We descended an iron spiral staircase. Stucco walls gave way to stone. Electric flambeaux were mounted every ten feet on brackets. The place felt like the Tower of London.

"Quaint," I said.

Queenie paused. "I don't want you disturbing my guests."

"Your guests are already disturbed," said Bart. "Donner, why do people go in for S&M?"

I grinned. "Beats me."

We both chuckled. Queenie rolled her eyes and proceeded.

The main dungeon was impressively equipped. Chains hung from the walls. Various devices with restraints were scattered across its thirty-foot expanse. Holo emitters projected hallucinogenic gothic montages of hardcore rock, vampires, bondage and a hundred other bizarre things, accompanied by music so poundingly physical it disrupted your heartbeat.

Of the twenty-five patrons or so currently partying, most were on the floor. They were tattooed and pierced, uniformly clad in skin-tight black or red leather, plastic or mesh. The group was young and surprisingly attractive. My attention went to a cage floating nearby, where a bound male was being whipped by a preppy-looking girl while several older dominatrixes watched, adjusting their corsets and poking at the concrete floor with their spiked heels. Two males passed in rubber suits with chain harnesses binding their chests; their masters walked in front of them, leashes in hand. A tanned man in his sixties sat on something resembling an oversized cat perch, a red ball tied into his mouth beneath a delicate lace blindfold. "Burn me" was scrawled across his chest in lipstick.

I shook my head.

Four enormous bureaus occupied the end of the room, doors open to reveal all manner of accoutrements-hoods, crops, nipple and genital clamps and a hundred varieties of leather straps. There were lubricants and oils, too, but these cost money.

A sign by the entrance explained the policy of the establishment; what was legal and permissible, and what went too far. Guests had to sign a complicated waiver. It was for show. No way that this place's patrons would play by rules.

Further in, there was an arched stone entrance to an inner antechamber. It had been sealed by yellow police tape. Bart swept it aside and we moved into the smaller room. Apparently Danny had better people to harass, for he disappeared.

A heavy wooden chair sat in the far corner. I examined the metal cap and restraints. Cable ran from the chair to the wall and up to the head cap.

I turned to Bart. "This is a real electric chair."

"Bump bought it from Sing Sing when they retired it," said Queenie. "One of his old haunts."

"It can't be functional... can it?"

"Oh, oui, it runs some current-not so much as would kill you. It's just for... attitude adjustment." She smiled, the white enamel of her teeth flashing in the torchlight.

Bloodstains covered the seat and arms of the chair. I bent to examine the arm more closely. Queenie opened her mouth, but Bart raised a finger. He smiled as he watched me.

"Okay, Donner. Let's hear it."

I rubbed my jaw. "Even though he was big-over two hundred pounds-Smythe was a bottom. Someone had to be topping him for him to allow himself into the chair. He was restrained at the time of the assault." I pointed to blood-free banded areas along the chair where wrists and ankles would rest. "Leather shackles. I presume they were removed by NCSI for testing."

Bart nodded, and rolled his hand for me to continue.

"From the pattern of the blood, most likely the killer stepped up to the vic like this, and slashed his throat from right to left with an edged weapon-which makes him either left-handed or ambidextrous. He severed the right carotid artery, probably in a single stroke. The stroke likely also severed the windpipe and neck tendons. This spatter here on the wall-" I pointed to an impressionistic blob to the left of the chair "-came from the weapon as it finished its arc. This other distribution, on the chair seat and floor, is arterial spray. The guy bled out in minutes."

Queenie patted her hands together in silent, grim applause.

I turned to Bart. "Suspects?"

"This room was empty except for our two participants."

"Would a bound man be left unattended like this?"

"Oh, yes," replied the Madame. "That's part of the game. Bound and gagged, left, maybe for hours... You never know when or how someone will decide to... play with you."

I looked at Bart. "Any sign of electrocution?"

"The ME said no. The chair was off."

"It requires a key and a trained operator," added Queenie.

I scanned the floor around the chair. "No drop patterns leading away from the chair."

"He dropped the knife next to the chair. No prints."

"Wiped?"

"No."

"So gloves. Either a pro or a very cool customer."

"Could point to premeditation."

"He?" said Queenie. "How do you know it was a he?"

"Not many females cut throats," I said. "Too up close and nasty."

"In your world, maybe," she replied. "But here? It might suit many tastes."

I realized she was right.

"Blade was a Ka-Bar 12-inch fighting knife," said Bart, consulting a small notebook. "Sandvik high carbon, high chromium, stainless steel blade. The handle was a Kraton G thermoplastic elastomer."

"A combat knife?"

"Combined tactical and utility."

"So it could be military issue."

