George Martin - Dead Mans Hand

It was definitely him. Brennan hadn't heard the voice in almost fifteen years, but he still recognized it. There was a shadow in it, a brooding, sepulchral tone that hinted at the blackness that had followed Maseryk everywhere when Brennan had known him in Nam.

"Long time no see," Brennan said quietly.

There was a short silence. Brennan could almost hear the gears whirring in Maseryk's head. "Who is this?"

"Brennan. Daniel Brennan."

"Brennan?"

"It's me."

"Christ. I guess it's been a long time. So is this a social call to renew old acquaintances?"

"Of a type," Brennan said. "I'd like to talk to you."

"About what, after all these years?"

"About Chrysalis's murder."

"What's your interest in that?"

"Personal. She was a friend of mine."

"Mmm. You always did take things personal. Okay. Where shall we have this chat?"

Brennan thought it over. He wanted to pump Maseryk for information, but Maseryk was always a closemouthed sort. It wouldn't hurt to meet in a place that might smooth Maseryk's often-touchy feelings, a place Maseryk would also be disinclined to bust up if their talk went sour. "How about over lunch at Aces High?"

"That's a little rich for a cop's pay."

"My treat."

"How can I resist?"

"More coffee, Jay?" Flo asked him.

"Please," Jay said, pushing the cup across the Formica counter. It was his fourth cup. Flo had removed the evidence of his patty melt and fries twenty minutes ago.

"Working a puzzle?" the waitress asked as she refilled his cup. Some of the coffee slopped over into the saucer. "Something like that," Jay admitted. The list was spread out on the counter. He'd been going over it name by name while he ate. A translucent smudge on the paper marked the spot where a bit of onion had slid out of his patty melt. "Well, call me if you need any help," Flo said. "I work them TV Guide crosswords every week." She went off with her coffeepot to a booth in back, where a chicken hawk in a white linen suit was trying to recruit a blond boy fresh off the bus from St. Paul. The Java joint was on Forty-second Street between Times Square and the Port Authority Bus Terminal, sandwiched in between the Wet Pussycat Theater and an adult bookstore. The food wasn't quite up to Aces High, but Jay liked the prices. Besides, it was a half block from his office.

He chewed on the pencil he'd bummed from Flo and looked at the list again. The original nineteen finalists were down to eleven. Snotman was in jail at the moment; he'd gone first. Most of the one-star candidates had followed in short order. Chrysalis's office wasn't big enough to hold an elephant, which eliminated Radha O'Reilly. Modular Man and Starshine had both made the list strictly on the basis of geography; neither had any particular reason to want Chrysalis dead. Carnifex had been in Atlanta, as had Jack Braun. Jay knew Elmo hadn't done it, no matter how many stars the computer had assigned him. That left the list looking like this:

Jay considered the names that remained. Ernie the Lizard DeMarco owned a Jokertown bar, but it was strictly a neighborhood place, no competition for the Palace. He crossed him out. Devil John Darlingfoot was hired muscle with a record as long as a joker's dork, but all his strength was in one deformed leg. Maybe he kicked in Chrysalis's face? Somehow it didn't feel right. Besides, Jay had the vague impression that Devil John drew the line at murder. He crossed out that name, too. Doughboy had tremendous strength and the mind of a child. He'd become somewhat of a cause when the cops arrested him for murder a few years back. But he hadn't done that one and Jay didn't think it was very likely that he'd done this one either. He went. Mordecai Jones lived in Harlem, half a city away from Jokertown. Except for that world tour last year, he didn't move in the same circles as Chrysalis. He went, too.

He hesitated for a couple minutes over Howard Mueller, better known as Troll, the chief of security at Dr. Tachyon's Jokertown Clinic. Mueller was a Palace regular, and the nine-foot-tall joker was up there with Golden Boy and the Harlem Hammer in the strength department, but as far as Jay knew, Troll was one of the good guys. Maybe he wasn't as clean as he looked. Maybe Chrysalis had dug up some dirt on him, a secret out of his past, and tried to leverage him with it. It was possible, Jay supposed.

Of course, it was also a complete supposition. You could make the same theory fit Ernie the Lizard, the Harlem Hammer, Starshine, hell, any of them. What a great theory, one size fits all. No, that road would take him back to three hundred nineteen names in no time at all. He put pencil to paper and resolutely scratched out Troll.

That left seven little Indians. Seven real strong Indians: Wyrm, Quasiman, the Oddity, Black Shadow, Bludgeon, the Sleeper, and Doug Morkle, whoever the fuck he was.

Wyrm was an ugly bit of business, a major player in the Shadow Fist Society. Jay had run into him once, had heard him threaten Chrysalis, in fact. That had been almost two years ago, but Wyrm looked like the kind of guy who held grudges. The only problem was the M.O. Strong as he was, Wyrm killed with his bite, pumping his victims full of venom. Jay didn't recall any bite marks on Chrysalis, but it was worth checking. The autopsy would certainly show the presence of poison in her system.

Quasiman was a caretaker at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery. Much stronger than Wyrm, the hunchback was a teleport, too. He could have gotten in and out of the Palace without being seen. He was supposed to be on the side of the angels, but every so often part of his brain drifted off to another dimension or something, and then there was no telling what he might do. An unlikely suspect, but still…

The Oddity was one Jay already had his suspicions about.

Black Shadow was another lunatic vigilante. Hated crime and liked to kill criminals, or maybe just break all their arms and legs if he was in a good mood. Maybe Shad had learned that Chrysalis was involved in some kind of criminal activity. Maybe she'd learned his real identity and threatened to expose him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Again, though, the M.O. was a problem. Shad was only slightly stronger than the human norm. The whispers said he was a creature of the darkness, a vampire who drank light and heat instead of blood, that he killed by draining all the warmth from his victims. He didn't break heads. Jay crossed him off.

Bludgeon was a brutal seven-foot-tall joker whose right hand was twisted into a permanent fist. He'd been a Shadow Fist until he proved too violent and stupid even for them, and they'd cut him loose, thanks in no small part to Jay and Hiram Worchester. That deformed fist of his could mash bone and brain real easy, and Bludgeon would probably enjoy every minute of it. The only thing was, he was dumb as a stump and twice as ugly. No way he'd penetrate the Palace security on his own, and Jay couldn't imagine why Chrysalis would ever agree to meet with him. But maybe there was something Jay didn't know yet. He left Bludgeon on the list.