THE city morgue was in the basement at Vancouver General Hospital. Henry supposed it worked on the same principle as the crypts under cathedrals-the deeper in the ground, the cooler the ambient tempera?ture, the less chance of the rot seeping into the rest of the building.

Hospitals had never been one of Henry's favorite places. Not because of light levels kept painfully high for eyes adapted to darkness. Not even because of the omnipresent and unpleasant odor of antiseptic mixed thoroughly with disease.

It was the despair.

It hung in the halls like smoke; from the patients who knew they were dying, from the patients who feared they were dying. That modern medicine re?sulted in far more successes than failures made little difference.

Predators preyed on the weak. The defenseless. The despairing.

Even though he had already fed, the Hunger strained against Henry's control as he stepped over the threshold and into the building. His reaction wasn't about feeding; it was about killing, killing be?cause he could, because they were all but asking him to. As the door closed behind him, he could feel civili?zation sloughing away, exposing the Hunter beneath.

He'd decided to gain access through Emergency, reasoning that he could hide his movements in the chaos that always seemed to exist in the ER of big city hospitals. As far as it went, the reasoning was sound, but the bloodscent hanging over the crowded waiting room came very close to loosing the Hunger. Acutely conscious of the weak and injured around him, their lives throbbing in an atmosphere reeking of despair, Henry stepped away from the door and moved deeper into the building.

No one tried to stop him.

Those who saw him quickly looked away.

Passing as swiftly as possible through the crowded emergency waiting room, he slipped unnoticed into the first stairwell he found. The air was clearer there, but he had no time to compose himself.

Folklore aside, vampires not only showed up in mir?rors but in security cameras as well.

There are times, he thought, racing down the stairs at full speed, a dark flicker across a distant monitor, when I hate this century.

Two flights down, he opened a door marked, CITY MORGUE/PARKING LEVEL TWO and stepped gratefully into a dimly lit corridor. While he suspected that budget cuts were the reason for two out of three fluorescent banks to be off-there'd be no patients wandering about down here after all and, given the hour, few staff-it was hard not to appreciate the at?mosphere created by the lack of light. The hall leading to the morgue should be barred with shadow.

Teeth bared but more comfortable than he'd been since leaving his car, Henry followed the trail of death to an unlocked door. Pulling on a pair of leather driv?ing gloves, he passed silently through an outer office and into the actual morgue.

Here, he breathed easier still. In these rooms, the blood spilled was lifeless and the dead were past fear.

Only six of the refrigerated drawers were in use. Five were labeled with the occupant's name. The sixth held the body of the handless man pulled out of Van?couver Harbor.

His face had taken a beating-although it was un?clear whether it had happened in the water or be?fore-but enough areas of definition remained for Henry to recognize his ghost. Had he any doubts, the fuzzy blue homemade tattoo of a dripping dagger on the left forearm would have convinced him.

Although there were computer files as well, paper copies of recent autopsy reports were stored in a huge filing cabinet against one wall of the office. It only took a moment to match the number on the drawer with the number on the file folder and a moment more to set the first page on the photocopier.

He heard the jangle of keys in the hall the instant after he pushed print.

Kevin Lam tossed his car keys from hand to hand as he hurried down the corridor. It had been one hell of a shift and all he wanted to do was go home, eat something that didn't taste like disinfectant, and see if maybe there was a ball game on. He didn't actually like baseball that much, but a ten-hour shift had left him so brain dead he figured it had the only plot on the tube he'd be able to understand.

Once I'm in the car, I'm safe. They can't call me back. I can go home. Eyes locked on the entrance to the parking garage at the end of the hall, he almost missed the flash of light from the morgue office.

The supposedly deserted morgue office.

The frosted glass in the upper half of the door was dark. From the hall outside, it seemed that no one was working late.

"So who the hell is running the photocopier?" Kevin glanced toward the parking garage and sighed. If he called hospital security, he could be stuck here for hours even if it turned out to be nothing. And if it did turn out to be nothing, he'd be the butt of every morgue joke in the hospital. "I'll just open the door and turn on the light, see that it's nothing, and then go home."

And if it is something? he asked himself as he shoved his keys in his pocket and reached for the door. He shook his head. Yeah, right. Like someone's actually going to be standing in a dark morgue at mid?night making photocopies.

