"Hello?" I said again, louder this time.

I took a step forward-then yelped as a little white fur ball rocketed between my sneakers.

"Here, kitty, kitty," Matt cooed.

The kitten scurried behind an umbrella stand, where it sat on its haunches and studied us, pink nose sniffing the air.

"I think she's afraid of me," Matt said after he tried to approach the skittish animal.

"You'd be scared, too, if a mountain draped in Armani came at you."

I saw Matt tense and realized that he was now sniffing the air. "Smell that?"

"What?"

"Cordite."

My brows knitted. "Cor-?"

"Gunpowder."

"You mean-"

Matt shushed me. "Stay here. And don't touch a thing."

Matt crept down the short hall. I moved to catch up with him, entering the apartment's living room.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A dirty coffee cup sat beside an easy chair, old newspapers and magazines were piled on the floor, and a Santa costume in a dry-cleaning bag was draped over the end of the couch, next to a man's overcoat.

Matt noticed me following him and scowled. Then he stepped around the littered coffee table and moved deeper into the apartment. I noticed that the white kitten had reappeared, following my ex's polished black shoes like a tiny white shadow.

Must be female.

I paused at the coffee table, where I spied a slim canvas wallet, keys, and a pile of change. I slipped on my gloves and gingerly opened the wallet with one finger. Karl Kovic's New York State driver's license photo stared back at me through a cellophane window.

He and Alf could have been brothers. Karl's eyes were muddier, more brown than green, but his face had the same round shape. Like Alf, Karl had a mustache, although his wasn't a bushy walrus; it was trimmed in a horseshoe shape more closely to his face. He also wore his hair long, but not long enough to do Alf's retro-sixties ponytail thing.

I heard Matt curse. "Son of a-"

"What's the matter?"

He reappeared, his face a shade paler. "It's Kovic. At least I think think it's Kovic. He's in the bedroom, Clare. He's dead." it's Kovic. He's in the bedroom, Clare. He's dead."

TWENTY-FIVE.

MATT grabbed me before I got past him. "You don't want to see that."

"I have to!"

I pulled away and moved into the bedroom. The smell was more pronounced here. Like sulfur or burned hair combined with the slightly metallic stench of fresh blood. Kovic lay on the floor beside the bed, facedown, head turned, eyes open. For a moment, my feet felt frozen to the floor.

"There was no sign of blood or a struggle in the foyer or living room," I murmured. "The killer must have met Kovic at the front door, and then led him at gunpoint to this bedroom . . ."

The room was a shambles. Every drawer was pulled out, its contents spilled onto the floor. Even the mattress had been molested, the pillowcases stripped away, sheets and blankets tossed around.

"Obviously the shooter was looking for something. I wonder if he found it."

Matt stepped up behind me. "Doesn't matter. Not for this poor bastard." He leaned over the body. "Looks like he was shot twice in the back. Those bullet holes are too small to be exit wounds."

I remembered Quinn's stories about working crime scenes and stopped Matt from touching the body to confirm what the exit wounds looked like in the corpse's front. Instead, I bent low, trying to figure out something else. Staring at the dead man's face, I noticed that Kovic's wide-open eyes were moist. There was saliva on his chin. It hadn't dried yet. The spittle was still wet.

"Kovic wasn't shot very long ago," I whispered. "I think we just missed the killer."

Matt tensed. "Now I wish I had that Beretta."

Stepping out of the room, Matt moved back into the apartment's hallway. I joined him, noticing that the bathroom door was open, but a second door beside it was closed.

"Feel that?" I whispered.

He nodded. "There's a draft."

I pushed the closed door open. Immediately a gust of frigid air filled the hall. Inside we found a second bedroom, half the size of the one with Kovic's corpse. This room had been ransacked, too, and the window facing the fire escape was wide open, curtains blowing wildly on the freezing night wind.

"Oh, God," I said. "When we were coming in, I heard shuffling in another room-I thought it was Kovic, but it was obviously the killer. He must have heard us and fled through the window!"

Matt looked outside and down the dark fire escape. "I don't see anyone."

With my gloved hands, I picked up a silver-framed picture that had been knocked to the floor. It was a photograph of a beaming Vicki Glockner at her high school graduation. Her dad was standing at her side, his arm around her shoulders, his face so happy, so filled with pride.

"This was Alf's room," I whispered, my voice suddenly gone.

Matt frowned, watching me. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head, swiping wet eyes, and put the photo back on the dresser. "Whatever the killer wanted, I don't think he got. He obviously tossed Karl's bedroom, then Alf's room, and then he must have heard us coming in and run . . ."

Matt took my arm. "Let's grab that cat and get the hell out of here."

"No." I pulled away. "We have to call the police."

"Why? So they can pin this murder on us? Think, Clare. We're trespassing. Again."

We argued back and forth for a minute until we finally reached an agreement. Matt would take Alf's kitten back to my apartment above the Blend (and risk the high holy wrath of Breanne finally noticing that her escort had temporarily abandoned her). And I would call 911 and stick around for the police to show up.

But first we had to find the kitten, which seemed to have vanished.

"Here kitty," I cooed. "Kitty-kitty . . ."

As I began making kissy-kissy sounds, I heard something familiar- Jingle-jingle-jingle . . .

The sound came from the kitchen, where I found the little fur ball batting around a single silver sleigh bell. The ornament had come loose from a red-and-green pet pillow with an image of Santa Claus in his sleigh embroidered across the front and jingle bells sewn into its fringes.

An open-and empty-can of BumbleBee tuna served as the kitten's dish. A smelly shoebox sat in an opposite corner, beside a trash can filled with illegally mixed garbage-more tuna cans and a lot of other detritus that should have been separated for recycling. The shoebox was lined with soiled newspapers and cat poo. I didn't see a water bowl.

