I had a rather mediocre Christmas, folks. Since it was just me and my wife—no relatives, thank Patterson—I got her a nice teddy, and, as Wednesday would doubtless put it, reassured myself of my masculinity. I got Murray a new hat, and he got me an X-Box 360. Since I had already gotten one, I gave it to Pat. Pat got a copy of Sonic Rush from his parents. I got myself frickin' drunk on eggnog, and a copy of Wedding Crashers from my wife.

That said, the Christmas ornaments are, as usual, taking forever to come down. I'm not sure how to spend new year's, though. I don't want to go out, as it's frickin' cold in New York this time of year. I was planning to stay at home with the leftover eggnog and watch the Naruto marathon, while listening to increasingly obscure bands I downloaded from iTunes. I am the very model of a modern major lanlord.

I know the Conrads are going to a local Baptist Church, and "Miss Bliss", upstairs, is going to "get drunk and bone some guy", as she told me earlier while handing over the rent. As I understand it, she's a camwhore as a small way of living.

Bender: That's what she said! WHOOO.

Good night, and good luck.

I was up on the roof, chasing increasingly inane theories for Ray's
murder, when the Conrad kid came bursting through the door, which I had
left open. They saw me, and immediately ducked behind one of the ducts.
(Heh.)

I waited a few minutes. When nothing happened, I walked over to the
duct. It was shaking and sobbing slightly, so I reached into my pocket
for the handkerchief I always carry around, and dropped it on the other
side of the vent. After a few moments, it blew its nose with a loud
hooting sound.

"Want to talk about it?" I said as gently as I could. My father is a
pediatrician. I'll have to call him and ask him to calm down unruly
kids. I remember standing there hundreds of times as he managed to get a
screaming, terrified lad of eight to let go of his mother's
bell-bottoms, snop sniffling, eat a popsicle, and then he'd jab a hollow
metal tube into their arm and take their blood. Since he was telling
them a funny story about a lion, an elephant, and a rabbit who walked
into an ice cream salon, they never noticed.

"SomekidsatschoolweremakingfunofmecauseI'maherm" he(as I later learned
they preferred) blurted out.

I settled back against the duct. Hermaphrodites were rare, but no rarer
than, say, a black person with hazel eyes. As such, they were a prized
commodity among fur fetishists, who had plenty of forums dedicated to
them. Surprisingly, androgynous herms, such as Pat here, were largely
ignored in favor of futanari; girls with penises. The ones who did like
AndryHerms were rabid, though.

I recalled the Conrads when they moved in several months ago; a young
couple with a reticent, slightly sulky child of indeterminate gender. I
had only caught a few glimpses of him since, and today was the first
time I learned that he was a herm. His parents seemed a little stressed;
it's not easy to find skirts with carefully-concealed flies in this
city. Better chance in San Francisco.

"Well, Pat, you just have to not let them get to yo-"

"I know that," he cut me off. I peeked, and saw that he was looking at
his hand. It closed into a tiny fist. "I mean, my mind knows it, but it
still hurts."

It occured to me that all really he needed was a hug. And I gave it to
him. He fell asleep, and I took him downstairs. His mother said thank
you so much, we've been looking for him all over--won't you come in and
have some tea? I declined; after all, I had to put up the Christmas
decorations.

^I thought it was appropriate, in a morbid way.

Ahem.

After typing up the previous post and staring at the "Published Successfully" message for a while. I grabbed my jacket and called Murray; he retired twenty years ago, but he still had to have some connections. After all, I had never seen him swear at his parking tickets.

It seems amazing, in retrospect, that I was even thinking properly. I suppose I was numb, and moving automatically. Which is strange, because I've never had the police come in with warrants to search one of my tenant's apartments before. Yeah, I know, New York, but it's true.

At the station, I wait quietly on a bench while Murray makes miracles. Probably look like some guy bailing his son out. After all of 6 minutes, he comes out, and Det. Green ushers me into the interview room.

The door stays open.

Green hands me coffee, two sugars, stirred, not shaken. As opposed to me, who is shaken as a dry martini, and can feel the bile rising up my throat. It doesn't get any better when I find out what happened to Stoney.

Reynard "Ray" Greenleaf-the name Gavin Gunhold on the lease agreement was false, as I suspected-was in his early thirties. A wolf-fur, he had been arrested several times for possesion and dealing, nickle-and-dime stuff. A few years ago, he moved into my building. Then he went quiet, until his body was left in front of the Smith in a cardboard box. Since it was a potential bomb, they called the police. After identification of the contents-I am told the officers responsible will have nightmares for years-his pieces were sent to the ME. He was sapped and paralyzed by an aerotal injection of something with too many constonants, and slowly amputated without aesthetics or sealing the wound. Whoever had killed him had been nice enough to line the box so that no blood would leak out.

Green reaches around the doorframe and hands me a bucket to retch in. "We think it was a hate crime," he says one of the times I come up for air.

"No, really, ya think? He was tortured, dismembered, and shipped, postage due, to an augmentation institute!"

Green leans back. "What we want to know, Mr. Paxton-"

"Jake."

"-is what your intrest is in this."

"He owes me money."

Green cracks a smile.

"There was a time when any person who was a guest of a great lord was under their protection up until they left or were thrown out. A host being remiss in these was punishable by law. I guess...I see myself as a sort of great lord, and I want to find out what happened to one of my guests."

"Had any experience in investigating homicides?"

"Good a time as any to start."

He sighed and stood up. "C'mon, I'll escort you out."

"What about Murray?"

"He's enjoying the company of a Magnum in his old office."

"The gun?"

"No, he left some champagne in there after a party last month."