"Frank Compton?" a voice called back.

"Who is it?" I repeated.

"Police, sir," he called back. "Would you open up, please?"

I keyed the viewer. There were two men in uniform out there, all right, one of them pressing an authentic-looking NYPD ID against the plate. Dropping the Glock into my robe pocket, I keyed open the door. "I'm Officer Bagler, sir," the cop said, holding up a reader as he compared my face to the picture on my official government record. "Would you get dressed, please? We need you to come with us."

"What's the problem?" I asked, not moving.

"There's been a disturbance, sir," he said in that official give-nothing-away voice I'd often used myself during my years with Western Alliance Intelligence. "Detective Kylowski needs to see you."

"Then Detective Kylowski can come here," I said.

"Please don't make me insist, sir," Bagler said. His eyes flicked to my sagging pocket. "Just leave the weapon here, of course."

"Can you at least give me a hint?" I asked.

He sighed silently "A handgun registered to you has been involved in a murder, sir," he said. "Now, will you please get dressed?"

They took me to West Seventy-fifth Street and the familiar blazing lights and yellow tape of a crime scene. A dozen more cops were already on the scene, the uniformed ones guarding the perimeter and directing traffic, the plainclothes contingent milling around in the cold November air, collecting evidence or scanning for clues.

In the center of the stage were the guests of honor: one male, one female. Their torsos were covered by preservation cloths, but I had no trouble recognizing the dark gray clothing the woman was wearing.

Lorelei had said she was in danger. I'd been too tired to care.

A middle-aged man with receding hair and a serious seven-o'clock shadow stepped in front of me. "Compton?" he asked.

I pulled my eyes away from Lorelei's body. "Yes," I said.