“Go screw,” Mulvehill said.

“Excuse me, sir?” a uniform asked as he pulled open the door for the detective.

“Nothing,” Mulvehill said quickly, entering the run-down lobby. “Talking to myself is all.”

The lobby was empty and for the moment strangely silent, as if something unnatural had stolen away the sound.

“Are you ready for this?” Mulvehill asked, starting up the creaking wooden staircase. The stairs were covered with what had once been a flowered print runner, the pattern now practically invisible from years of stains and the treads of countless feet.

Remy was thinking of cracking wise, maybe something along the lines of I was born ready. But it just didn’t seem like the time for that.

There was something in the air of the apartment building, and as they climbed the steps, getting closer, it became stronger, more oppressive.

Something unnatural.

They reached the top of the stairs and proceeded down the hallway. There appeared to be two apartments on this level, the one that they were looking for obviously being at the end of the hall, with police detectives, uniforms, and two guys who belonged to the meat wagon out front, standing in front of the open door chatting amongst themselves. The guys from the medical examiner’s had placed their stretcher across the doorway as they laughed it up with two of the uniformed police officers.

They noticed Mulvehill coming down the hallway and immediately changed their demeanor, standing taller and attempting to exude an air of professionalism.

“We’ll be removing the deceased shortly, sir,” one of the drivers said. “The photographers just left, and Detective Healey is finishing up. As soon as he’s done, we’ll—”

Healey appeared in the doorway, sliding the stretcher out of his way. “All right, boys; it’s all yours,” he said.

He then noticed Mulvehill standing there and shook his head, a look of unease upon his face.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, removing a pair of rubber gloves from his hands.

“Do you think I could take another look before you pack ’im up?” Mulvehill asked, turning to the drivers.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sure, take your time,” one of them said.

Mulvehill moved the stretcher out of the way so that they could both pass through with little difficulty.

“I’ve got no idea what could have caused that kind of damage,” Healey said, again shaking his head. “Maybe if we look together we can—”

“Go grab a smoke,” Mulvehill told his partner. “You’ve done your part; let me take it from here.”

“You sure?” Healey asked, already moving, eager to leave the building.

Remy maneuvered around both men, starting down the hallway inside the apartment, checking out the rooms on either side, pretty sure that he’d know the scene of the crime when he came across it.

“I’m sure. And if you hit the store, pick me up a coffee,” Mulvehill told the younger man. “I shouldn’t be long here, wait for me outside. We’ll head over to Brigham to see what we can get out of the girlfriend.”

“Got it,” Healey said, on his way toward the stairs.

Remy was standing in a doorway looking into a filthy kitchen as Mulvehill came up from behind.

“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Remy asked.

“We’re guessing that she walked in on what you’re about to see,” the detective said, continuing down the hallway. “It’s down here.”

Remy followed, noticing a strange, smoky aroma wafting in the air the closer they got to the room at the end of the hall.

“What do you make of that?” the homicide cop said, motioning with his hand for Remy to look into the room.

The first thing he noticed was the gaping hole in the wall, seconded by the body of a man, probably in his mid- to late thirties, lying on his back on the floor of the room. His stomach and chest had been exposed—set afire and extinguished. The man’s body still smoldered, explaining the drifting stink of roast pork in the air.

“I don’t know what to say,” Remy said, unable to take his eyes from the corpse. Though the stomach and rib cage appeared blackened, the rest of the man’s remains were untouched.

Remy moved closer and squatted beside the body. The frozen expression on the victim’s face was horrible, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

“Who is he?” Remy asked.

“Douglas Bender,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “A familiar face to Burglary. They got a hysterical call from the girlfriend before we did. I guess she and some of the guys had bonded over their love for poor misunderstood Dougie.”

Remy’s eyes moved over the body and to the area around it. There were deep gouges in the hardwood floor surrounding the murdered man’s corpse. He was immediately reminded of something he himself had seen before, marks very similar to this left in the hardwood floors of his own home by Marlowe’s nails, only these appeared much deeper.

“Where is she now, the girlfriend?” He looked away from the corpse to his friend.

“She’s at the hospital, in shock. Whatever she walked in on practically pushed her over the edge.”

“Did she tell anyone anything? Anything that could explain this?” the angel asked, standing, eyeing the extensive damage to the room. It was as if somebody had driven a truck through it.

The detective shook his head. “We found her in the entryway pretty banged up. She’d fallen down the stairs and just kept screaming and crying.” Mulvehill shook his head. “It was pretty bad, and of course I thought of you immediately.”

“Thanks.” Remy looked around the room. There were boxes stacked everywhere, some of the contents having spilled out onto the floor in the apparent struggle. The boxes were filled with an odd assortment of things: video-games systems, a toaster oven, stereo receiver and speakers, an iPod or two.

Something caught Remy’s eye and he moved toward it. The box was jammed into a corner, an old VCR having tipped off of it, pulling open the flaps of the box.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice,” Mulvehill said. “When I found them I figured I should call you.”

Remy pulled back one of the cardboard lids and looked down into the box. Though they were wrapped in pieces of bubble wrap, and even some newspaper, there was no mistaking the antique nature of the items within. He reached inside.

“You might not want to touch those without gloves,” Mulvehill warned, reaching into his pocket for an extra pair.

“No worry. There won’t be fingerprints if I don’t want there to be,” the angel said, carefully removing one of the tightly wrapped objects.

“Fucking show-off,” the police detective growled.

Remy unwrapped the bundle, seeing that it contained an antique dagger, vaguely recalling that he had seen a photo of this knife in Karnighan’s paperwork.

But not one of the supposed Pitiless.

“Did you happen to find anything else of interest?” Remy asked, rewrapping the blade and placing it back inside the box. He looked about the room again, his eyes constantly drawn to the condition of the dead body there.

What did this to you?

The detective shook his head. “Poked around some, but that’s pretty much all that I could find in regard to what you were asking about. I gather that isn’t all of it?”

“No,” Remy said, looking into the box again to be sure. “There were a few other pieces of more considerable value,” he explained.

“The guy on the third floor said that Dougie and the missus had somebody crashing with them for the last few weeks. We’re working on a name. Maybe he’ll know where the other stuff is.”

If that was all they had, it would have to do, Remy thought, standing up from the box. He was thinking that maybe he would go over to Brigham and Women’s to speak with the victim’s girlfriend when his eyes were again drawn to the deep gouges in the wooden floor. Some of the planks had actually been splintered, partially pulled up to reveal the old floor beneath.