“Mmm. Yummy, yummy.”

Daily did a double take. “Huh?”

The man pointed. “Blood.”

Daily glanced down and saw a dark red splatter on the right arm of his shirt. “Blast,” he muttered. “Scraped my arm in that alley, Loving. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone down easier.”

“My apologies.”

“Maybe I better keep the jacket.”

“Whatever you say,” the man replied, handing it back. “But you may be passing up your chance to make yourself Mr. Popular in there with the Gothettes.”

“I’ll take the risk.” Loving headed toward the dance floor, while Daily slipped back into his jacket. “Do I detect a certain wry tone in your voice?”

“Who, me?” the man said, pressing a hand against his chest. “Far be it. I just work here.”

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well, in real life, it’s Joe. But in here-I’m Baron Orzny.”

“Pleased to meet you, Baron. So-you just work here. You’re not-”

“A member of this Gloomfest? No. Find me an opening at the Hard Rock Café and I’m gone.”

Daily grinned. “Not your kind of people?”

“Aw, they’re not that bad. Ever been to a biker bar?”

“No.”

“Well, this is better. Certainly more stylish. Just keep reminding yourself it’s all make-believe. Even when some of them seem to have forgotten.”

“How does a person turn into a… Goth?”

“It’s easy, man. Just remember the number one rule.”

“And that is?”

“Become clinically depressed. Or look like you are, anyway. No smiles permitted, except for the occasional throaty growl of sensual pleasure. After that, it’s all easy. Change your vocabulary. Instead of talking about ‘blow’ or ‘wingspan’ or ‘hotties,’ you talk about the ‘ethereal,’ or ‘ectoplasmic dimensions’ or ‘life force’-also known to the Goth elite as ‘psi.’ A name change is equally essential. ‘Heather’ is out. ‘Lucretia’ is fashionable. Long hair is good, especially if it impairs the vision or obscures the face. The dress code-well, that part is obvious enough. The popularity of tattoos and piercings is equally self-evident. The latest rage is to have some body part pierced no one else has yet thought to pierce-and my, hasn’t that led to some delightful spectacles.”

“But-why would anyone want to do this?”

“Evidently it’s fun, dude. I mean, look at them out there, writhing and twisting and doing that stuff they euphemistically call dancing. Mostly they just sort of sway-not in rhythm, but then this minor-key dirge-like music has no rhythm. Of course, they look ridiculous, but most of them are so stoned they don’t know the difference.”

Daily stiffened. “Stoned?”

“Look at the expressions on their faces. Look at their eyes. Do they seem normal to you? Maybe it’s just the booze, but…”

“I didn’t see anyone pushing on the dance floor.”

“You think they want to be arrested?”

“Tell me where it’s coming from.”

“I’m not so sure that would be smart.”

“Tell me!” Daily bellowed. As an afterthought, he added, quietly, “Please.”

Baron Orzny hesitated. “You’re looking for your daughter, aren’t you, man?”

Daily nodded slowly.

The Baron blew out his cheeks, checked to make sure no one was listening. “Thought so. That’s why I started talking to you in the first place. Look, the kind of action you’re talking about isn’t on the dance floor.”

“Then where is it?”

Baron Orzny pointed to the far end to the club, past the dance stage, to a staircase in the rear leading up to a room overlooking the club. “Owner has a private place up there. Very exclusive. Only a few are admitted-just his close buddies, the goon squad, and some very young, carefully chosen girls. Every night his people scour the floor looking for new meat. After a girl goes up there and disappears for a while-she’s like a whole different person. Changed. Personality, attitude, everything. And then they disappear.”

“Amber,” Daily said, under his breath. “How do I get up there?”

The Baron gave him a once-over. “Well, nothing personal, dude, but-I don’t think you do. You’re not really the owner’s type.”

“He’ll have to make an exception.”

“Hey!” He grabbed Daily’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid. He’s got all kinds of security.”

Daily’s teeth were set firmly together. “I’ll find a way.”

10

A lthough the ropes lining the granite courthouse staircase were still in place, Ben was pleased to see that the podium had been removed. The federal marshals delivered his client at a discreet location out of camera sight, and together they walked up the long steps.

“What,” Ben asked him, “no press conference today?”

Glancy smiled, adjusting the lie of his bright red necktie as he walked. “First rule of politics, Ben. Never repeat yourself. The first post-incarceration press conference is an event. After that, it’s yesterday’s news. Buzz Aldrin was the second man to walk on the face of the moon. You remember what he said?”

“No.”

“Which is exactly my point.” Glancy smiled, waved, even signed an autograph book, all without ever slowing or tempting the marshals to intervene. “I’ve been meaning to say something about your taste in attire, Ben. I gather you’re not exactly… up with the latest fashion trends?”

Ben tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “You think my suit is dated?”

“I think it’s carbon-dated. And isn’t that the same suit you wore on Monday?”

“I only have three. And one of them was stained by an outraged parent.”

Glancy made a tsking sound. “Don’t you realize you’ve been appearing on television constantly?”

“Yup. But I still only have three suits. And one of them was stained-”

Glancy held up his hands. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll talk to Shandy. She’s a wonderful girl, very devoted to me. She’s been organizing my wardrobe. And you and I are about the same size.”

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly happy with the clothes I’ve got.”

“I’m not.”

They passed through the massive front doors and headed toward the staircase. Elevators were too slow, too crowded, and too difficult for the marshals stalking them to control.

“I thought yesterday went rather well,” Glancy said. Once again, Ben was amazed by his serenity, his apparent absence of fear or concern. It was as if they were discussing the progress of the World Series, not his trial on capital murder charges. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes. Christina was magnificent. But of course, the prosecution is just getting started. Once they finish with the technical and forensic witnesses, they’ll bring on the fact witnesses. That’s when we have to be wary of surprises.”

“Well,” Glancy said, smiling, “I have a few surprises of my own.”

“Could you please describe the condition of the body when you first saw it?”

Dr. Emil Bukowsky was the senior coroner for the District of Columbia. Ben gathered that due to his senior status, it was usually one of his assistants, not he himself, who handled courtroom appearances. This time, however, the prosecutor was accepting no substitutes.

“I found the body just as Lieutenant Albertson described-her head between the sofa cushions and the rest of her body bent behind her. No one to my knowledge had touched her or in any way altered the crime scene. And I arrived barely an hour after the police did. I would’ve been there sooner, but I was carrying a kit filled with metallic instruments, many of them sharp, so I encountered the same problems with the Senate security officers that the detectives had.”

Padolino nodded. “Could you tell how long she had been dead?”

“I never attempt to make any precise estimates until the corpse is back in my laboratory and we’ve run a full battery of tests. There were, however, indications that she had not been dead for more than a few hours.”

“And what were these indications?”