Free Bone Song by John Meaney Page A

sir” was all Donal said, ignoring the final words:
so far.
He circulated around the party's edges, stopping to talk to Levison, who was nibbling from a plate of finger-size
things
that each appeared to end in a single black eye.
    â€œWhat are you eating, Lev?”
    â€œHaven't a clue, but they're lovely. Try one?”
    â€œNot a chance.”
    As he moved on, the diva noticed him and beckoned. There was a tight half circle of important-looking people focused on her.
    â€œAnd this,” the diva said, “is my glamorous personal detective. See how the city treats me?”
    â€œThat's our pleasure,” said a Tristopolitan councillor, who wore his platinum chain of office atop his frilled dress shirt. “And you'd be Captain . . .”
    â€œLieutenant Riordan. Glad to be of service, Councillor.”
    â€œTalent and beauty like this”—with a soft-fingered gesture—“must be preserved, no matter what.”
    â€œOh, Edward. You flatter me.”
    Donal gave a tiny bow and stepped away. As he did so, the diva glanced at him, and perhaps he saw irony move inside those dark and perfect eyes. Then she returned her attention to the councillor, resuming their decorative and meaningless conversation.
    Glamorous detective.
    Staying on the periphery until the party ended at two A.M. , Donal followed as the diva finally went down to the limo. The streets were eerie valleys almost devoid of people or cars as they drove to the Exemplar Hotel.
    At this hour, the flames dancing above the entrance moved slowly, as though tired, but the doormen were alert enough as they opened up for the diva. She and her two assistants climbed the steps, with Petrov and Duquesne on either side and Donal following.
    The night shift was in place, and Donal's duty was over. Still, he could not help taking a last walk around the hotel's deserted corridors, the darkened restaurant, and the quiet (though not entirely empty) residents' bar. Everything was clear.
    Donal took the hypoway back to his apartment, ignoring the drunk who stared at him for most of the trip. No one disturbed him as he walked to the apartment building and let himself in.
    Once in his own place, despite the lateness of the hour and the groan of the ancient plumbing, he showered with soap in the old tin stall. The water cut out before he had fully rinsed off.
    Donal toweled himself dry, then sat at the single unadorned wooden table with a bottle of Jacques Dauphin liquor. Twisting the cap off, he saluted the shadows of his room and drank a slug.
    It tasted like fire as it went down.
    Two more slugs, and he screwed the top back on. Then, feeling scratchy and unclean, he forced himself to lie down on the plain bed and look up at the ceiling, waiting for sleepiness to manifest itself.
    Some kind of glamour.
    At five A.M. , on a deserted street two blocks from the Exemplar Hotel, a supine body moved along the sidewalk. Head supported by nothingness, heels dragging along the ground, he moved.
    Waves of dark refraction shimmered.
Something
was dragging the unconscious man.
    It pulled him around the corner, then released him. The man's head fell to the sidewalk with a sickening thud. His nose had been smashed, and there were torn gashes in his cheek.
    Beside his head, two expensive, elegant shoes glistened black. Their owner wore a gray skirt suit, and her hair and skin were pale.
    â€œWhat's this?” she said.
    *Lurking near the exemplar. I found him.*
    â€œAnd that's all?”
    *Hardly. Take a look in his pockets.*
    The woman glanced into the shadows. Then she went down on one knee and inserted her gloved hand into the beaten man's pockets, retrieving a dart gun, its loaded bolt coated with a dark fluid whose scent she recognized immediately.
    â€œMoonshade. Fatal dose.”
    The injured man also carried a stranglewire noose, treated so that it would tighten of its own accord when tossed around a victim's soft throat. It would contract to a