Unable to help herself, Mia smiled.

Markinson looked nonplussed. “All of America is part of the community of God, Senator. What the Reverend Mann did in 2001 was express a fear that God had abandoned the city of New York.”

Now Mia rolled her eyes. “So is this is what you do, Mr. Markinson? The reverend says something inflammatory and crazy, and you go on TV and tell people he didn’t really mean that, what he really meant was this.”

“That’s not at all fair, Mia,” Markinson said in his most condescending tone. And you’re “Tim” from now on, you self-righteous prick. “The Reverend Mann’s words are often taken out of context by a biased media and as public information officer, it’s my job to clarify and explain when people misunderstand the reverend’s words.”

Hannah said, “I can’t speak for Mia here, but I’ve read the reverend’s words, Tim, every single one of them. Not once did he ever say ‘cast out’ or ‘remove from God’s community’ or any of the other phrases that you’ve been using nonstop since the video of his sermon hit YouTube. He was calling for Big Charlie’s death.”

“Are you saying that the Reverend Mann doesn’t have the right to speak his mind?” Markinson’s condescension actually got worse, which Mia wouldn’t have credited as possible a few seconds ago. “Because Iwould find that a fascinating position for a lawyer from the ACLU to take.

“Oh, I’ve got no problem with Mann speaking his mind, and I would defend his right to say it in court. But unless I am the one defending him, then I’ve got the right to say that he’s full of it, and that he’s calling for the death of a good man.”

“Of course,” Senator Kapsis said, “that raises the question of whether or not D.A. Charles still is that — a man, that is. Danika Dubov wasn’t exactly what you’d call a paragon of journalism, but she wasn’t a sadistic torturer, either — at least until this virus got her and turned her into some kind of vampire. The Chicago police found dozens of people she’d been literally feeding off of for weeks. With all due respect to Mr. Markinson and the Reverend Mann, concerns about whether or not D.A. Charles is part of God’s community is of less immediacy than his place in the human community.”

Hannah shrugged. “Well, the human community in his home city seems fine with him. His poll numbers have gone up since he announced that he was a loup garou. And that’s the point, this is a local election for a small part of one city. If that small group of people are okay with him, then I don’t see the problem.”

“Now hold on a minute, Hannah,” Kapsis said, “we’re not talking about a rural town with a few hundred people electing a sheriff. The Bronx has a population that is the same as that of the state of Alaska. And it’s one-fifth of one of the most important cities in the entire world.”

“With all due respect, Senator” Mia said, “I don’t see what difference that makes. If it was a little town upstate, or if it is the Bronx — which, by the way, has twice the population of Alaska — the point is, it’s up to those of us who live there to decide. It doesn’t matter what we say or what some televangelist says. It’s up to the people. And that’s what matters.”

“ The Rev —” Markinson started, but Helen interrupted.

“I have to cut you off, Tim —”

Markinson interrupted right back. “ The Reverend Mann is not a ‘televangelist,’ which is a term we find quite offensi —”

Sternly, Helen said, “ Tim, please, we have to take a break. When we come back, a look at the president’s new proposed budget.”

Mia let out a long breath after the PA said, “And we’re out.”

“Nice job,” Hannah said with a smile.

Looking over at Markinson, who looked like he’d eaten an entire lemon, Mia smiled and said, “Thanks.”

— 11 —

Detective Hector Trujillo winced when he saw Mia Fitzsimmons from the News approach the crime scene.

At the moment she, like all the other reporters outside the Upper West Side apartment building where Senator Alex Kapsis had a co-op, was behind the yellow crime-scene tape. Two other News reporters were already there, reporting on the senator’s murder, so Trujillo wasn’t entirely sure what Fitzsimons was doing there.

Fitzsimmons was talking animatedly to Officer Nugent at the tape. Nugent looked like he wanted to haul off and belt the reporter, and Fitzsimmons looked like she wanted to do likewise.

“S’okay, Nugent,” Trujillo said. “Let her through.”

Nugent gave the detective a dubious expression, but waved her through. She ducked under the yellow tape and approached Trujillo.

“Saw you on TV, Fitzsimmons,” he said as she walked up to him. “Lookin’ good.”

“Thanks so much, Detective. God, it’s been, what, two years?”

“Sounds about right,” Trujillo said neutrally.

“When I gave you that witness that let you close the Rojas case?”

