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“That’s the last day Monica Landau saw him alive.”

“Where are these boxes now?”

“That’s where it gets screwy. I was in his office all day yesterday. Vincenzo is still putting in full days; I think she manages the cash flow and she’s paying herself, hoping that Landau comes back and that there’s still a job for her. I was getting close to the end of his business records, so I stayed on until late into the night, paging through them. Landau Consignments is right across from the Beroil Club, you know. I had my feet on the desk and I was smoking a cigarette. The air was unusually hot and my tie was open. The Beroil has a neon sign and—”

The old man smacked a desiccated fist on the arm of his wheelchair. “Yes, yes, yes. And the neon light beat a steady tattoo on the wall and somewhere I heard a melancholy saxophone play. I know. Get on with the story man!”

He got on my last good nerve so I gave it to him hard and plain. “I suddenly felt that someone else was in the room. I looked up and there was Landau, standing in the doorway. I had been carrying his picture with me for the past few days, and he’s impossible to miss. Tall guy. Was blond once, but now a little gray at the temples. Jowly, but not fat. He was wearing a dark suit, probably the one he was wearing the day he vanished because it has dirt stains on the knees and elbows.

“I got up and made my way around the desk. I was about to ask him where he’d been and let him know his wife was worried when he snarled at me like an animal and grabbed me by the wrist. He pulled me forward and I slammed into the wall hard enough to crack it. I shook my head to work the brain when he came at me again. His eyes were glowing red … I swear to God, his eyes were glowing red. And his breath. Jesus, he smelled like rotten meat and stale farts. He reached for my collar and I ducked and weaved around him.

“I’m not brave. I knew something was wrong with him, and I wasn’t about to try and make friends with the guy. I slammed my fist into the nape of his neck. It’s a punch that would’ve floored an elephant, but he stayed standing.

“Without missing a beat, he takes a backhanded swipe at me. I had ducked back a bit, but he caught me on the shoulder and I staggered back and over the desk. I came down on his office chair, and it slid between me and the wall. Good thing. I was able to haul myself up out of it and pulled my gun. I drew a bead on him and told him to raise his hands and get nice and quiet.

“But he didn’t. He just … growled. It was low and guttural, like he went blood simple. His teeth were, well, huge. And his eyes … red light shone out of them … like hot coals burning inside of his head. I don’t scare easy, but I felt my insides melt and turn to mush. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just aimed and fired.”

The old man was silent for a minute, staring into space. I let him think before I talked again.

“The first shot hit him square in the chest, maybe eight inches under his chin. A black hole burned through his tie and white shirt, but no blood. He stopped at the impact and looked down at the bullet hole. A little wisp of smoke was coming out of it when he looked up at me. I panicked and fired again, making another hole right next to the first one, but closer to the heart. It ripped through his suit jacket, but still no blood. I didn’t wait for him to react to that one. I took my gun in both hands and aimed at his head. I heard the bullet smack into his skull.

“The force of the shot knocked him against the wall and he buried his face in his hands. Then, slowly, he looked up at me again. His forehead had torn open, and ragged strips of flesh hung down around his eyebrows. Gray, moldy pulp that I knew to be his brains dribbled down his nose, but still no blood. He wiped the mess away from his face with his sleeve and snarled. And that was it, I knew I was dead.

“But as he took his first step, we heard the sirens blare. There had to be a squad car parked right near the Beroil, or maybe a security guard in the building called. Either way, the