Henry had plenty of time to hide. He just didn't bother.

In the instant the orderly stood silhouetted in the open door, one hand reaching for the light switch, Henry grabbed the front of his uniform, dragged him into the room, and closed the door.

The Hunger roared in his ears, restraints rubbed raw by Vicki's presence, then further torn by his pas?sage through the massed despair and bloodscent in the building above. Self-preservation barely held him in check as he shoved the young man down onto a desk.

It wasn't completely black in the room. LEDs gleamed on various pieces of equipment and an exit light glowed over the door. Kevin saw the pale oval of a face bend over him, felt himself fall into the bot?tomless depths of dark eyes, and choked back a scream when a cold voice told him to be silent.

Strong fingers gripped his wrist, the touch both chill?ing and burning, sensations racing up his arm with his pulse and causing his heart to pound. His breathing quickened. It might have been fear. It might have been something darker.

He didn't understand when the pale face withdrew and that same cold voice muttered, "And I accused her of acting like a child." When the face returned, when the voice told him to forget, he forgot gladly.

Tony had left just after Henry had. She'd sent Celluci to bed at about two. All the lights were out except a small crescent moon lamp on a shelf in the entryway.

With the curtains open, the city spilled into the living room, banishing anything approaching darkness for those who lived at night. Having carefully moved two days' worth of unopened mail to one side, Vicki sat at the mahogany desk staring down at a blank piece of paper and waiting for Henry.

He'd be back soon. He had to be if he wanted to give her any chance to study the autopsy report and maybe come to a few conclusions before dawn.

If she thought about waiting for Henry, she was fine. When she started thinking about what Henry was, her thoughts were tinted red.

Vampire.

But he always had been-he wasn't the one who'd changed.

She fidgeted with the heavy fountain pen she'd found in one of the desk drawers, turning the smooth black weight over and over, the repetition vaguely soothing.

All right. I'm not what I was, but I'm still who 1 was. I accepted the limitations of the RP-okay, not gracefully, honesty forced her to admit, but I accepted them. I didn't let it keep me from living my life exactly as I pleased. I am here to find a murderer, and I'm not going to let Henry Fitzroy change the way I operate. He's my friend, and we're going to act like friends if I have to rip him open and feed on his steaming entrails!

The pen snapped between her fingers.

"Shit!"

Breathing heavily, Vicki barely kept herself from throwing the pieces aside and spraying a room full of very expensive upholstery in ink. Trembling with the effort, she set both halves of the pen gently in the middle of the desk then surged to her feet and vi-ciously kicked the chair away.

While a small voice in the back of her head won?dered where the hell this was coming from, she headed for the door, the Hunger rising. Eyes gleaming silver in the mirror wall of the entry, she reached for the doorknob and realized another heart beat in unison with hers.

Henry.

In the corridor. Almost at the door.

Vampire.

Then memory added Celluci's opinion.

Romance writer.

Vicki grabbed onto that and used it to bludgeon her instinctive response back into the shadows. Her breathing slowed and the roaring in her ears dimmed to a gentle growl. Vampires did not share territories with other vampires, but there was nothing that said vampires could not share a territory with romance writers.

As Tony had said. It was an attitude thing.

And if there's one thing I excel at, it's attitude. Hold?ing tightly to that thought, she opened the door and said, "What the hell took you so long?"

Henry recoiled a step at her proximity, eyes darken?ing, a snarl pulling his lips back off his teeth. "Don't push it, Vicki."

"Hey . .." She spread her hands, the gesture serving a double function of emphasis and of readiness should she need to go for his throat. "I just asked you a question, you're the one who's overreacting." Some?how it came out sounding like a challenge which was not at all what she'd intended. It had been easier with the door between them; face-to-face, her visceral reac?tion to the threat he posed was harder to ignore. "Look, Henry, it was getting late, I was getting wor?ried; okay?"

"Why worried?"

Because you're old and slowing down...  Where the hell did that come from? Shaken, Vicki shoved the thought back into her subconscious. "Forget it. What did you find out?"

Forgetting was safer for them both than responding.

