “Call it off! I just want new tires!”

  “They’re doin’ them, too, Boss.”

  “Don’t give me a ‘too,’ just get my car ba—what are they doing?”

  “Well, seein’s how your tires were cut up like that, they’re puttin’ on the solid rubber kind. No more flats. You’ll love ’em.”

  “Derner.”

  “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Get my car back. No fancy stuff like the Caddy, nothing special. Just put on some tires and get it back to me.”

  He almost sounded hurt. “Okay…I’ll talk to ’em.”

  “Good. If you need me over there tonight, you’ll have to send a driver to pick me up.”

  “You mean you don’t have the Caddy?” His voice went up a little.

  “Our guest has it. Seems to like it a lot.”

  “Oh, well, that’s okay, then. You still want some extra muscle for your place?”

  “Yeah, send ’em over. Just find that other party.” As soon as I cradled the receiver the phone rang.

  “Fleming!” It was Kroun, sounding cheerful.

  Now what? “Yeah?”

  “You finally warmed up yet?”

  “Mostly. What’s going on?”

  “Thought I’d come by your club, see if you turned up anything interesting on that business last night.”

  “Not really, no. Been sleeping all day.”

  “All day? You lazy bum! Your place open tonight?”

  “Yeah, in about half an hour.”

  “Save me a good table, I’ll be coming by sometime later.”

  “No problem. Have you seen Mitchell?”

  “He’s been out gallivanting with old friends. Still is.”

  Mitchell had friends? “Shouldn’t he be watching your back?”

  “I’m safe enough. Besides, he always turns up.” Kroun rang off. Wonderful. Why come and hang around my club? I’d have to stop giving away booze.

  As I walked downstairs Wilton was getting bowls of matches, ashtrays, and cocktail napkins ready on the lobby bar.

  “Hey, Mr. Fleming. Come in early?”

  “Yeah. You seen Bobbi or Charles?”

  “They’re both here. Main room.”

  “I’ll bring the tills down in a minute.”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  Somehow, when he called me that, it was perfectly fine. “Myrna around?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  I went into the main room. A few early-arrived waiters were there talking with the bartender. Everyone straightened and found something to do as soon as I showed. I liked that and continued on to the backstage area.

  Someone banged loudly on the stage door that opened to the back alley. I unlocked and let in the first band members. Five of them barged past out of the cold, smoking like farm trucks and talking a mile a minute and paying me no mind, I was only the boss. I yelled at them to douse their cigarettes, and most of them heard, dropping the stubs into a sand-filled fire bucket hanging next to one of the many extinguishers.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Bobbi flit from the number three dressing room, rushing toward the stage like she forgot something. She wore a long silk dressing gown that flapped alarmingly wide as she moved. I caught up with her at the master lighting box stage right.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked.

  “Hi, sweetheart! Just checking.” She absently went tiptoe and pecked my cheek, as normal as could be. But then she didn’t know about the fit I’d had in my car after leaving her the other evening or any of what I’d been into last night. That was good. We both had enough worries.

  “I’ll do this, you go finish getting ready.”

  “Okay-thanks.” She shot off. Her feet were bare, and she scuffed along in quick little steps back to her dressing-room haven. She would be fully occupied putting herself together for the show, and I knew better than to follow after she slammed the door shut. The door didn’t exactly slam so much as make a subdued whump; they were all fitted out with special rubber stripping on the inside edges to be less noisy. That had been Bobbi’s idea when the place was being built. She maintained there was nothing more distracting for a performance than having unscheduled noises coming from backstage.

  I looked over the settings for the light box and all seemed normal and unchanged. With Myrna around checking it was an ongoing chore we’d all learned to do. Of course, sometimes the lights played up while the switches were correctly in place, so we tried not to mind too much when that happened.

  Roland and Faustine arrived next through the alley entry and seemed pleased with themselves. Maybe things were smoothing out in their marriage. He called a friendly hello; she gave me a regal nod, and said, “Zo pleeeezed” at me. At first I didn’t think her Russian accent was real, but I’d come to change my mind. The way she looked she was a knockout in any language.