"Or bought from any one of a hundred retailers. It hasn't been cutting edge since the turn of the century."

My eyebrow arched. "Cutting edge?"

He hid a smile. "Sorry."

A shriek of pain, delight, or both, came from the dungeon.

"No one saw the killer exit?"

"No one in the main dungeon remembers seeing that door open again after Smythe went in, until the body was discovered, an hour later."

"These witnesses were, at the least, distracted," I said.

"Sharon would have seen," said Queenie.

"Who?"

"A submissive," said Bart. "Bound to one of the St. Andrews facing the door. She swears no one went in or out."

I rubbed my eyes. "Great. So we have a respected genetic scientist with a kinky side who winds up with his throat cut by a ghost in a dungeon."

Bart's mouth wriggled in distaste. In this light, he looked all of his years. "That's about the size of it."

"Could our missing Dr. Crandall have been the doer? A professional rivalry taken to the final level?"

Bart shook his head. "Crandall was alibied by four assistants. Besides, from all accounts, they got along famously."

"So we have no real way of knowing if Smythe's killing has anything at all to do with Crandall's disappearance."

"Right."

"Great."

"We've got the rest of the research team under surveillance, just in case."

I nodded, then looked at my watch. "Shit. Gotta go."

"What, you got a full social calendar already?"

"An appointment with Surazal's head of research."

Bart grimaced. "Gavin? Oh, you're going to love him. He's a genius, and he'll make sure you know it."

"Madame St. Clair, thanks." I took the surprised woman's hand and laid a kiss across her knuckles. The giggle that emanated from her could've been from a school child. The abrasive old broad must have a deeply-buried soft side.

I turned to Bart. "See you in the funny papers."

"Hey, Donner," said Bart, shuffling. "You did good."

My throat tightened as I walked out.

13.

DONNER.

The building looked like it had been blown from glass. It twisted at impossible angles, a silver sculpture. That people worked within seemed an afterthought. The sun made its spires glow so brightly that I wondered if the glare was a driving hazard to the serfs below. There was an outer morphinium shell over the building's superstructure that slowly, over the course of the day, undulated and changed shape. You could actually see it flow if you stood there long enough. There were thirty of the same sort scattered around Manhattan, the gimmick being that New York's skyline was never exactly the same.

I crossed the courtyard toward a triple set of revolving doors. Nestled between them was a plaque with brushed copper letters that read simply: THE SURAZAL CORPORATION.

I rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor and the company's Research and Development Division. A receptionist took my name and blinked out of existence.

The decor was deliberately expensive and deliberately ugly. Visitors weren't wanted here. Images flowed across the wall opposite me. A scientist. The Blister. A double helix. Captions like "Surazal Corporation-Protecting the World."

From me, I thought.

Two men entered, lost in conversation. The first one I immediately placed. The resemblance to Nicole was remarkable. Adam Struldbrug, President of Surazal Corporation. Her twin. One of the most powerful men in the country.

His features were severe but handsome, his thick black hair slicked into place. Something subtle in his coloring suggested Mediterranean ancestry, but he had the same piercing blue eyes as Nicole. His body was so symmetrical that he could have bought off the rack and looked tailored. But the fabric that swathed his limbs was a thousand dollars a yard.

As he headed for the elevator, his eyes swept the room, surveying his kingdom. He caught me appraising him. We made eye contact. It was like two stones sparking off each other. Mutual recognition of the thing beneath. The thing in the dark that citizens miss but fellow predators acknowledge. He came over instead of ignoring me, as he should have.

"Paul Donner, isn't it?" He didn't offer his hand.

"Your sister keeps you well-informed."

"No, Mr. Donner, my spies keep me well-informed."

I nodded.

"You're not shocked."

"It doesn't take a genius to see that Ms. Struldbrug is... a handful."

He laughed, pleased. "Speaking of geniuses..."

He turned to the other, a man powerfully built and bald. This, I assumed, was Maurice R. Gavin, Director of R&D. Gavin gave me an impassive twitch of the head.

"I don't have to tell you that Dr. Crandall's disappearance is a sensitive matter," Adam Struldbrug continued. "I wouldn't have chosen to go outside the company like Nicole did, but now that she has, I trust you will remain discreet."

"My middle name," I said.

"Should you somehow manage to achieve what we have not and find the good doctor, well, you will be able to... how do they say it?... 'write your own ticket' in Necropolis."

"Good to know."

He pursed his lips. "You seem rather underwhelmed."

I shrugged. "After coming back from the dead..."

"Yes, I see. Everything else pales. Quite so. Well, I shall leave you to it. Good luck."

And with that, he was gone into the elevator.