He'd seen the threat surface, seen her push it away. Considering the short time she'd spent in the night, her control was nothing short of incredible. A faint hint of jealousy, that she should so easily push aside the demands of her nature, added itself to the emo?tional maelstrom below his barely achieved surface calm. "The ghost has a body. As requested, I made a copy of the autopsy report and added a full description."

"Thanks." Her fingers crumpled the yellow file folder and, stepping backward, she closed the door between them once again. Acutely aware of the mo?ment he lingered, when she finally heard him walk away and go into his own condo, she sagged back against the carved cedar. "So much for the romance writer defense." Old instincts told her to follow and patch things up. New instincts told her to follow and destroy him.

Leaning on the door, she breathed deeply until his scent had been thoroughly mixed with the nonthreatening, expensive potpourri scent of the apartment. "This is really starting to piss me off. Nothing runs my life like this. Nothing!" Returning to the desk, she slapped the creased file folder down on the polished wood. "I am going to beat this... "

She trapped the tag behind her teeth. Under the circumstances, adding "if it kills me" seemed a little too much like tempting fate.

Down the hall, Henry stood staring out at the West End, rubbing his throbbing temples. It could have been much worse-he'd expected it to have been much worse. Neither of them had actually attacked, and their conversation, while short, had been essen?tially civil. It was beginning to look as though Vicki had been right all along. Perhaps the old rules could be changed.

After all, coyotes had been solitary hunters for centuries and they were learning to hunt in packs. One corner of his mouth quirked up as he remembered a recent news report of coyotes eating household pets in North Vancouver.

"On second thought, perhaps that's not the most flattering of comparisons," he murmured to the night.

Vicki's strength had surprised him, although he sup?posed it shouldn't-her strength came from who she was, not what. After he worked past the jealousy, he found a tenuous faith in that strength beginning to push aside his expectations, beginning to allow him to have faith in himself.

The desire to throw her out of his territory in bleed?ing chunks persisted, but, for the first time, he realized the feeling didn't necessarily have to be acted upon.

Suddenly hopeful, he headed for the shower to wash off the lingering stink of the hospital.

"Mike, wake up. We need to talk before sunrise." Only experience allowed her to translate his mumbled response as "I'm awake," but since his eyes remained closed and his breathing had barely changed, she chose not to believe it.

Rather than use borrowed bedding, he'd rolled his sleeping bag out in the center of the king-sized bed but hadn't bothered to zip it up. Kneeling by his side, Vicki reached through the gap and wrapped her fin?gers around the warmest part of his anatomy.

"Jesus H. Christ, Vicki! Your hands are freezing!"

She grinned, having jerked back too quickly for his wild swing to connect. "Now you're awake."

"No shit." Squinting past her, he managed to focus on the clock beside the bed. "4:03. That's just great. Whatever we need to talk about had better be fuck?ing important."

"You actually heard me say we needed to talk?"

"I told you I was awake." He yawned and dragged in another pillow to prop up his head. "So what is it?"

"If it's our case, then we should discuss it."

"You couldn't have left me a note?"

"What, and let you sleep?" Picking up the file folder from the end of the bed, she crossed her legs and started to read. "Henry's ghost was a male Caucasian between twenty and twenty-five, a smoker who proba?bly died of a beating he'd received sometime before he went into the water, who'd had a kidney surgically removed within the last month which was not, by the way, what killed him. After death, his hands, wrists, and about two inches of forearm were removed, prob?ably with an ax. His body was later found in Vancou?ver Harbor." She frowned down at the photocopy of the autopsy pictures. "We can assume, since he's still lying unnamed in the morgue, the police scanned his picture into the system and didn't find a match. At this point, there're three things they should be doing."

Brows raised at her phrasing-he'd just bet the Vancouver police would love to hear what they should be doing-he indicated she should continue.

"They should be showing the photographs around at different hospitals, hoping someone can ID him from the kidney perspective."

"And I'm sure they've thought of that," Celluci muttered. "Can't be a lot of places around that take out kidneys."

"Depends on what you're calling around," Vicki re?minded him. "This guy could've been anywhere in the world just hours before he came to Vancouver and got killed." Grinning, she smacked him on the chest with the file folder. "Fortunately, we know something the police don't. The body was naked when they pulled it out of the water, but according to Henry's description, his ghost is wearing a T-shirt advertising a local band. We can ignore everything outside this immediate area."

