“You’ve got a point.”

“Anyway, what I did back there was short-term. I don’t know if I’ve got that other stuff down, yet – what you called ‘post-hypnotic suggestion’.”

“Is there anybody you can ask about it?”

“Maybe, but what’s that matter now?” Karl said. “It’s not gonna do Roger any fucking good.”

“I was thinking for future reference,” I said. “In case you need to do it again sometime.”

“You mean with Slattery?”

“Maybe – assuming we get a crack at him.”

Karl sighed, which is a good trick for somebody who doesn’t need to breathe. “Yeah, alright. There’s some older vamps I could talk to about it. Hell, I could even ask Christine, I guess. She’s been undead a while, haina?”

“Seven years,” I said. “No – closer to eight.” I tried to keep what I was feeling out of my voice, and I think I succeeded. On the other hand, with a vampire, you never know for sure.

It had been almost eight years since I had convinced a vampire to bring Christine across to the world of the undead. It was either that or watch her die of leukemia. Selfish of me, maybe – especially since Christine had been unconscious from the painkillers and couldn’t give her consent. But after losing her mother, I just couldn’t stand the idea of being without the one person in my life who still loved me. After the change, Christine and I both had some issues to deal with, but we’d resolved them pretty well by now. I hope.

“I’ll ask her about it next time I see her,” Karl said.

Yeah, when the two of you aren’t busy fucking.

I didn’t say that out loud, of course. And as soon as the thought entered my head, I tried to push it out again. Guess I still had a few issues of my own.

Karl started up the car. “I suppose we oughta tell McGuire about what happened to Roger.”

“Yeah, along with the news that there’s a hit man in town with access to Claymore mines.”

“Yeah,” Karl said. “He’s especially gonna love that part.”

Back at the squad room, we brought McGuire up to speed. As Karl had predicted, nothing we had to say made the boss very happy.

“I was in the Air Force, not the Army,” McGuire said. “But even I know what a Claymore mine is. Never heard of one being modified to kill supes, though.”

“Word is that John Wesley Harding’s got himself quite a reputation,” I said. “Guess it had to come from somewhere.”

“Guys like that, their rep usually comes from the body count they rack up,” McGuire said. “Not ingenuity.”

“Maybe in Harding’s case, the one leads to the other,” Karl said.

McGuire took a swig from his coffee and put the mug aside. “And speaking of ingenuity, I guess you could apply that term to what happened to that informant of yours, Gillespe.”

We’d never told McGuire about the vampiric Q-and-A session we had with Roger Gillespe the other night, since it probably violated five or six department regulations. So in discussing Gillespe’s death just now, we’d explained our interest by saying that the guy had been one of our regular street sources of information. Which was true, really – except for the “regular” part.

“You mean the way they killed him?” Karl asked.

“Uh-huh,” McGuire said. “That thing with the baggies must’ve taken some time and trouble, even if they did have a couple of guys to hold Gillespe down. Shit, they could’ve just shot him in the head and been done in about two seconds. I’d say somebody’s trying to send a message.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Karl said. “But what message? And who’s it intended for?”

“The use of the baggies to kill him suggests that Gillespe was dealing,” McGuire said. “If that was the case, could be the stupid bastard tried to stiff his supplier. Or maybe he found his own source and decided to go into business for himself. In the drug trade, either of those things can get a guy killed.”

“So you think the message was intended for the other dealers?” I said. “Here’s what happens when you fuck with us.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time that kind of thing’s been done,” McGuire said. “You ever hear of a Colombian necktie?”

Karl and I both shook our heads, although I thought the term seemed vaguely familiar, like something I’d read about, years ago.

“The Colombian cartels,” McGuire said, “who control the wholesale end of the cocaine trade, have a way of dealing with people who piss them off. Been using it since the Sixties, I think. They slash the guy’s throat, and once he’s dead they take his tongue and yank it out through the wound so that it’s lying against his throat. Hence the term ‘Columbian necktie.’”

Karl made a face. “I wonder if somebody’s gonna come up with a cutesy term for the way Roger Gillespe was killed.”

“If it happens often enough, somebody probably will,” McGuire said. He shook his head. “They’ll probably start calling it the ‘Scranton Appetizer’ or something. Not the kind of fame the city needs.”

“There’s another possibility,” I said. “Could be that his supplier found out he’d been talking to us.” Roger Gillespe had only done so once, and involuntarily, but I thought it best not to mention that. “So maybe the message to the other dealers is Here’s what happens when you open your mouth to the wrong people.”

“And at the same time,” Karl said, “it’s a big fat ‘Fuck you’ to the cops who make use of guys like Roger for information.”

“It might also fit in with something else that happened tonight,” McGuire said.

We both looked at him, but instead of explaining, he nodded toward the squad room behind us. “Pearce and McLane caught it. You can get the details from them. Once you’ve heard what they have to say, let me know what you think.”

We went over to where McLane and Pearce were sitting, each one busy on his computer. Like Karl’s and mine, their desks were pushed together, facing each other.

I said to them, “The boss says you guys have a case that might fit in with something we’re working on. Mind telling us about it?”

“Sure, why not?” McLane said, and I noticed his partner nodding. “Gotta be more fun than filling out these goddamn forms.”

Karl and I got our own chairs and rolled them over close to Pearce and McLane’s desks. Once we were seated, I said, “Lot of weird shit going on lately, even by the standards of the Spook Squad.”

“Tell me about it,” Pearce said. He’s a big guy who used to box in the Golden Gloves. If his build didn’t give that away, his nose would – it’s been broken more times than a hooker’s promise.

“You’re talking about the gnome, right?” McLane asked. An awful case of acne as a teenager had left his face severely pockmarked. In another age, you’d figure him for a smallpox survivor. When he said “gnome”, I felt my pulse go into overdrive. I glanced toward Karl before telling McLane, “I don’t know – the boss didn’t tell us. He just said your case would interest us. And if it’s about a gnome, I’d say he was right.”

“Well, that’s what the vic was, no doubt about it,” Pearce said. “Four feet tall, more or less, white beard, big nose – he fits the profile to a T.”

“Then there was the name on his driver’s license,” McLane said. “Pedric Bonbink.”

“Yeah, that’s a gnome’s handle, alright,” I said.

“So what happened?” Karl asked.

“He lived in the basement unit of this building over on Adams Avenue, the Cody Apartments,” Pearce said. “Know it?”

Karl looked at me. “Didn’t we question a guy who lived there, couple of years ago?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “We thought he might be involved in a fairy dust smuggling ring that was operating in town, but nothing came of it.”

“Well, something sure as hell went down there, this time,” McLane said. “The super gets a call from one of the other tenants, who says there’s a really nasty odor coming from the basement. So he goes down there and sure enough, it smells like a boat full of mackerel that’s been left out in the sun all day. The gnome’s the only one living in the basement. The super bangs on the guy’s door. Gets no answer. So he uses his master key, lets himself in, and almost pukes because the smell is so overpowering. Then he gets a look at what’s causing it, runs outta there, and calls 666.”