71.

Grip spent two uneasy hours sleeping on a cot in Westermann’s small office just off the squad room. Morphy had gone home to his wife, but they’d both agreed that someone should be on premises in case something came up. Grip wasn’t unhappy that he would be away from his apartment, with the skull still painted on the door and the memory of the presence in his room the other night.

The prostitute they’d found that evening—the one who knew Vesterhue—had agreed to go back to the station with them after they promised her a decent meal and a payoff to her pimp. She claimed her name was Angel, and she was sleeping on a cot in a locked interview room. Grip needed a clearer head before they talked.

She’d given up the names of four girls she thought had also seen Vesterhue; even the addresses for two of them. Exhausted and coming down off his whiskey binge, Grip had given the information to two uniforms and sent them out into the night.

While the men were gone, Grip fell into a deep, troubled sleep, sweating as if he had a fever. He was awakened twice in the two hours, pale cop faces looking down at him, telling him they’d brought in another girl, set her up in a cot in a spare interview room. Two girls and Angel. It had the feel of something big. A break in the case. But Grip’s mind was carried by strange, unfocused currents, and he fell asleep again to be greeted with still more disturbing dreams.