I put the candle down on the table and hurried off. Connor followed in my wake.

“Find anything, kid?” Connor asked.

I shook my head.

“Just a broken packing crate that smelled like an animal,” I said. “Well, more like an animal that had eaten another animal and then threw it back up. There were also a bunch more crates that contained some other creatures, but I didn’t get a chance to check out what any of them were.”

Connor sighed.

“If any of those animals can be proven to be of paranormal origin, we could get them shut down for trafficking,” Connor said, “but until we know for sure, there’s nothing we can do. We’d better talk to the Inspectre. And we need to get back down to the docks and go over them again. There’s got to be something there.”

When we approached the booth, however, and saw the grim expression on the Inspectre’s face, all thoughts of talking about the Brothers Heron or the docks left us.

“Sir?” I said as we entered the area behind the booth. “Are you okay?”

He turned to face us, his cell phone still clutched open in his hand.

“That was Dave Davidson just now,” he said, slowly folding it shut. “I need you two to check something out in Central Park.”

“Not the park,” Connor muttered, more to himself than either of us.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone,” the Inspectre said, “but he did ask for you two specifically.”

A sense of dread started to build in me, and I tried to push it aside. I had always wanted to be one of the popular kids. Just not in this way.

As we traversed Central Park’s Great Lawn, I prayed we weren’t headed for another crime scene. Connor looked unusually nervous. Whenever my mentor started looking a bit mental around the edges, I started to worry. But maybe he was just pissy about me ordering him around back at the gypsy booth. He was generally the calm, cool, and collected one, thanks to all those Bogart movies he loved. Right now he looked more Peter Lorre than Bogie.

“You okay?” I asked.

Connor’s head twitched in my direction for a second, but he kept walking, his eyes darting around.

“I’m fine, kid,” he said. “This place just gives me the creeps.”

I looked around. It was a gorgeous, sunshiny day. Young couples were lying out on blankets, kids were throwing Frisbees, and the more health conscious were busy biking or Rollerblading.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s, umm . . . terrifying.”

Connor scoffed. “Didn’t the Inspectre make you read Trail of Breadcrumbs: Into the Woods and Beyond yet?”

I shook my head.

Connor looked cheesed off. “Probably the budget cuts . . . Anyway, Central Park is ranked as one of the most dangerous places in our line of work.”

“Really?”

“This place is old,” Connor said, “though not as old as you’d expect. We’re talking only back to the 1850s. Most of this was landscaped, but a lot of the area was residential. There was a lot of life and humanity here before it became a wilderness, and now it’s been taken over by nature. That type of change just invites all types of Extraordinary Affairs. Man-made or not, these woods call out to all manner of creatures.”

It was odd to think of Central Park having been fabricated like that. I had always assumed that it had been an untamed part of the city that had been set aside as some sort of nature preserve.

We rounded a bend in the path, following a paved section of road that led toward a set of stone stairs. Several police officers were blocking the way, but when we flashed our IDs, they let us up the stairs without a word. At the top was a small circle of benches about one hundred feet across, and at the center of it stood a tall stone spire that rose at least eighty feet. Standing by its base, waiting for us, stood Dave Davidson. At his feet was a body covered by a sheet.

“Things must be slow at City Hall if they can afford to keep you hanging around here waiting for us,” Connor said, giving him a polite nod.

Davidson smiled, all polish.

“Believe me, they can afford to keep me standing here when things of this nature keep turning up,” he said. He motioned for us to come closer. Davidson reached down and pulled back the sheet. On the ground was the body of a man in his early forties with a typical wreath of baldness going on. He wore running shorts, track shoes, and a T-shirt that read “Sherlock Ohms.” Beneath him a small pool of blood coated the bricks and stones.

“ ‘Sherlock Ohms’ . . . ?” I asked.

“We believe it’s some sort of electrical joke,” Davidson said. “We think he’s a scientist. Name’s Dr. Richard Kolb.”

“Or a yoga nerd,” Connor suggested.

“Let’s compromise,” I said, “and go with science nerd.”

Our usual manner of bantering away our discomfort wasn’t working, so the three of us stood in silence, taking in the scene for a few moments.

“People get killed in the park all the time,” Connor said by way of dismissal, sounding rather heartless. “What makes this guy so special?”

Davidson reached down and turned the dead man’s head, revealing a savage tear wound to his neck. “As you can see,” he said, “there’s a little bit of blood around the bite mark, but that’s about all that’s left of it.” Davidson stepped back. “The coroner’s already been by and said he’s drained. Feel free to take a closer look.”

Connor and I stepped to either side of the body. Already I was thinking about the people on the boat. I looked at Connor.

He placed his pinkie and index finger against his mouth, making fangs with them.

“The vamps from the dock by the Javits Center,” I continued. “Great. While we wait on the goddamned paperwork to go through, more people are dying.”

Connor turned from the body and was already stepping away as Davidson laid the cloth back down over the dead jogger. I stood.

“We’re putting it through as fast as we can,” Davidson reassured, but I was already getting pissed and couldn’t hold back my frustration.

“How many people are going to have to die before City Hall picks up the pace? Don’t you have any feelings?”

Davidson held his hands up disarmingly.

“I’m just a political liaison. It’s not in my job description that I have to have feelings. Sorry.”

He was so cold about it all that I wanted to pull my bat on him. I turned to Connor, who was looking back down the stairs and off into the park.

“Do something,” I said. “Say something.”

“Sure, I’ll say something,” he said, distracted by whatever was catching his eye. “You want to get some answers? Turn around and take a look.”

I did, and started scanning the park.

Connor specialized in dealing with ghosts, so that was what I was looking for, but in broad daylight it was near impossible for me. I didn’t notice anything unusual, and I threw up my arms in frustration.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I said. “I don’t have your power. I don’t do your thing . . .”

“Just shut up, kid,” Connor said. He raised his arm and pointed off to a specific section of the park. “Shut up and concentrate.”

I gave up trying to argue with him and stared down the trajectory of his finger, putting more effort into really observing the crowd.

There were people everywhere, very few of them paying attention to us or to Davidson’s regular cops nearby. Two couples were walking hand in hand, three Rollerbladers, a line of passing bicyclists, and one jogger.

Bald and wearing a “Sherlock Ohms” shirt. It was the ghost of Dr. Richard Kolb.

“Son of a bitch,” I marveled, but before I could get anything else out, Connor shoved past me, jumping down the stairs. I fell in behind him, the cops scattering as the two of us pushed past them all.