A Fire Department inspector walked up to them, larger than life in his black-and-yellow gear. “We're going to have to put supports in before anybody can go up, Sam.”

“I've got to do the postblast.”

“Have to wait till tomorrow.”

“I wanted to finish up tonight.”

Rune walked away. “Sure, he wants to take five minutes or so and look for clues.”

“Rune.”

“... then get back to protecting nuns.”

Healy called after her. “Wait.” The voice was commanding.

She kept going.

“Please.”

She slowed.

“I want to ask you some questions.”

She stopped and turned to him and she knew that he could see her thick tears in the swinging glare of the fire-truck lights. She held up a hand. Angrily she said, “Okay, but not tonight. Not now. There's something I've got to do and if I don't go now I won't ever. The detectives have my number.”

She thought maybe Healy called something to her. She wasn't sure; her hearing was, at the moment, a lot worse than his. But mostly she was concentrating on where she was going and had absolutely no idea how she was going to handle what she now had to do.

Nicole D'Orleans, however, had already heard the news.

Rune stood in the doorway of the apartment in a high-rise in the Fifties, watching the woman lean against the doorjamb, exhausted by the weight of sorrow. Her face was puffy. Along with the tears, she'd scrubbed away some of the makeup, but not all. It made her face lopsided.

Nicole straightened up and said, “Like, sorry. Come on in.”

The rooms were cool and dark. Rune smelled leather and perfume and the faint fumes of the vodka that Nicole had been drinking. She glanced at the blotches of modern paintings on the wall, the theatrical posters. She noticed some framed signatures. One looked like it said George Bernard Shaw. Most she didn't recognize.

They walked into a large room. A lot of black leather, though not kinky the way you'd think a porn star's apartment would be. More like some millionaire plastic surgeon would have. There was a huge glass coffee table that looked like it was three inches thick. The carpet was white and curled around the toes of Rune's boots. She saw packed bookshelves and remembered the way she and Shelly had looked through some of Rune's books just that morning and she wanted to cry. But forced herself not to because Nicole seemed to be pulling up just shy of hysterical.

The woman had her mourning station assembled. A box of Kleenex, a bottle of Stoly, a glass. A vial of coke. She sat down in the nest of the couch.

“I've forgotten your name. Ruby?”

“Rune.”

“I just can't believe it. Those bastards. They're supposed to be religious but that's not the way good Christians ought to be. Fuck 'em.”

“Who told you?” Rune asked.