"Then shouldn't we tell the police this guy's local?

In case you've forgotten, withholding evidence is a crime."

"Okay. Let's tell them." She mimed dialing a phone. "Hello? Violent crimes? You know that handless John Doe you've got in the morgue? Well, he's local. How do I know? His ghost is appearing to this vampire friend of mine, and he identified a T-shirt." Hanging up an imaginary receiver, she snorted. "I don't think so. Anyway, they should also be investigat?ing this tattoo." She passed over a page of photocop?ied pictures.

He sighed, turned on a light, and studied the collec?tion. "He's pretty beat up. Henry ID from the tattoo?"

"I didn't ask."

Since her tone suggested he not ask why, he merely handed back the page. "Looks like a street job. Not much to go after. And thing three?"

"They should be checking out the gang connection."

"The what?"

"Well, why do you think they took off his hands?"

Celluci shrugged. "Somewhere his prints are on file."

"Then so's his picture."

"Not looking like that it isn't." He fanned the pho?tocopies. "The computer isn't going to spit out a match to a face like that and looking through mug shots takes so much time no one has that it becomes real low priority."

"I think they took off his hands because they wanted to use them."

"Dead man's prints?"

"It's a possibility. And organized crime ties into your organ-legging theory."

"Hey! It's not my theory," he protested. "I just re?peated what I heard on that cable show."

"It adds up, Mike. Organized crime's always looking for new ways to make a buck. They provide bodies so that the rich can buy organs for transplant, then, in their own warped version of reduce, reuse, and recy?cle, they use the hands to print weapons for hits. It even explains why the body was found in the harbor. The Port Authority is fully unionized, and unions have always had ties to organized crime."

"What? When Jimmy Hoffa disappeared, he moved to Vancouver?" Celluci tossed the papers down on the bed and jerked both hands back through his hair. "You're really reaching, Vicki."

"All right, forget the unions. But I still say the sim?plest explanation is usually the right explanation."

"You think that's a simple explanation?" he asked, the incredulous tone only slightly exaggerated. "And in case you haven't noticed, there's only been one body. Not many bucks made there."

"There's only been one body found. Either they're just getting started and their disposal's still a bit sloppy, or this one got caught in the wrong current. Either way, no one's going to set up something so complicated for just one kidney."

"If the kidney has anything to do with the murder and isn't just a coincidence. You remember those, don't you Vicki?"

She ignored him. "Besides, we have to start some?where, and God knows, we've got bugger all else to go on. I'll look into the gang aspect tomorrow night. Given the recent rise in Chinese immigrants, odds are good there's a triad presence at the very least."

"Unfortunately, I can't argue with that... "

Her mouth made a sarcastic moue. "Poor baby."

"... but I think perhaps if all this is what the police should be doing, maybe we should leave it to the po?lice. You know as well as I do, that the last thing the investigating officers are going to want is some out-of-town PI-and an out-of-town cop on vacation," he added hurriedly when her eyes started to silver, "-butting in where they don't belong and screwing up the case."

"Normally, I'd agree with you." She frowned at his expression of patent disbelief. "I would. Unfortu?nately, Henry's ghost seems pretty specific about Henry avenging him, so we have to find the murderer before the police do or Henry could be playing twenty questions with the dead for eternity."

"I'm willing to risk it," Celluci snorted, rather en?joying the possibility of Henry Fitzroy backed into a corner.

"I'm not."

And that was that.

"So why should a ghost care who avenges him?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I won't allow Henry to play vampire vigilante."

"No one's asking you to."

"It's too early in the morning for that argument." He half-covered a yawn. "But we'll have it, I promise. Hell's going to freeze over before I let Henry take the law into his own hands."

"Again?" Vicki asked dryly.

"Just because he's done it before, doesn't make it right." Prodded by his conscience, Celluci shifted un?comfortably in place. The lines between justice and the law had a tendency to blur around Henry Fitz?roy-he didn't like it, but so far he'd done absolutely nothing to stop it. Where, he wondered, do I draw the new line?

Sighing deeply, he peered up at Vicki, wishing she'd move into the circle of the light so he could see her expression instead of just the pale oval of her face. "I take it that I'm to run a few daylight errands for you?"