The kitty's antics had intensified since I entered the room. With my gloved hand I took the empty can and trickled a little faucet water into it. The kitten was lapping it up when Matt entered, Java's carrier in hand.

"The NYPD forensics team will find kitten hair," I told Matt as he set the carrier down. "But they have to assume Karl got rid of it, so we have to make it look like that . . ."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning you have to take that shoebox with you."

Matt took a look and shuddered. "No way."

I glared. "Way."

"Look, we found the door unlocked," Matt said. "Just tell the cops it was ajar and they'll think the pet got out."

"Got out where? We're on the fifth floor of an apartment building. Kittens can't reach elevator buttons!"

Matt folded his arms. "But taking that disgusting thing is interfering with a crime scene. People go to prison for that."

I faced him, hands on hips. "Stealing the kitten is interfering, too. And it's not like we're tampering with evidence. I'm sure the killer didn't go anywhere near that cat poop."

"Of course not," Matt said flatly. "We're the only ones stupid enough to do that."

"Mr. Outback is squeamish?"

"Yes. When Mr. Outback is dressed in pricey Armani and has to return to a cocktail party smelling of feline feces, he's as squeamish as Shirley Temple."

I scooped up the adorable kitten and cuddled it. The cute little thing immediately began to purr. "Awww . . ." Its soft fur was as white and silky as latte microfoam. "I think I'll call her Frothy."

She didn't mind being tucked into Java's carrier, as if she knew I was here to take care of her. But the box was so large and Frothy so small that I slipped the loose jingle bell and Santa Claus pillow inside, too. At least the tiny thing would have something familiar to cling to on her scary trip downtown.

Matt lifted the carrier. "I'm out of here."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"The key!"

Matt put the carrier down. I handed him the key to my duplex. He met my eyes. "You're sure?"

"Of course! How else are you going to get in?"

"Right."

"Listen," I said, touching the exquisite Armani fabric covering the man's forearm. "I've got a spare at Mike's. So please don't stress about getting the key back to me right away. You can hold on to it."

"Oh?" My ex-husband paused and studied my face with an odd intensity. "You're sure about this . . ."

"Yes, of course." I knew Matt would be party-hopping all night with his new wife, and I'd taken him away from her long enough. But he was looking at me so strangely. "Did I miss something?"

He didn't reply, simply arched his eyebrow with a kind of satisfaction. Then he took out his keychain, slid the key on, and picked up the carrier again.

"Wait!"

"Not again!"

"The shoebox shoebox!"

The box o' kitten poo was nested in its own lid. I picked up the stinky square of cardboard, peeled the lid off its bottom and capped the box shut.

Matt held the thing at arm's length. (I didn't blame him.) "Give me a five-minute head start before you call in the law," he said, then slipped out of the apartment, the jingle-jingle-jingles jingle-jingle-jingles of Frothy's Santa cat pillow diminishing as he disappeared down the building's hallway. of Frothy's Santa cat pillow diminishing as he disappeared down the building's hallway.

I hoped no one would notice Matt leaving the place, but I did realize that a hunky guy in a tux, carrying a tinkling cat carrier in one hand and a stinky box of cat crap in the other might be too much for even jaded New Yorkers to ignore.

With five minutes to wait, I decided to keep my gloves on and poke around the dead man's apartment. The bedrooms had been tossed already. But the killer hadn't had time to ransack the living room.

Could there be some kind of lead here?

I checked the answering machine. All the messages had been deleted. I looked for a computer, but all I found was a printer and an adapter cord. I suspected there had been a laptop here, but the killer had taken it.

After five minutes, I came up with zip, so I dug out my mobile phone to call the police. When I saw the mailbox icon on my cell's screen, I realized I'd missed a call. I'd forgotten to take the cell off its vibrator setting. Worried it might be Matt needing more time, I quickly played it. The message wasn't from my ex-husband but my ex-mother-in-law.

"Hello, dear, I didn't want to tell (static) (static) while Ben Tower while Ben Tower (static) (static), so I waited until . . ."

Reception was lousy, so I moved closer to the window to improve the signal. As I did, I brushed against the plastic dry-cleaning bag holding the Santa costume. The slippery plastic slithered onto the floor, taking the adjacent overcoat with it. That's when I noticed a white envelope peeking out of the coat's pocket. There was something familiar about the Santa Claus postage stamp in the corner.

Forgetting Madame's message, I stooped down and carefully slipped the envelope free. As the typed name Omar Linford Omar Linford revealed itself, the hairs on my skin began to prickle. I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. revealed itself, the hairs on my skin began to prickle. I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

Dear Omar: I have a new proposition for you. If you care about your son's future, you will read every word of this note and do what it says. I know all about Junior Linford's little hobbies . . .

Oh my God. I'd found the note blackmailing Omar Linford-the one someone had tossed me off the ferry to get. Now I knew who that someone was. I'd found the note blackmailing Omar Linford-the one someone had tossed me off the ferry to get. Now I knew who that someone was.

"Karl Kovic, you son of a-"

I shook my head, at last putting it all together . . . After I'd left Shelly Glockner's house, she must have rushed to the back yard, where Esther noticed Kovic going out to the Jacuzzi. Then Kovic watched and waited until I left Linford's place. He followed me onto the ferry, grabbed my bag, and threw me into water with a temperature a tad tad chillier than Shelly's hot tub. chillier than Shelly's hot tub.

Gritting my teeth with fury, I grabbed a pen and piece of scrap paper from my bag and scribbled down the series of bank account numbers at the end of the note. I was willing to bet the account was a joint one controlled by Alf and Shelly Glockner-giving her access to the money as soon as Omar deposited it.