Part 1 (1/2)

Doppelgangster.

by Laura Resnick.

PROLOGUE.

The fact that I had killed a man was really putting a crimp in my love life.

Well, okay, to be strictly accurate, I I hadn't killed him. But I had helped. And I had watched enough of the Emmy Award-winning cops-and-lawyers drama hadn't killed him. But I had helped. And I had watched enough of the Emmy Award-winning cops-and-lawyers drama Crime and Punishment Crime and Punishment on TV to know that cops weren't very understanding about that sort of thing. I had even auditioned for the role of a murderess in a on TV to know that cops weren't very understanding about that sort of thing. I had even auditioned for the role of a murderess in a C&P C&P episode the previous year, but I didn't get the part. So, since I had never even played a killer, actually episode the previous year, but I didn't get the part. So, since I had never even played a killer, actually being being one now was something of a novelty. one now was something of a novelty.

It was also rather awkward, since I was dating a cop. Or at least trying to date one. And he was a straight-arrow cop who didn't look the other way when it came to breaking and entering and vandalism (two more awkward secrets I was keeping from him), never mind murder.

Which is not to say that I had done anything wrong. On the contrary. I stand by my actions. I was fighting Evil.

And if that sounds absurd to you, well, that's understandable. It sounds pretty d.a.m.n absurd to me, too.

The man I had helped kill-and I'm using the word ”man” in its broadest possible sense-was a demented sorcerer's apprentice who tried to take over New York City by summoning a virgin-raping, people-eating demon.

You probably think I'm kidding.

In a series of events that I was trying hard not to think about now that they were over, I had helped Dr. Maximillian Zadok, Manhattan's resident sorcerer and local representative of the Magnum Collegium-a secret organization whose worldwide mission is to confront Evil-track the villain to his underground lair. There we had faced the demon Avolapek (an individual about whom the words ”biliously repellant” are far too kind), had defeated him in what might loosely be termed combat, and had slain his maniacal creator, the rogue apprentice Hieronymus.

I am not making this up.

How Max had eliminated Hieronymus was not entirely clear to me. Most Most things about Max were not entirely clear to me. He and a fellow mage, a man named Lysander-whose day job is keeping Altoona, Pennsylvania, safe from Evil (yes, really)-had done some chanting in another language, and Hieronymus had vanished. According to Max, this was dissolution, which he described to me as ”something remarkably similar to death.” Since it was a permanent, all-dimensions solution to the problem of Hieronymus and his evil plans, I had no objection. But I also had a feeling that a jury might consider any legal difference (if one existed) between murder and dissolution to be so piddling as to make no difference at all in our conviction and sentencing, should these events ever come to light. things about Max were not entirely clear to me. He and a fellow mage, a man named Lysander-whose day job is keeping Altoona, Pennsylvania, safe from Evil (yes, really)-had done some chanting in another language, and Hieronymus had vanished. According to Max, this was dissolution, which he described to me as ”something remarkably similar to death.” Since it was a permanent, all-dimensions solution to the problem of Hieronymus and his evil plans, I had no objection. But I also had a feeling that a jury might consider any legal difference (if one existed) between murder and dissolution to be so piddling as to make no difference at all in our conviction and sentencing, should these events ever come to light.

By the time Max arrived at Hieronymus' secret lair to save me from becoming demon dinner, I had already beaten Hieronymus to a pulp with a candelabra and then thrown him as a decoy at the virgin-raping Avolapek (who did not refuse a free meal, so to speak). So a jury might reasonably conclude that I had actively a.s.sisted in the evil apprentice's demise-or at least softened him up for it. I figured Max and I could both be in big trouble over those events-unless a jury also also believed the part about Hieronymus summoning a demon and trying to kill a bunch of people (including me) at the very moment we snuffed out his life. believed the part about Hieronymus summoning a demon and trying to kill a bunch of people (including me) at the very moment we snuffed out his life.

I pictured myself saying in a court of law, ”Well, Your Honor, there was this evil sorcerer's apprentice and a flesh-eating, power-granting demon he summoned from a primordial dimension . . .”

Even I couldn't see a way to make that script work.

Which was why I felt it was imperative that Detective Lopez, who'd dogged our steps on that case, should never find out what had happened that fateful night. Happily, no one was pressing charges about the breaking and entering and vandalism that Max and I had previously committed (hey, we were trying to prevent more innocents from getting hurt, okay?), and Lopez had dropped that particular subject by now. He was, however, still perplexed about what had happened the night that Max and I, along with several missing persons (Hieronymus' victims, whom we rescued when we defeated him), suddenly turned up at an obscure Morning-side Heights magic club without explanation, all looking (and smelling) as if we'd been to h.e.l.l and back. There was also a white Bengal tiger with us-but I digress.