She nodded, one finger tracing lazy circles in his chest hair. "I want you to ask that cable interviewer why she thinks it's organ-legging. What's she basing her theory on? Maybe she knows something, or has heard something... "

"Or maybe she's making it up as she goes along."

"Maybe. And you're right... " She smacked him as he recoiled in pretend shock. "... the missing kid?ney could be coincidence, but I'd still like to hear her reasons for bringing it up."

"And if her reasons had more to do with ratings than facts?"

"Then we still have the gang angle to work on."

The gleam in her eyes evoked another deep sigh. "You're looking forward to doing some shit-dis?turbing, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're still a lousy liar, Vicki." Reaching out, he enclosed her hand in his. "Try to remember you're immortal, not invulnerable."

Vicki leaned forward and covered his mouth with hers. A few heated moments later, she pulled back just enough for speech. "I'll be careful if you'll admit my theory might be valid."

"You know me, I always keep an open mind."

She flicked his lips with her tongue. "If you weren't such a good liar, I might even believe you."

The alarm went off at 5:00. Ronald Swanson reached up to slap it off before he remembered it wasn't bothering anyone but him. Sinking back against his pillows, he smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of the far side of the big bed and thought about the phone call he was about to make.

Basic groundwork had been laid for months. Details had been worked out by a trusted employee back East last night. This morning, he would close the deal.

It would probably be safer to distance himself from that as well as from the donors, but he couldn't. A personal touch, his thumb never leaving the pulse of the company, had made him an obscene amount of money, and successful habits were hard to break.

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it," he muttered, throwing back the single blanket and swinging his legs out of bed. His feet imprinting the plush carpet with each step, he strode into the en suite bathroom, habit clos?ing the door behind him before he switched on the light. In the dark, empty bedroom, the clock said 5:03.

"Tony? It's Mike Celluci. I didn't wake you up, did I?"

Tony blinked wearily at the clock on the bookshelf and dragged himself up against the back of the sofa bed. "Yeah. You did. It's only eight. What's up?"

"Only eight." The repetition arrived complete with an implied and weary, kids. "Aren't you working today?"

"Yeah, but not till ten." He yawned and scratched at the near stubble covering his head. "I got lots of time."

"Good. I need to know the channel of the cable show I was watching yesterday."

"Cable show?" Staring across the den at the multipane window partially hidden behind hanging plants, he got lost in an attempt to figure out if the ripples were in the glass or in his vision.

"It was on yesterday evening before Henry came home. Patricia Chou was interviewing a businessman named Swanson about kidneys."

"Oh, yeah." Beginning to wake up, he decided the ripples were in the glass. "So?"

Celluci's voice came slowly and deliberately over the phone line. "What channel was it?"

"The number?"

"No, the name, Tony."

Tony yawned again, suddenly remembering why he'd never liked Detective-Sergeant Celluci very much. "I think it's called The Community Network. Anything else? You like want me to make an appoint?ment for you?"

"No, thanks; but keep your ears open today. If, as Vicki's current theory insists, there's a gang actually organ-legging ..." His tone made it clear he consid?ered that highly unlikely. "... there'll be a buzz of some kind on the street."

"Sure, but I'll be spending eight hours in a video store, and the only buzz I'm likely to hear today is while I'm rewinding weekend tapes returned by incon?siderate assholes who can't read the contracts they signed."

"You've got to get there and get home. And you've got to eat lunch. Vicki says you're the best, Tony. If there's a buzz out there, you'll hear it."

Cheeks hot, Tony mumbled an agreement.

"My apologies to your hosts if I woke them as well."

Dropping the receiver back on the cradle, Tony stretched and wished he could erase his personal tapes as easily as the ones at the store. In spite of how far he'd come, some reactions still seemed impossible to control. "I get a pat on the head and I'm just like a fucking stray dog." He sighed, drew in a lungful of air redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed hazelnut cream coffee, and decided he might as well get up since either Gerry or John was obviously in the kitchen. Pulling on a T-shirt to go with the boxer shorts he'd slept in, he realized he was going to enjoy having someone to share breakfast with.

Especially since he wasn't on the menu.

