Our would-be killer started to step out of his cab. There was still a gun in his hand. I couldn't believe how young he looked. Young, bewildered, and full of righteous hatred, all in the same facial expression. This guy had the face of a third-grade bully-right after you've kicked him in the nuts with a pair of steel-tipped work boots.

A woman emerged from the driver's seat. She took one look at us, then wrapped her body around the guy, pushing him back against the cab.

Ray!.

Ray? Something familiar, very familiar…

I've got to finish this! he shouted.

There are too many people!

I'm gonna fucking do this!

Ray lifted his gun and pointed it at us, but his woman reacted fast: She cracked a blackjack over his head. Without a retort, Ray's body went limp. The woman caught him under the arms before his head could slam into the ground. It was quite touching. It almost made the smack on the head seem affectionate.

By now, we were yards away. Paul lifted our pistol and took careful aim at the woman's chest. I could see by the sight on the pistol he was aimed perfectly. Don't move, Paul said.

The woman looked up at us, and gave a weak smile. He wasn't being paranoid, after all.

What? Paul asked. Then I felt another vibe, clear as day. Paul knew this woman.

The woman used the momentary confusion to wrap her hand around Ray's. She pointed his gun at us. Let's both walk away from this.

My God, Paul did know this woman. But wait a sec-he was wearing Brad's face! She knew Brad Larsen, too. Of course. Every assassin knows the victim, down to the last detail.

And wouldn't you know it-Paul lowered his gun for her. How are you mixed up in this? he asked.

Isn't it obvious? the woman asked. Ray blew it, and I flew in to make everything all nice again. I didn't know how badly he'd blown it until this very moment.

What do you mean? Paul asked.

You're still breathing. And unless you want to change that, we're both going to walk away from this and sort business out later.

Paul stood there and watched, slack-jawed as a mental patient as she shoved our would-be assassin into the backseat of the cab, then slid herself into the driver's seat and closed the door. Then she fired up the engine and sped past, her eyes fixed on us the entire time.

Time out, I thought. I seized Paul away from the controls of our body for a moment and placed him in a corner of the Brain Hotel lobby. I opened my physical eyes and saw the cab turn a corner and disappear. It was weird, being in the real-life scene after watching it on the Brain lobby screen. Like stepping into a movie after you've been watching it for a while.

I turned around and saw Susannah peeking out from the cab window.

I closed my eyes and yelled for Doug; he answered immediately. I quickly laid it out for him: “You're going to wake up in downtown Philadelphia. Walk over to the brunette sitting inside the cab. Her name is Susannah. She's been through a lot. Comfort her until further notice."

You got it, dude, Doug said. I was impressed. It was a lot for him to absorb.

We swapped, and I found myself back inside the Brain Hotel lobby. I walked over to Paul. “Start talking, tough guy."

Paul glared at me. “Don't you do that again!” He rubbed his eyes. “Man, that hurts like a mother!"

“We haven't got all day, Paul."

“I know, I know. Look-I knew that woman. She's somebody important from Vegas. She's tight with The Man."

Again with this “Man.” “Who is she?"

“I can't name names, but I know she's a player. That's the only reason her boyfriend walked away with his heart still in his chest."

There's beautiful tremor in the brain that comes with complete, stark understanding. Like the first time you grasp algebra, or perhaps learn the theory behind a musical scale. I had the pieces floating around in my mind, but it took until this moment for them to congeal into something solid.

“What's her name?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“Her name is Leah Farrell."

Leah. And Ray. Ray Loogan.

“All right Paul, I'm going to be straight with you. A while ago I mentioned that I was involved in a side project-a murder investigation. I didn't bring it up much because I didn't want it distracting you."

“You'd better start talking, chief,” Paul said.

“Okay, okay.” How to put this? “You know the face we're wearing?"

“The face of the murder victim, right? You told me that. But how does he know Leah Farrell?"

I laid it all out for Paul exactly as Brad Larsen had, including the bits and pieces of evidence I'd glommed for the past eight months. “More importantly, if Leah and Ray know our client, she must be tied to The Association as well."

“Or this ‘Roger Adams’ guy."

“Good point.” I paused to plan our next move. “Look-let me take it from here. I've got a lot of strange shit to sort out."

“Be my guest,” Paul said. “I'm only in this for the babysitting."

I resumed control of my body to find my tongue in Susannah Winston's mouth. Quickly, I broke the embrace. Her eyes were still closed.

“Godsorry,” I stammered.

Susannah's eyes fluttered open, dreamily. “Why are you sorry?"

“I'm not… I'm not being professional,” I said. Damn that Doug. I'd told him to walk over to the brunette, not deep-throat the brunette. I made a mental note to chew him out later.

She started to fix my shirt collar, but I gently nudged her hands away. “Ms. Winston…” That's it. Keep it professional.

“Susannah,” she reminded me. “It's Susannah, Paul. Man, you save my life, and then you call me by my last name?"

“Sorry. Susannah. My mind is in a different place.” Damn. I didn't sound one bit like Paul. That sounded like me. No-frills, basic, just-the-facts me. I could tell that she could tell, based on the expression on her face.

Time for a subject change. “Never mind. We should get out of here."

The cops showed up. They noticed the cabbie with the missing head. But they didn't notice Susannah and me, walking arm-in-arm, down Market Street, as if strolling the shops. Susannah had thought to grab the shopping bags out of the cab-a sure sign of a criminally devious mind. There was more to her story than a chance encounter with an ex-hit man lover.

This was going to be tricky.

Seventeen

Christmas Mistress

Paul agreed to conduct the meeting so that I would be free to observe and take notes inside the Brain Hotel lobby. He chose a bar not too far from Gard's Center City office (and as it turned out, our Spruce Street apartment). McGlinchey's seemed to be the kind of place where patrons minded their own business. And from the looks of the dust and funk on the walls, everybody had been left alone since the last centennial.

Paul took a green vinyl booth on the left side, which gave him the perfect vantage point to catch Gard when he came in. He ordered a draft of Schafer and tumbler of tonic water and ice to diffuse the beer, which came to a grand total of 85 cents. I liked the place already. I had to return here when I was in control of my body again.

Richard seemed completely freaked out. I was sure he'd walked by this place a million times and never gave it a second look. Now that he did, he was sorry. He slid into Paul's booth and ordered a gin gimlet from a waitress who wore a tube top and didn't appear to shave her armpits. Gard shuddered.