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him after his return to inhabit flesh didn’t extend much beyond this simple magic trick, but sometimes it was enough.
    â€œOkay, Barbara,” he muttered, turning to face the long, silent hall. “Let’s find out why you think I deserved to die.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    S uite 1509. The exact number hadn’t been in the paper—the one not due to be printed for another two days, he reminded himself—but Grif didn’t need it. The plasmic thread snaking down the hall was enough to tell him he had the right place, and that Barbara was home. Sarge hadn’t given him much of a lead.
    He considered knocking, but decided he’d rather risk frightening Barbara, and saving her life, than alerting her attackers to his presence. So he pulled the snubnose pistol from his ankle holster and placed his other hand on the door, which snicked open with one well-directed thought.
    The marble foyer was black and white, and flanked by two grand marble pedestals, each holding fresh flowers destined to live longer than the woman who’d bought them. Unless I have a say in the matter, Grif thought. Pistol up, he edged around the glossy center console.
    The arched ceiling thwarted his caution and amplified his footsteps so that his soles squeaked, even as he tiptoed, careful to avoid the crystal urns and ceramic statues clustered nearby. Dust catchers, he thought. Or that’s what they called them in his day, and they seemed to serve the same useless purpose now.
    A short hallway linked the entrance to the main room, and Grif craned his head to find a creamy pastel living area dotted with soft fabrics, cashmere throws, and velvet settees. It was vast, too. Grif could feel its size as he edged forward, taking note of the bold artwork hanging in ornate gold frames. The vibrant swaths of paint put Grif in mind of bodies intertwined, the whorls and loops somehow erotic despite the lack of function or form. One more step allowed a slivered view of the glittering valley from a floor-to-ceiling window that was currently open at one end and sucking out room spray . . . and the scent of gunpowder with it.
    Gun braced before him, Grif swiveled around the corner, and pivoted left, then right, before straightening his knees. He sighed.
    â€œThese dames and their white carpeting,” he muttered, and stepped into the blood-splattered room. A woman lay splayed on her stomach, facedown, or would’ve been if she’d still possessed a face.
    Softening his vision and allowing his celestial eyesight to rise to its forefront, he searched for signs of the plasma he’d spotted in the hall, but it was gone, as was the murdered soul and her assigned Centurion. Just as well. Victims of violent death could develop an emotional tic if they stared at their mortal remains for long. It made regret and grief harder to work out in the Tube.
    So much for saving Barbara McCoy, Grif thought, cursing himself as he ventured closer. His feet sunk into the thick carpeting, though he was careful to skirt the still-widening ring of blood. He thought of the elevator dinging just as he gained the fifteenth floor, and cursed again, knowing he’d missed this murder by minutes. Why the hell had Sarge allowed that? Bending, Grif inspected the body. Barbara had been wearing a white silk pantsuit, as if dressed to match the grand suite. It was probably what they’d call winter white—also an impractical color for death—but at least she’d look sharp for eternity.
    Grif slid his gaze up the body to where her head should have been. The shot had come from up close. Personal, he thought, glancing up and around. Despite all the crystal and vases and array of tchotchkes lacking any practical function, there were no frames, no photographs, and no way for Grif to see what the woman had looked like before someone took her head away.
    Eyes scanning the floor again, Grif also realized Barbara had already been prone at the time of