The Community Network was in the basement of a three-story, sloped-roof building on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Yukon Street just in back of City Hall. Which made a certain amount of sense, Celluci figured as he cruised slowly along the block looking for parking, since most of their business seemed to be concerned with broadcasting city government.

"Might as well stay close to the source," he muttered, adding, "Lousy son of a bitch," through clenched teeth as a smaller and infinitely more maneuverable vehicle nipped in front of him, taking the only empty spot he'd seen. While not as kamikaze as driv?ers in Montreal, Vancouver drivers were anything but laid back. Although he hated to do it, he ended up leaving the van in a municipal lot and only cheered up when he remembered that Henry'd be paying the bill.

Nine steps down, more at half-ground than base?ment, The Community Network reception area had been painted a neutral cream and then covered in fly?ers, memos, messages, and posters of every descrip?tion. The woman at the desk had four pencils shoved through her hair just above the elastic securing a strawberry-blonde ponytail and was taking notes with a fifth. It sounded as though she was dealing with a scheduling conflict, and her end of the phone conversation grew less polite and more emphatic as the call progressed. From what he could hear, Celluci had to admire the amount of control she managed to maintain.

"So, bottom line, what you're saying is that the councillor won't have time for an interview until the current session is over?" Her notes disappeared be?hind heavy black cross-hatching. "But after the session is over, we won't need to speak with the councillor about the zoning change because it'll be over, too. Well, yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd get back to me." The receiver went back into its cradle with a little more force than necessary. "You sanctimonious little kiss-ass."

Taking a deep breath, she looked up, smiled broadly at Celluci, and said, "I don't suppose you'd consider forgetting you heard that?"

He returned the smile with a deliberately charming one of his own. "Heard what?"

"Thank you. Now then, what can we do for you?"

"I'm here to speak to Patricia Chou." When her expression started to change, he continued quickly. "My name's Michael Celluci. I called earlier."

"That's right, she mentioned you." Standing, she held out her hand. "I'm Amanda Beman. Her producer."

She had a grip that reminded him of Yield's-Vicki's before she gained the unwelcome ability to break bones. "Do producers usually work reception?"

"Are you kidding? With our budget, I also work the board and empty the wastebaskets. Come on." Pencils quivering, she jerked her head toward a door adorned with only two sheets of paper. Given the cov?erage on the surrounding walls, it was essentially bare. The upper piece read: If there's no one at the desk, please ring the bell. The sign underneath it declared, in pale green letters on a dark green background: BELL OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE KNOCK.

"We're a lot busier later in the day," Amanda ex?plained as she led the way along an empty corridor. "Our morning programming's all educational tapes from UBC, so we operate with a bare minimum of staff until about noon." She shot him a wry glance. "And little more after that."

"Yet Ms. Chou was here first thing."

"She'll be here last thing, too. Our little Patricia would like to be Geraldo Rivera when she grows up."

"And you were here... "

"I am always here." Stopping in front of an un?marked steel door, she raised a hand and lowered her voice. "You must have been pretty persuasive to get Patricia to talk to you at this hour, and you look like you can handle yourself, but I couldn't live with my conscience if I didn't warn you about a couple of things. First, if she invites you to call her Patricia, that's exactly what she means. Patricia, never Pat. Sec?ond, nothing you tell her is off the record. If she can find a use for it, she will. Third, if she can find a use for you, she'll use you as well, and, given that you're not exactly hard on the eyes, it might be smart to present a moving target." She rapped on the door and stepped aside, motioning for Celluci to enter. "Good luck."

"I feel like I should be carrying a whip and chair," he muttered reaching for the door handle.

"A cyanide pill might be more practical," Amanda told him cheerfully. "We need her. We don't need you. Remember, keep moving."

As the door closed behind him, he heard her hum?ming, "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead," then he heard nothing at all as the heavy steel cut off all sound from the hall. So I can assume no one will be able to hear me if I scream.

The room had originally been one large cinderblock rectangle, but bookcases had been used to divide it into two smaller work spaces, one considerably smaller than the other and windowless besides. Betting on what seemed like a sure thing, he walked into the larger of the two.

The woman working at the computer terminal didn't acknowledge his presence in any way although she must have heard both her producer's knock and his entrance. Celluci got the impression that it wasn't a deliberate slight but rather that he simply wasn't as important as her work in progress. Marginally more insulting upon consideration. After a dozen years in police work, however, insults meant little unless ac?companied by violent punctuation.