Again, Trujillo said, “Sounds about right.” He didn’t want to commit to anything until the reporter laid her cards on the table.

“Of course,” she said with a smile, “I could’ve just sat on the witness and wrote the story, but no, I helped you out. You got promoted to second-grade after that, didn’t you, Detective?”

So she was calling in the favor. “Can you stop fucking around and get to it, Fitzsimmons?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She took out her digital recorder.

Trujillo held up a hand. “Hold up — I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ on the record …”

“Fine.” She dropped the recorder back in her purse. “But can you tell me on the record that the senator was murdered?”

“The M.E. ain’t made it official — but the bastard was ripped to pieces by teeth. Looked as bad as Bellevue.”

Fitzsimmons nodded. Trujillo shuddered just from mentioning it. He’d gone to the Academy with Detective Jerry Schmidt, and had attended his funeral after he was ripped to pieces by Michael Fayne, the first vampire, at Bellevue Hospital.

The reports he’d read of what happened when Jerry was killed were frighteningly similar to what the senator’s living room looked like right now.

But he wasn’t about to share that with Fitzsimmons. He finally realized what she was doing here — she was on the Big Charlie beat, and when he last saw her on television, she was on with Senator Kapsis talking about the D.A.

“Okay, look, we got a guy runnin’ from the scene in custody now. The senator’s nephew.”

“Nate.”

Trujillo nodded. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Nathan Kapsis was a bad seed who had failed to appear for his day in court after he beat up his famous uncle. “He’s FTA for the assault charge last year. Senator’s wife said they ain’t even heard from the fucker in a year.”

“And he’s got I1V1?”

“Looks like. Luther Swann said he’s a —”

“Vrykolatios?”

“Gensundheit.” Trujillo attempted a smile, but it didn’t entirely work. “And yeah, I guess that’s how you pronounce it. I got it in a text from Swann.”

“It makes sense — cannibalistic, Greek.”

Trujillo didn’t care about any of that, he just wanted to close the case with a minimum of fuss. As far as he was concerned, this was a dunker — the nephew did it.

The only problem was the press angle, especially with the primary tomorrow. But at least now he had a way to repay Fitzsimmons.

A paddy wagon had pulled up, and two of the uniforms were leading a handcuffed Nate Kapsis to it. He was a skinny kid, with the muscle tone of a string bean.

Trujillo stared down at Fitzsimons. “We done here?”

“You said the senator was torn to pieces?” After Trujillo nodded, Fitzsimmons went on: “So how’d that little guy manage that?”

Shrugging, Trujillo said, “He’s a vampire. Thought they was all super-strong and shit.”

Fitzsimmons shook her head. “Not a vyrkolatios. They feast off family —”

“What, like that TV bitch in Chicago?”

“Yeah.” Fitzsimmons let out a breath. “It’s possible that Nate came at the senator and chowed down, but he doesn’t have the strength to —”

Trujillo held up both hands. “I don’t wanna hear it. I got me a dunker here, and you ain’t fuckin’ it up for me. The nephew did it — he’s got the vamp disease, he’s got a grudge against his uncle, and he’s already a fugitive. It fits, and we ain’t complicatin’ this. Now we even for Rojas?”

“Sure.” But Fitzsimmons barely seemed to pay attention to Trujillo. “It would need someone with a huge body mass to do something like that …” she muttered.

For his part, Trujillo didn’t give a rat’s ass. He had his killer in bracelets, he had a closed case to put under his name, and he no longer owed a reporter a favor. As far as he was concerned, it was a good night.

— 12 —

Transcript of “On the Street” segment of Good Morning NYC

GOOD MORNING NYC: Today’s “On the Street” comes from last night’s Democratic primary for Bronx D.A., as we asked people coming out of three different polling places in Riverdale, Morrisania, and Edenwald who they voted for, and why.

PERSON #1 (Riverdale): I’m sorry, but it’s not any of your business that I voted for Big Charlie.

PERSON #2 (Morrisania): I ain’t votin’ for no werewolf, that’s for damn sure. Solano all the way!

PERSON #3 (Edenwald): I grew up with Big Charlie. He’s a good man — the best. I don’t care if he turns into the Wicked Witch of the West, he’s a good man. I vote for good men.

PERSON #4 (Riverdale): Oh, gosh, I just had to vote for Solano. I just don’t trust Charles, y’know? The whole virus thing — it’s just icky.