“The murderer must have been filled with rage to do this,” Albert remarked.

The coroner looked at him. “You'd think that, but this is a very calculated and detailed way to kill. Even if done after death, it might have required a lot of hate, but not anger. You have to be in control to do something like this.”

Donovan suddenly felt sick and swiftly ran to the door of the warehouse. The back door opened out on the dock and he breathed deep the smell of the sea and of dirty ship fuel. “Dear God...” he said again, trying to stop himself from throwing up. He was used to some things, but this just made him sick.

Albert came to stand next to him. “Like something out of one of your gangster stories.”

“You're sure it's Denny Lang?” Donovan asked his friend as he laid his hands on his neck, pulling his collar open so he could draw deep breaths.

“Yeah. He matches the pictures and we found his ID in his pocket. Checked the fingerprints, but they're not on record, meaning it isn't Quinn.”

“Good.”

“Give your letter to the good old Doc as evidence. He can analyze the blood. If it's the same, well…” Albert shrugged and nodded to the car. “Got your file over in the car. Oh, and anyone else touch the letter?”

“Envelope will be useless. My secretary and the mailman touched it. Everyone in the post office probably. I alone touched the letter.” Donovan was still shaking and trying to breathe away his nausea. “Fucking hell...” he swore.

“Yeah, it’s brutal.”

They walked around the warehouse, rather than back through the crime scene and finally Donovan's nausea went away as Albert pulled open the door of the car. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a plastic folder. “Quinn Lang. Printed it out for you this morning.” He looked around for a moment and then added, “I didn't give this to you, of course.”

“Of course.”

Donovan did not look into the folder and he just walked back to his Jag, not saying goodbye to his former partner. Albert didn’t mind, he himself was distracted by the corpse in the warehouse.

The Jag's engine flared into life and Donovan drove off carefully. He turned back onto the main road and the E-type carried him back into the city. As he drove on the road back to the office, he realized the traffic was better and that he was supposed to do something else.

He turned off toward the north and headed back to the city through Brooklyn Heights. His own house stood close to the Manhattan Bridge, but in the quieter area; he preferred his home to be quiet. He drove past his exit. He was heading toward the celebrity-dense area of Williamsburg, which sat under the Williamsburg Bridge, but was quite different from what he had a taste for these days.

He drove past the Red Hook container port, a reminder that he was on the clock; the expanse of the container yard felt like at least a mile, but it wasn’t. He saw his exit come up and turned off into Williamsburg. He kept right and found himself in another world in less than 20 minutes; streets undergoing construction that would modernize and gentrify the old Brooklyn buildings. A left brought him into a narrow street not made for cars; at the end was his destination.

He got out of his Jag and found, finally, that his shock had gone. He felt like himself again and was able to put the horror of the morning out of his head. He walked past a white Audi RS6 he had parked behind. He admired it for a second. It was a good car and quite understated. He nodded approvingly and kept his eyes on it as he pushed the intercom button that was practically in the street. There were four buzzers labeled ‘Longy’ that covered the four penthouse apartments on the top two floors. They were converted specially for the ten-year lease the current occupant had signed last fall.

A few moments later he heard music blaring through the intercom and a girl's voice. “Yo.” There was a very light hint of a French accent in the voice.

“Miss Lavoie? It's Storm Donovan. Can you let me in?”

“Who?”

“Storm Donovan. Your attorney?”

“Sure, sure babe, I'll let you in. You can come and help out the boys.”

Donovan shook his head and pulled the common entrance door to the apartment building as the buzzer sounded to release the remote door lock. He went through and walked the eight flights of steps to Miss Lavoie’s front door. The door was open and loud music boomed out from the whole apartment. He entered the house and immediately wished he had not. There was evidence of an indulgent high life everywhere, even in the passage. It started with discarded clothes and a razor blade that lay on the mirror on the hall dresser. As he went further into the house, looking for his client, he found more unsettling objects. Male clothes as well now, several pairs of pants, a half-smoked joint, a red-stained cork, used condoms and an empty bottle of wine. He just followed the trail of debris up the stairs to find the source; he found the music and a lot of noise coming from a sitting room on the first floor.

The room door was open and he walked in without knocking. He blinked and swore softly. There was an orgy going on. Or a gang bang. Five men with bodies that looked like they were carved from marble were naked. They surrounded a very pretty blonde girl. The girl was barely twenty years old and she was moaning in ecstasy as the five men plowed her body everywhere they could, mauled her breasts, and kissed her. They were gentle, but it was so wrong. The girl was so young, barely more than a child, and she was not just letting these men use her, she was begging for it.

Donovan stepped further into the room and tried to look past the scene. There were more empty bottles, traces of white on the surfaces of furniture, several spliffs in more than one ashtray. There were strips of pills scattered across a table. One of the men stepped away and the girl looked up, begging him to stay with a moan. She caught his eye then and smiled at him. “You, lawyer man, come and take his place.” Donovan knew instantly she was drunk and high as a kite. He wanted to say something, but he was distracted by an angry voice to his right.

“Keep your fucking hands off me,” the familiar voice said, angrily but quietly. Then there was the sound of a slap and seconds later the man groaned and buckled over. Donovan could see the woman now and smiled. “Ms. Walsh!” he greeted the woman with the olive glow enthusiastically. “Pleased to see you again! Though perhaps not the ideal setting.”

“No, indeed. A pleasure, Mister Donovan.”

Donovan nodded to the man gasping for breath. He had now dropped to the deck and lay in the fetal position, clutching his groin. Donovan looked at the man's eyes and knew he was in the same sort of state as his client. “He'd remember you for a long time if he was actually capable of forming memories at the moment.”

Naomh Walsh smiled. “Indeed. What brings you here, Mister Donovan?”

“Just call me Storm, or Donovan. Everyone calls me Donovan.”

“Okay, Donovan. What brings you here? I somehow doubt you're here to partake in the pleasure of my client as well.”

“Your client, Ms. Walsh?”

Ms. Walsh nodded to the blonde girl still being screwed by the four men and seemingly thoroughly enjoying herself. “I do her PR. Clean her mess up amongst other things. And it's Naomh.”

“Then we're in the same line of work, Naomh. I'm her attorney. Though looking at this mess, I might not be her attorney for much longer.”

Naomh sighed. “Tried to break this thing up since I got here, but it's no use.” She inclined her head to the door. “She's got a good espresso machine in the kitchen. Might as well enjoy a cup of coffee while we wait for her to be done with this.”

They went down to the kitchen where Naomh set about making them each a latté.

“You've done this before,” Donovan remarked from his vantage point at the end of the big breakfast bar in the kitchen. He had sat himself down on a stool and just watched Naomh make the espressos and foam up the milk.