Hands clasped behind his back, he looked around.

Bookcases made up not only the dividing wall but covered two of the other three and rose to the lower edge of the windows on the third. Their contents seemed about equally divided between books, videos and binders with a number of framed photographs propped up in front.

Patricia Chou accepting something from Vancou?ver's Mayor. Patricia Chou being congratulated by the current Premier of British Columbia. Patricia Chou with a serenely smiling man Celluci recognized as the right-to-lifer who'd put a high velocity, 7.62-mm rifle bullet into a 57-year-old obstetrician because he ob?jected to the doctor performing legal abortions at city hospitals. Although Ms. Chou was still smiling in that particular photograph, her expression as she gazed at the handcuffed gunman seemed to suggest she'd just squashed something unpleasant she'd found under a rock and was happy to have done it.

Detective-Sergeant Celluci personally believed the world would be a significantly better place and his job one hell of a lot easier if the victims were given the kind of coverage criminals usually got and if criminals were ignored by the press, their names and pictures never appearing outside of rap sheets and court docu?ments. He didn't approve of giving them time on talk shows no matter how local the market.

"You're Michael Celluci." When he turned, she tossed a silken fall of midnight hair back over her shoulder and continued before he had a chance to speak. "You wanted to talk to me about yesterday's show." Her tone suggested he not waste her time.

Studying her face, Celluci discovered what the cam?eras had camouflaged; she was young. Not long out of university. Not long enough for the sharp edges of ambition, intellect, and ego to have been dulled by the world.

A lot like Vicki when they first met.

Been there. Done that. Got the scars. "As I said on the phone, Ms. Chou, I have a friend who wants to know why you think the body found in Vancouver Harbor was an organ-legging victim."

"And as I said on the phone, I'd like to know why your friend wants to know why."

"My friend thinks much the same thing you do."

"Your friend is the only other person in the city who does. You don't."

Celluci shrugged, the gesture carefully neutral. "I try to keep an open mind."

"An open mind?" The repetition fell barely to one side of mockery. "Why doesn't your friend want to talk to me? Why send you?"

"She was busy."

"Busy," she repeated, her eyes narrowing. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at him for a long moment then one ebony brow lifted. "You're not with the local police department, are you?"

He matched her brow for brow, beginning to regret giving her his real name. "What makes you think I'm with any police department."

"First, your gaze is constantly going flick, flick, flick around the room. Second, in spite of styles, your cuffs are loose enough to access an ankle holster. Third, although it's less obvious in person, over the phone your voice mannerisms are pure law enforcement. Forth, you're not local or you would have identified yourself earlier." Her gaze grew fiercely speculative, almost sharklike. "You're federal, aren't you? This is bigger than I thought, isn't it? Maybe even international."

Her ambition burned so brightly he could almost feel the heat. If Tony's theory was correct, and Patri?cia Chou was looking for a story big enough to get her a network show, she seemed to believe-for reasons unclear to Celluci at the moment-that this was the story. Although who the hell she thought he was, he had no idea.

"If I tell you what your friend wants to know," she continued, leaning forward, eyes blazing, "I get exclu?sive rights to this story when it breaks."

Celluci sighed. "Ms. Chou, there might not be a story."

"Exclusive rights," she repeated with no room for negotiation.

He knew when to surrender-especially when it didn't make a damned bit of difference to him. In his opinion, there was as much chance of the John Doe in Vancouver Harbor having been killed by organ-leggers as there was of Henry Fitzroy winning the Governor General's Award for fiction. "All right. The story's yours." Raising a cautioning hand, he added, "As soon as there is a story."

She nodded and sat back. "So you want to know why I think that missing kidney is the reason for the young man's murder. Simple, there're a lot of people who need them, giving an organ-legger a large data?base to chose their buyer from-a database that's fairly easily tracked given that every one of them is on dialysis."

"Wait a minute." An uplifted hand cut her off. "You said buyers."

