"Better you should be able to say you never knew the answer to that," I said. "But if you frisk the driver, who's a ghoul calls himself Nikolai, you'll probably find an illegal weapon, which will allow you to bring him in."

  "What kind of weapon? Is he packing?"

  "Just a switchblade, far as I know."

  "OK, Stan. But you owe Meyer and me a cold beer."

  "I'll buy you two apiece," I said. "Thanks."

  As I put the radio back in its bracket, Karl said, "So, Nikolai isn't going to be reporting to his boss anytime soon."

  "That's the idea." I started the engine.

  "He might've done it already, by phone."

  "Could be." I was watching the traffic, waiting for a gap to pull into. "But if this Mister Milo is a big enough player to have a ghoul as an errand boy, he might be too paranoid to talk business on the phone. A lot of them are, you know."

  Karl fastened his seat belt. "So, I guess I don't need to ask where we're heading now."

  "Not unless you've started eating Stupid Flakes for breakfast."

  "I don't eat breakfast anymore, Stan. Strictly speaking."

  "Just an expression." I pulled away from the curb, made an illegal U-turn, and headed for the Radisson hotel.

The Radisson is in what used to be the old Lackawanna train station. They've kept the basic architecture of the building, but spent a lot of money on the interior to make it the best hotel in town. All modern conveniences at the Radisson.

  The fifth floor is known as "Floor V" – which means it's specially designed to accommodate guests of the undead persuasion. Each of the rooms has two layers of blackout curtains, and when you click on Do Not Disturb from inside, it triple-locks the door. Room service has a special "Midnight Menu" that's heavy on Type A and Type O, either whole blood or plasma. If you prefer your nourishment directly from the source, the hotel has certain employees who will pay a discreet visit to your room, and depart a pint or two lighter – in return for a very good tip. It's interesting that selling your body's still illegal, but taking money for your blood isn't.

  Mister Milo was on Four, which meant that whatever else he was, he wasn't a vamp.

  I gave the door to 431 the three hard raps that most cops use, although I don't know why. I guess it's supposed to send a message to those inside that somebody in the hall wants your attention, and wants it now.

  The door opened a little. It was on its chain and through the six-inch gap I could see what I was pretty sure was another ghoul looking out at me. I had my ID folder ready, and I made sure the guy inside got a good look at my badge. "We're here to see Mister Milo," I said. "Open up."

  "Well, I'll have to see–" the ghoul began.

  "No," I said. "What you have to do is close that door just long enough to drop the chain, then open it again. Because if that door isn't open three seconds from now, I'll kick it down on top of you. Do it."

  The door was new-looking and solid, and I probably couldn't have kicked it down on the best day I've ever had. But I bet Karl could've, even if he wouldn't be able to go inside afterward, without an invitation.

  The ghoul looked at me for a second, his eyes widening. I heard a voice from somewhere behind him say, calmly, "Do as the man says."

  The door closed hastily. A moment later, I heard the sound of the security chain being disengaged, then the ghoul opened up, all the way this time. I walked right at him, figuring he wouldn't want to play linebacker with me. He scrambled aside and I said over my shoulder to Karl, "Come on in."

  We were in the living room of what was obviously a suite. It contained a coffee table, big-screen TV, a desk, some overstuffed chairs and a sofa where a man had just been seated. As he stood up, I saw that Mister Milo was human, or appeared to be.

  He was below average height, which still made him taller than his ghoul gofer. He had slicked-down brown hair, a thin mustache, and a suit that probably didn't cost much more than my car when it was new.

  He walked toward us, a pleasant expression on his face, and extended a hand. I'm not usually inclined to shake with lowlifes, but this time I thought I might learn a couple of things so I went along.

  As he grasped my hand I said, "Sergeant Markowski, Scranton PD." When he let go and turned to Karl I said, "And this is Detective Karl Renfer."

  The handshake backed up my conclusion that Mister Milo was human. His skin was too warm to be a vampire, and he lacked the small patch of hair on his palm that is characteristic of weres. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that he was a practitioner of some kind.

  He let go of Karl's hand, stepped back, and said, "The fact that you're here means that you already know who I am."

  "I was told the name was Milo," I said. "But I don't know if that's first or last."

  He gave me a tight smile. "It's both, actually."

  "Your name's Milo Milo?" I didn't let the humor I was feeling touch my face or voice, I hope.

  "That's correct. My parents had an unfortunate affection for the novel Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. They thought it would be… amusing to name me as they did."

  "No offense," Karl said, "but I'd want to have a long talk with my parents about that when I grew up."

  "Oh, I agree with the impulse, Detective, but I never got the chance," Milo said. "When I was fifteen, our house caught fire in the middle of the night. Both Mommy and Daddy were burned to death. It was very sad." He might have been discussing something that happened to people he'd read about in a book on ancient history.

  He made a gesture toward the armchairs. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen?"

  When we were all seated, I looked toward the ghoul, who was still standing near the door. He was pissed off and trying not to show it.

  "Do you want to talk private business with him here?"

  "I trust all of my associates implicitly," Milo said; then, with barely a pause, told the ghoul, "You can go for a walk, Winthrop – but don't go too far. I'll call you when I need you."