Storm Front

Then the medical examiner made things interesting. Demming was actually a hermaphrodite. He appeared to be male, but had both male and female sex organs. Sure enough, the plain-clothes detectives going through the apartment found both men’s and women’s clothing, even though it was clear the apartment only had one inhabitant. This led to the theory that Demming liked be a man during the day, when it was convenient to be a member of the Wall Street boys’ club, but sometimes indulged his feminine side at night. It certainly explained the rather large pair of pan ties in his mouth and the hose that had been used to secure it there.

Storm was a mere spectator to their speculation. It wasn’t until an hour later that a woman flashing a detective’s badge approached him in the kitchen. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and was easily the most beautiful detective Storm had ever seen.

“Hello, Mr. Storm,” she said. “My name is Nikki Heat. I’m with the NYPD.”

“Hello, Nikki Heat,” Storm said amiably. “Didn’t I read about you in a magazine somewhere?”

“Yes. But if you like your head unsmacked, I suggest you don’t remind me.”

“Consider me advised,” Storm said, then jerked his head at a man who had appeared behind Heat, just out of earshot. “Who’s that?”

“This is Jameson Rook. He’s… he’s none of your concern.”

“Jameson Rook, the magazine writer?”

“Yes,” she said, like this annoyed her.

“I never knew he was so handsome,” Storm said.

“You really do want to be smacked,” Heat said.

Storm shrugged as Rook approached. “Excuse me, Detective Heat, but who is this?”

“This is our suspect,” she said.

Rook apprised Storm for a moment. “Not possible. He’s too good-looking to be a suspect.”

Heat threw her hands up in the air. “Before you ladies go off and get a room together, do you mind if I ask him some questions?”

“Sorry, go ahead,” Rook said.

Heat turned to Storm: “Can you please explain to me what you were doing in this apartment with Mr. Demming’s corpse?”

“To your satisfaction?” Storm said. “I very seriously doubt it. But I can tell you who the killer is.”

“Great,” Heat said sarcastically. “Can you also tell me where he is, get a warrant for his arrest, and then collar him so I can go home and get some sleep?”

Storm sighed. “That,” he said, “is where things get a lot more difficult.”

CHAPTER 24

QUEENS, New York

The Delta Airlines terminal at LaGuardia Airport had been under construction so long, Storm swore they could have rebuilt it at least three times already. Yet the scaffolding remained, a temporary fixture that had somehow become permanent.

Storm arrived there at 6:45 A.M., looking wrinkled and feeling worse. It had been a long night with the NYPD, who were eventually convinced to let Storm go his own way. It helped that a CIA station agent had vouched for Storm. Naturally, that added a complication for Storm: The station agent would fill out a report that would reach Jedediah Jones’s desk in twenty-four hours or less, which would prompt questions from Jones. But Storm would just have to finesse that.

The final stumbling block had been Laster, the front desk man, who wanted Storm brought up on assault and battery charges; he also hinted at a civil suit, where his pain and suffering would be compensated with tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of dollars. Then Jameson Rook promised that in exchange for letting it drop, he would wrangle the guy an invite to a Fashion Week party that would be crawling with gorgeous models. That turned out to be enough to ease the man’s pain and end his suffering.

Storm had thanked Rook for the assist. The two complimented each other’s rugged good looks one last time, prompting Heat to say something about vomiting in her own mouth. Then Storm went off to grab a few quick hours of sleep at the W, ruing the tragic underuse of the Heavenly Bed the whole time.

He had taken a cab out to the airport, having it stop in the garage where he kept his Mustang Shelby GT500 — and, more importantly, some spare weapons. He thought about having the cab leave him there, but then opted against it. Counting the rental car he had driven out to Cracker’s house, he already had one Mustang out of place that he’d need to deal with later. He didn’t want to have to leave another one scattered somewhere else. He completed the trip to LaGuardia in the taxi.

Now he was waiting in the arrivals area, expecting to see a glimpse of something even more heavenly — Ling Xi Bang — when his satellite phone rang. He recognized the country code of the incoming call, which originated in Romania. That could only mean one person.

“Sister Rose,” he said. “You’ve changed your mind about my proposal.”

“Oh, Derrick Storm,” Sister Rose McAvoy’s brogue poured through the phone. “I only wish the purpose of my call was so happy.”

“What’s the matter?” Storm asked.

“I don’t mean to be troubling you. And if you’re busy saving the world, you just tell this little old nun to get on her way and go.”

“You know I always have time for you, Sister Rose.”