"They're hardly going to give them away, Mr. Celluci. And, considering that it can lead to infections, stroke, heart attacks, and peritonitis, I think I can safely say dialysis sucks. I'm sure they could find peo?ple willing to pay big bucks to get off it. What's more, because kidney transplants have a 98% success rate, you can pretty much guarantee your product. Which is why they only took a kidney and not the heart and lungs and corneas and all the other things people so desperately need. The left kidney-the one missing from the body-is the one most often used for trans?plant purposes. Also, it's one of the easiest transplants to perform, giving you a larger database of doctors to choose from, and the more doctors you have, the bet?ter the odds you'll find one who can be corrupted."

"That's two completely different computer systems to access; it can't be that easy."

"These are the '90s, Mr. Celluci. Twelve-year-olds are hacking into international defense systems every day."

Unfortunately, he couldn't argue with that. "The newspaper reported that the surgery to remove the kidney was well on the way to being healed."

She picked up a pencil and bounced the eraser end against her desk. "Your point?"

"Why do you think they kept him alive for so long? Why not just take the kidney and let him die?"

"I expect that they kept him alive long enough to be certain that the buyer's body didn't reject the kid?ney. If it did, well, with him still around, they'd have a spare and could try again."

"So why remove the hands?"

"Fingerprints." Her tone added a silent: Don't play dumb with me. "An identity makes it much easier for the police to gather the information that could lead to the person or persons responsible."

"And what does Mr. Swanson have to do with it?"

"Swanson was just the mouthpiece of the BC Trans?plant Society. I was trying to get someone in a per?ceived position of expertise to admit the possibility."

Ms. Chou apparently had an answer for everything, but that was by no means a complete answer. She reminded him more of Vicki every second. "And?"

She leaned a little forward, and her teeth showed between parted lips. "And I've decided I don't like him. When I was researching him for that interview, I discovered that not only is he filthy rich but he has absolutely no bad habits. He works very hard, he gives a lot of money away, and that's it."

"The rich aren't allowed to be nice, hardworking people?"

"Not these days. Now, I'm not saying he's a part of this organ-legging thing, but he certainly has, as you people would say, motive and opportunity." She raised one emphatic finger after another. "His wife died of kidney failure waiting for a transplant. He has more money than most governments, and with enough money you have the opportunity to do everything."

"He also seems to think this organ-legging thing isn't possible. His arguments made a great deal of sense."

She sat back and waved a dismissive hand. "They would, wouldn't they? Did you know he funded a pri?vate clinic where people in the last stages of renal failure can wait for a kidney?"

Celluci spent a moment hoping she'd never decide she disliked him. "No, I didn't. I take it the police found your theories less than helpful?"

Her lips curled into a sneer. "The police as much as accused me of sensationalizing an urban myth for the sake of personal gain."

How could they possibly have come up with that idea? Celluci asked himself dryly. "You've a lot of conjecture, Ms. Chou, but no facts."

"And what does your friend have?"

He half smiled, acknowledging the hit. "More con?jecture. But she also says that since we have bugger-all else, we have to start somewhere. Thanks for your time." Holding out his hand, he added, "The moment we get a fact, I'll let you know."

Her hand disappeared in his and yet gave the im?pression that she was fully in charge of the gesture. Standing, she was a great deal shorter than her person?ality suggested. When she smiled, she showed enough teeth to remind him that many of the people he'd run into over the last couple of years weren't exactly human. "See that you do."

It was pleasantly enough said, but a threat for all of that. Dick me around, and you'll be the story. It won't be fun.

Under other circumstances, he might have reacted differently, but short women made him vaguely un?comfortable, so he merely showed himself out-count?ing on his fingers in the corridor to make sure he'd gotten them all back.

A few moments later, he was sitting in the van going over what he had.

A handless body short one surgically removed kid?ney had been found in Vancouver Harbor.

Patricia Chou's information on why the kidney could have gone to an illegal transplant was entirely plausible even if her dislike of Ronald Swanson was not.

Organized crime did have a history of using dead men's prints which would explain the missing hands. And Vicki was right about organized crime always looking for a new way to make a buck. Some sort of criminal bodyshop made more sense than a well-respected, socially conscious businessman selling used organs like they were high-priced radios ripped out of parked cars.

According to Patricia Chou, there was a market out there for kidneys.

Resting his forehead against the top curve of the steering wheel, Celluci closed his eyes. Great, now they've got me beginning to believe it....

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