Chapter One

This dump has been scheduled for a foundation-up rehab for years. In the meantime, the housing inspectors turn a money-blinded eye, and any derelict with a five-dollar bill can buy himself twenty-four hours off the streets.

But not on the top floor. That one is permanently closed. Unfit for Human Occupancy.

That's where I live-unregistered and invisible. The only name anyone ever had for me was last seen attached to a body part in the morgue, before the City did whatever it does with unclaimed remains.

"Somebody" was Gateman's way of saying that whoever was downstairs had come alone ... and he'd seen them before. If it had been a stranger, he would have reached under the raw wood plank that holds a register nobody ever signs. A concealed button would set off the flashers behind the dinner-plate-sized red plastic disks I have on the walls in every room of my place. That's only one of its custom features. Another is a private exit.

Anytime someone comes looking for me, it's Gateman's call. Even confined to his wheelchair, he's got options. Instead of the button, he could reach for the handgun he always keeps right next to his colostomy bag.

"You get a name?" I asked.

"Pepper, right?" I heard him say to the visitor.

"Short girl, pretty, dark hair, kilowatt smile?" I asked.

"All but the last, boss," Gateman said. "And she's got company."

"What's he-?"

"It's a dog, boss. Big-ass Rottweiler."

That's when I knew the