I steer her towards the hallway, but she stops at the door, planting her back against the frame. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are bright.

Carmine was a lucky guy, I think. What did he do to you?

‘Kiss me, baby,’ she moans. ‘I’ve been dreaming so long.’

After all this time I get lucky twice in one day. Pity about the blood-sodden circumstances.

‘Come on, Carmine,’ says Sofia, her voice sulky and impatient. ‘No kiss, no pill.’

So I kiss her. She grabs a fistful of my neck hair and pulls me in deep, and it’s like a movie kiss, long and languorous, and after a year or so I start wishing my name was Carmine.

We come up for air and Sofia’s eyes are wet. Blue mascara flowers on her cheeks.

‘We still got the spark, Carmine.’

I’m feeling a bit emotional myself. ‘Yeah, Sofia. That was something.’

Her nose crinkles. ‘But what happened to your hair?’

I hustle her up the stairs with Ghost Zeb chuckling in my ear.

I shut the door behind Mrs Delano, then take the steps three at a time back to my apartment. Deacon is up and about, stumbling around head in hands, swear words drooling from her lips. She’s not fully conscious yet, but any minute now.

She spots me with one rolling eye, and lurches in my direction like an extra from Day of the Dead.

‘Easy there, Detective Deacon,’ I say, gallantly steering her to the remains of the sofa. She plonks down, deep into the butchered cushions. Her entire midsection disappears, from boobs to knees. On any other day you’d have to laugh, except maybe yesterday or the day before that.

‘How you feeling, Detective?’

‘Screw you.’

‘We did that, remember.’

‘Did we? I didn’t notice.’

‘I have it on very good authority that I have a lovely pee-pee, so lay off.’

Deacon’s eyes are clearing up now. I can see craftiness in the corners.

‘Okay. It was wonderful. You were like a stallion, Daniel.’ She rattles her cuffs under my nose. ‘So let me go.’

I nod slowly. ‘You put together a good argument, me being like a stallion and so forth. So okay.’

I slip off one cuff just long enough to attach it to the sofa’s exposed metal frame. Deacon does not bother yanking her chain.

‘Bastard,’ she sighs, rolling her eyes.

‘It’s temporary,’ I assure her. ‘Just until I can figure out what to do with you.’

‘You could stick a knife in my forehead.’

I mull this over. ‘Tempting. But no. What if I winged you, then you shoot yourself half a dozen times?’

‘That’s not funny, McEvoy,’ says Deacon, throwing a futile kick in my direction.

‘Exactly.’

I finish dressing, hang my jacket on a nail and run the kitchen faucet over my head.

‘Why did Goran want to kill you?’