The Angel led the way inside, scanning right and left. Lonnegan and Stevens followed, splitting left and right behind her.

It was a rather nice room. The carpet was deep pile plush, the walls a tasteful shade of deep, restful green, with half a dozen nice oil paintings and a cabinet of expensive-looking jade curios against one wall. The furniture, too, looked expensive though the Angel couldn’t say where or when it had been made. Unfortunately, the flying door had smashed one spindly-legged little table and shattered the once-elegant vase that had stood upon it.

Before anyone could say anything, Mendelberg suddenly appeared in an open doorway that led deeper into the apartment, feet spread, an automatic held up before her in a two-handed shooter’s grip. Her expression was grim, her scarlet eyes burned like bonfires in hell.

“You bitches broke my Ming!” she spat.

“Hey!” Stevens said.

“Shut up!”

The Angel was marginally closest to her. Mendelberg’s pistol was aimed more at her than anyone else.

“Good evening, Captain,” Lonnegan said. “We heard you weren’t feeling well so we decided to stop by and see how you were doing.”

Mendelberg hissed, her weird ears fluttering like fish fins caught in a swirling current. Her pistol shifted, fractionally, and focused on the female cop.

“I always hated you, Lonnegan,” the captain said. “Always so cocky, so sure. Always acting like the queen of the precinct.’

Lonnegan smiled easily. “That’s good to know,” she said. “I’d hate to think that a shit-stain like you liked me.”

“Your nat feelings hurt, Lonnegan?”

“The only thing that hurts is my knowledge of all the pain you’ve caused, all the suffering and death. And for what? Grekor’s filthy money?”

“Do you think this stuff pays for itself?” Mendelberg asked, gesturing around her with the pistol. “This is nothing, nothing, compared to what my family had before the Nazis stole it all. And then they came to America. To Manhattan, just in time to be born from their twisted genes.”

“Sad story,” Lonnegan said laconically.

“Sad? You don’t know sad, shiksa. I was born in Jokertown. I lived in the filth and among everyday horrors that could freeze your liquor-diluted Irish blood. I worked my ass off to get out of that place. Graduated magna cum laude from Columbia. Finished number one in my class in the Police Academy. And for what? Finally when I made captain, where did they send me? Back to that hellhole I worked so hard to escape. Back to the crapsack precinct, Fort Freak.” Mendelberg shrugged. “So I took the Russian’s money. Why not? It was as good as the city’s. Better, because it was tax free.”

“Jokers died because of what you did,” the Angel said.

“Jokers die every day.”

“Father Squid died,” Lonnegan murmured.

“A priest of a false, bastard religion.”

“Jamal Norwood died,” the Angel said.

“A shitty actor and jumped-up government stooge.” Mendelberg shook her head. “I was almost there,” she said quietly. “I had almost saved up enough…”