The problem was . . . I really liked Lopez. He liked me, too. But I was jumpy about any topic that might lead to his asking about that night. He sensed I was hiding things, and that raised his cop hackles. So our first couple of dates hadn't gone that well. Nevertheless, he asked me out a third time. Obviously, it would have been smart for me to say no. From the beginning, actually. It would have been wise to avoid Lopez altogether, to stay off his radar.

But, come on, I'm a single woman in New York City. It takes more than a morbid fear of doing life in prison for homicide to make me turn down a date with an employed, attractive, single, heteros.e.xual man who has nice table manners, listens when I talk, and knows how to kiss.

So I said yes to a third date.

We both worked nights, so we'd met for lunch on our previous two dates. This time, Lopez wanted to take me out for dinner. He said he had something to celebrate. He was a detective in the Sixth Precinct and usually worked second s.h.i.+ft, getting off around midnight. I was doing eight shows per week as a chorus nymph and unrewarded understudy in the new off-Broadway musical Sorcerer! Sorcerer! So Lopez traded s.h.i.+fts with another cop so he would be free on Sunday, the one night I wasn't working. So Lopez traded s.h.i.+fts with another cop so he would be free on Sunday, the one night I wasn't working.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be a bad night for me. Also for my love life. And things soon got worse. Before long, someone was trying to kill me. And Lopez.

So maybe he'd have been better off if he'd never asked me out a third time.

1.

The good-looking man standing in my doorway wanted to have s.e.x with me.

That much was apparent just from the way he was dressed. I wasn't born yesterday. (In point of fact, I was born twenty-seven years ago.) A man who goes to that much trouble to look s.e.xy has got definite plans in mind when he arrives at a woman's door.

Lopez wore a sophisticated, well-cut black jacket and trousers with a black silk s.h.i.+rt. Open at the neck, the s.h.i.+rt exposed the smooth, dark golden skin of his throat. Even in my current state of panic and depression, I noticed how tempting this was. But only briefly.

The dim light in the hallway glinted off his straight black hair as he held out a single red rose to me.

I frowned. ”What are you doing here?”

He looked a little surprised by this reception, but quickly regrouped. ”We have a date tonight.”

”We do?”

”Yes, Esther.” The hand holding the rose dropped to his side. ”Sunday night. Dinner. I wanted to . . .” Thick black lashes lowered over blue eyes as his gaze flickered over me. ”You're not exactly dressed for celebrating,” he noted.

”Celebrating?” I snapped. ”Celebrating? Are you insane?” Are you insane?”

He blinked. ”Did something happen?”

”OhmiG.o.d!” I suddenly realized what he was doing there. ”We have a date tonight!”

He lifted one brow. ”Do you want to close the door? I could knock on it, and we could start all over again.”

”You look nice,” I said, hoping to make up for my earlier behavior.

”Can I come in?” he asked patiently.

”Oh! Of course.” I moved aside and gestured for him to enter my home.

I live in a good apartment for a struggling actress in New York City. It's a second-floor walk-up in the West Thirties, near Ninth Avenue. The neighborhood is about as elegant as the floor of a public bathroom, and the apartment is old and falling apart. But my place is s.p.a.cious (by Manhattan standards) and rent-controlled, and I have it all to myself.

However, even with rent control, I was currently worried about how I'd keep a roof over my head.

I closed the door behind Lopez and turned to face him as he stood in my living room. I realized he looked better than nice, he looked traffic-stopping. I suddenly regretted that I was greeting him with messy, unwashed hair, wearing old sweatpants and a T-s.h.i.+rt from the Actor's Studio, with a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream in my hand.

Prince Charming meets the Bag Lady.

Except that Detective Connor Lopez didn't look innocuous enough to be Prince Charming. (He also didn't look like a Connor.) Thirty-one years old, he had inherited exotic dark looks from his Cuban father and lively blue eyes from his Irish American mother. Average height, with a slim, athletic build, he looked like a man who'd want more than a chaste kiss in exchange for rescuing the sleeping princess. Especially dressed the way he was tonight.

I'm 5 foot 6 and in decent enough condition to do eight performances of a song-and-dance musical in skimpy clothes every week, but I'm not skinny enough to work in Hollywood. I've got brown eyes, brown shoulder-length hair, and fair skin. My looks are versatile, and I can play heroines onstage, but my face, like my figure, doesn't meet Hollywood leading-lady standards. However, when he chose, Lopez had a way of looking at me that made me feel like a s.e.xy movie-star vamp.

That wasn't the look he was giving me right now, though.

Eyeing my not-ready-for-dinner appearance, he said, ”I can wait while you change. Er, shower shower and change.” and change.”