I bought two six-packs of synthprotein shakes meant to keep heavily augmented bouncers up to weight and drank them all while I sat on a park bench in the lower city. The park had a nice view of the bay, a hard glitter under the afternoon sun breaking through gray clouds. Each empty can I chucked into a nearby botbin, hearing the whoosh of the crumpler as it swallowed.

When I was finished, I shook myself, got to my feet, and headed for the streets again.

Saint City pulsed under my feet, ringing with every step. I had about four hours to twilight, so I moved a little faster than a human would, slipping between normals. I passed a Shaman at the corner of Marx and Ninth, a thin blonde woman with sodaflo can-tabs tied to her staff. They tinkled and chittered as I passed, but she merely set her back against a wall and regarded the street, wide-eyed, her feet in a stance I recognized. Another combat-trained Shaman with no sword. Who knew there were so many of them around? Her eyes, dark as her hair was golden, narrowed as she watched me go by. Maybe she would recognize me from the hunt for Lourdes, when my face had been plastered all over the holovids.

Maybe not. That had been a long time ago, and my hair was down, tangling over my eyes.

That made me think of Cam, who was a puzzle. I was almost sure I'd caught her reaching for a hilt. But why would she leave any weapon at home while she was squiring a sedayeen around?

I made it to the Saint City South precinct house in half an hour. There I had my first stroke of luck in a long time. The man I wanted stood in the usual smoking-alcove near a botbin, curls of synth-hash smoke rising thinly around his gleaming bald head. He hunched his turtle shoulders and shook his head, his hands shaking a little. I judged it about half-past a desperately needed drink. His knee-length tan synthwool coat flapped desultorily in the faint breeze; the clouds scudded in earnest over the sun.

Thank you, Anubis, I prayed silently. Thank you. I'm about due for something good.

Detective Lew Horman worked Vice. He and I went way back. I'd done Necromance work off and on for the Saint City police, he'd been my liaison to the normal cops more than once. I'd also dropped several useful pieces of information about Chill dealers to him in the past. Whenever I'd come across any distributors in my journeys through the shadow world of the quasi-legal, I'd turned them over to Horman. Sometimes he couldn't do a damn thing, being hamstrung by procedure, but more often than not he acted on my tips. We'd had a grudging almost-partnership for a long time, despite his disdain for psions and his general slobbishness.

He was also one of the few cops Gabe had ever paid the high compliment of calling "incorruptible."

I started casting around for an inconspicuous way to approach him hugging the shadows on the opposite side of the street and crossing in a blind spot, scanning the roofs and alleys. No nosy little eyes that I could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. The hair rose on the back of my neck.

You're getting paranoid, Danny. You need a safe place to rest for a few hours. Even if your body's demonic, your mind is still human and you're blurring with fatigue. This one thing, then hole up and rest so you're fresh for tonight. You've got a couple visits to make, and a few hours of rest will help you go over the file again. You can also take a look at the book Selene gave you.

I melted around the corner and found myself face-to-face with my last best chance.

"Hullo, Horman," I said pleasantly. My emerald sparked, sizzling to match my rings. "I need to talk to you."

"What the hell?" My voice hit a pitch just under squeak. Horman flinched. He pushed me back into the alcove, stood with his three-quarters profile presented to me, watching the empty street. He smelled of synth-hash, half-metabolized Chivas Red, and the decaying of human cells. Mixed with the chemical wash of Saint City hover traffic and biolab exhalation, it was a heady brew. My own smell rose like a shield, I didn't allow my nose to wrinkle. The heaviness of incipient rain blurred on the freshening wind. I smelled electricity, suspected a storm. "But I just got into town!"

His hands shook, a smudge of ash drifting down from his cigarette. "You the suspect now. Half the cops in Saint City are looking to bring you in full of projectile lead as a copkiller, deadhead. The other half won't interfere 'cause they know they'll get their own asses singed with hoverwash."

Suspecting me of killing Gabe. Why? Trying to hang it on me instead of Massadie? "Where does that leave you, Horman?"

Sweat gleamed on his bald pate. "Gabe came to me few days ago. Said she had a line on somethin' big. I told her not to get involved, told her she was retired and should stay that way. She told me you'd show up if anything happened to her. I been spending hours out here waitin' for you." Horman shivered, popping up the collar of his coat with his free hand. He flicked ash out onto the pavement.

Oh, Gabe. Looking out for me again. I swallowed, heard the dry click of my throat. "Listen, what do you know about a guy named Gilbert Pontside?"

"Homicide, Old Division. Hates psis." Horman shrugged. He was swallowing rapidly, sweating Chivas. He knew how dangerous it was to be out on the street, but nobody thought I'd be stupid or suicidal enough to try the cops. That was valuable information right there.

You hate psions too, Horman. "So why is he responsible for investigating Eddie Thornton's murder?" I dug in my bag, but he shook his head.

"If you got the original file, don't let me see it. Lots of people been looking for that, it ain't worth my career to have a peek." He hunched his shoulders even further. "I figgered Gabe lifted the original, tricky bitch." He paused. "Pontside. Investigating a dirtwitch murder? A dirtwitch married to a Spook Squadder? I din't hear that, they got a lid clapped tight on this one."

"Suspicious, isn't it?" I took a deep breath. It was time for me to go on faith. "Eddie was killed because he came up with this." I held up the vial, rescued from the depths of my bag. "It's a cure for Chill. I don't know who killed him yet, but it's beginning to look like the biotech company he was working for and the Tanner Family have something to do with this pile of crap. I'm told a bounty is out on me. Is it official?"

"'Course it ain't. Official means visible, and someone wants this kept quiet." His eyebrows drew together. "There ain't no cure for Chill," Horman mumbled. He shot me a quick dark glance, his forehead wrinkling even further. But there was a ratty little gleam in his eyes I'd seen before. Horman had just made a connection.

A good connection, please. Please, Anubis. "I've got a Shaman and a sedayeen who worked over on Fortieth who say different; their clinic was bombed and a bunch of goons tried to off them this morning. Plus, why would a Spook Squadder and a Skinlin be killed like they were, and have it kept this quiet, unless they had something huge, huge as a fucking Chill cure?" I took a deep breath, dangerously close to pleading. "You know me, Lew. I'm a psion and a bounty hunter. I paid my mortgage with a little bit of illegal action like everyone else. But I don't go around killing my friends. I never went in for assassination. Ever."

Gabe was about the only friend I had left. Why would I kill her? The thought that I could even be accused of killing her made me sick to my stomach.

And feeling just a little explosive.

He shivered. "What you want me to do, deadhead? Gabe trusted you, they say you killed her."

Score one for me. If he believed I killed Gabe, he wouldn't he out here waiting for me. He especially wouldn't ask me what I wanted him to do. Looks like my luck's beginning to change a bit. About damn time too.