"No, we have to call the police," Roger countered as he dug into his pocket for his phone, feeling his face flush with annoyance. Did she really think he'd just been standing there with his brain in idle?

"We can call them from the apartment," Caroline said. "We have to get her out of this air before she catches pneumonia."

"The police have to be called," Roger insisted. "This is a crime scene. They'll want to look for clues."

"We can tell them where we found her," Caroline shot back. "They can look for clues with us back home just as easily as they can with us standing here."

Roger ground his teeth. But she was probably right. And given the unlikelihood of a quick police response to a non-emergency situation, the girl could well freeze to death before they even got a car here.

Or rather he could freeze to death. It was his coat she was wearing, after all.

"Fine," he growled. "Come on—uh—Caroline, what's her name?"

"She doesn't seem to be able to talk," Caroline said, her voice low and dark. "It looks like someone tried to strangle her."

"Yeah, I noticed." Roger turned around, his skin tingling with the odd impression that someone was watching them. But there was no one in sight.

But then, there hadn't been anyone in sight when he'd heard that first cough, either.

Shoving the gun into his pocket, he stepped to the girl's side and put his arm around her slim waist.

A fair percentage of her weight came onto his arm; she really was in bad shape. He just hoped he wouldn't end up carrying her the rest of the way to the apartment.

He hoped even more that whoever had tried to do this to her wouldn't get to them first.

2

He did not, in fact, end up carrying the girl, but it was a near thing. By the time they reached their building, she was staggering like a drunken tourist, with the two of them supporting nearly her entire weight. The night doorman was nowhere to be seen, and it was all Roger could do to keep her from collapsing as Caroline fished out her keys and let them in.

The elevator was deserted, as was the hallway leading to their sixth-floor apartment. With Caroline again handling the door, Roger maneuvered the girl inside.

"No—the bedroom," Caroline panted as Roger started toward the living room. "She'll be more comfortable there."

"Okay," Roger grunted, changing direction.

They made it to the bedroom and got the girl up onto the bed. She was already asleep as Caroline folded the end of the comforter up to cover her legs. Roger straightened the lapels of his coat across her shoulders, and as he did so his fingers brushed across her shoulder. The material of her tunic felt odd, like some cross between silk and satin.

"She looks so young," Caroline murmured.

"How old do you think she is?" Roger asked. "I was guessing about fifteen."

"Oh, no—no more than twelve," Caroline said. "Maybe even eleven."

"Oh," Roger said, focusing on the girl's face. He could never tell about these things.

But however old she was, she certainly had an exotic look about her. Her hair was pure black, her skin olive-dark in a Mediterranean sort of way, and there was an odd slant about her eyes and mouth he couldn't place. He hadn't had a chance to see her eyes before she fell asleep, but he would bet money they were as dark as her hair.

"Better leave the closet light on," Caroline said. "She might be frightened if she wakes up in the dark and doesn't know where she is."

Roger nodded and flipped the switch, and together they tiptoed out, closing the door behind them.

"What do you think?" Caroline asked as she pulled off her coat and hung it on the coat tree by the door.

"I think we should call the cops and let them sort it out," Roger said, plucking his shirt distastefully away from his chest as he headed for the kitchen phone. Coming suddenly from the cold night air into the warmth of the building had popped sweat all over his body, and his shirt was sticking unpleasantly to his skin. "Deadbolt the door, will you, and put the chain on? And then check the balcony doors."

The 911 operator came on with gratifying speed. He explained the situation, gave her the address, and was assured that a patrol car would be there as soon as possible.

Caroline was pacing around the living room when he returned. "Everything locked up?" he asked.

"I didn't check the door off the bedroom," she said. "I didn't want to wake her up. But I remember seeing the broomstick in the rail this morning."

"So did I," Roger confirmed. Crossing to the couch, he moved one of the throw pillows aside and sat down. "You might as well get comfortable. This might take awhile."

"I suppose," she said, crossing to one of the two chairs in front of him. She sat down, but immediately bounced up again. "No, I can't."

"Sit," Roger ordered, searching for some way to get her mind off her nervousness. "I want you to look at something."

He pulled out the gun the mugger had given him as she reluctantly sat down again. "You and your dad used to go shooting together, right? Tell me if this feels too light to you."

Her eyebrows lifted as she took it. "Way too light," she said, frowning as she hefted it. "Is it a toy?"

"Don't ask me," he said. "Could it be some kind of high-tech plastic gun?"

"I don't know," Caroline said. "It looks like a standard 1911 Colt .45." She turned it over, and her searching eyes widened slightly as she saw the blood smear. "Is that—?"

"I doubt it's tomato juice," Roger said. "Anything else you can say about the gun itself? I really don't want to have to tell the cops I got mugged by an F.A.O. Schwartz Special."

"Well, the slide works," Caroline said, pulling the upper part of the gun back and then letting it go, the way Roger had seen them do in the movies. "Toy guns usually don't do that."

She fiddled with the bottom of the grip. "But the clip seems to be glued in place," she added.

"So that means no bullets?" Roger asked, trying to decide if that made him feel relieved or just more ridiculous.

"I don't know," Caroline said, pulling the slide back again and peering inside. "There's something in there that looks like a cartridge. But—"

She let the slide go, pulled it back again. "But if it was real, it should eject when I do this. Either the round is jammed, or else it's a fake."

"Any way to tell for sure?"

"You want me to try pulling the trigger?"

Roger snorted. "No, thanks. So what exactly have we got here?"

"I don't know," Caroline said again, handing the gun back. "The slide works, but the slide release doesn't. The safety catch works, but not the clip release. There seems to be a round chambered, only I can't get it to eject. It's like it was designed to look like a real gun, but only up to a point."

"You mean like a movie prop?"

"Maybe, but why go to the trouble of making a prop that only works halfway?" she pointed out.

"Why not just use a real gun filled with blanks? It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah." Roger fingered the gun. "Speaking of making sense, what did you think of her outfit?"

"A little out of style for New York," Caroline said. "Reminds me of the costumes they wear at madrigal concerts."

"I meant the material," Roger said. "What is it?"

"I didn't really pay attention," Caroline said. "It shimmered like silk, though."

"But it doesn't feel like silk," he told her. "It's too smooth."

"I don't know, then," Caroline said. "Maybe something new."

Across the room, the doorbell chimed. "Here they are," Roger said, standing up. "They made better time than I expected."

"Wait," Caroline said suddenly, jumping to her feet and grabbing his arm. "Are we sure that is the police?"

Roger stopped short, a fresh chill running across his skin. "Stay here," he said, dropping the gun into his pocket and moving past the front door into the kitchen. The bell rang again as he pulled a carving knife from Caroline's knife rack and returned to the door.