up all the moisture, and I was no longer wet. I put on black jeans and a T-shirt that was so dark blue you’d have thought it was also black if you didn’t have the jeans to compare it to.
I thought about taking a moment to comb my hair; in my business, it didn’t hurt to have a slightly wild-and-crazy look, but right now I was downright Gustavian. But no sooner had I picked up the comb than I heard an all-too-familiar electronic whine. I ran out of the room and saw, in the stark light spilling in from the corridor, Trace standing spread-eagled with all his limbs vibrating and a look of agony on his face. “Jesus!” I shouted. “Rory, get out! Get out right away!”
The paleontologist looked puzzled but he knew by now to heed my advice. He dashed out into the corridor. Huxley was holding the disruptor in both hands, with the disk aimed squarely—or roundly—at Trace.
Mac could have intervened but he didn’t; he simply kept his own gun trained on the transfer. After about ten more seconds, Huxley pulled out the control that deactivated the disruptor, and Trace collapsed like a skyscraper undergoing controlled demolition.
“Why’d you do that?” I demanded.
Huxley sounded defensive. “He came at us,” he said. “He came right at us.”
“Aye,” said Mac. “He did. I’d warned him we had a disruptor, Alex—you heard me. But . . .” He lifted his hands philosophically.
Normally, one of us might have rushed in to look at a downed man to see if he was still alive, but I doubted any of us knew how to tell with a transfer. Huxley put down the disruptor, leaning it against the wall that had the poster for Key Largo. I called out, “Rory! It’s safe to come back!”
Dr. Pickover appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Is he—” But even the transfer hesitated over whether “dead” was the right word.
I prodded Trace with my foot—I hadn’t had time yet to put on shoes or socks. He didn’t move. “I think so.”
“All right,” said Mac. He lifted his left arm and pointed at his wrist phone to let me know we were now on the record. “We had reports of two weapons discharges. Who shot first?”
“I did.”
“Then you’ll have to—”
I cut Mac off and pointed up. “I did—but I shot out the light, see? I agree hitting the switch would have been more genteel, but there’s actually no regulation against shooting inanimate objects. I thought my chances were better in the dark.”
Huxley appeared dubious—but then, he appeared dubious when he looked at a waffle iron, as if he suspected there must be some trick involved in getting bumps to make dents. But it was Mac’s opinion that counted, and Mac nodded. “All right,” he said slowly, looking at the downed transfer. “What was he doing here?”
“He broke in. Looking for money, I guess. I happened to be in the shower and startled him when I came out.”
“Okay,” said Mac. “And the second shot?”
“Dr. Pickover here showed up, and this goon fired at him.”
Mac looked thoughtfully at the massive heap on the floor. “Never quite sure what to do with a dead transfer, but if we keep frying them at this rate, my coroner is going to need to find another job.”
“Take him to NewYou,” I suggested. “See if they can ID him.”
Mac nodded. He began to look around my apartment. “Sorry,” I said, interposing myself between him and the wall unit he’d been about to examine. “Not without a warrant.”
“It’s a crime scene, Alex.”
“Only because Huxley fried the guy. You can’t manufacture crimes just so you can nose around a man’s home.”
“Guns were fired.”
“True. But I haven’t filed a complaint, and neither has Dr. Pickover.”
Mac scratched his left ear. “All right,” he said. “You’ll at least let me take some pictures of the body before we move it?”
I gestured toward it. “Be my guest.” While he was doing that, I spoke to my phone, asking it to find an electrician who could come in and fix my ceiling light. By the time I was done with that, Mac was ready to go. He had taken Trace’s arms, and Huxley had his legs, and they’d balanced the disruptor on Trace’s belly, and were carrying him out my door into the corridor. “Mind if I tag along?” I asked.
“About as much as you minded me searching your apartment,” Mac said.
Touché, I thought.
But Pickover spoke up. “We’re heading to NewYou, anyway, Detective. I’ve