I've always been something of an optimist. You may find that hard to believe, but a person doesn't survive 800 years on a diet of doom and gloom alone. No, always look on the bright side of things.

One of McConnell's drinking buddies had seen me spin his friend like a top into the path of an oncoming truck. The fellow had looked right at me from not 50 feet away.

But was I worried? Surprisingly, no.

I had been in disguise, as I always was on such errands. Surgical masks were still quite common, and lots of people wore hoodies in the city. During the snap of cool weather that we recently had experienced, they were everywhere. It seemed unlikely then that anyone would associate McConnell's assailant in Queens with the Bruja, a local vigilante who was associated with a single neighborhood in Manhattan.

And I will remind you that it was dark, the nearest streetlight many feet away, and that my eyewitness had been as drunk as the proverbial lord. He hadn't been quite so drunk as my victim, but the fellow had been very, very well into the sauce.

More important, what would my witness tell the police? As I oft have reminded you, I am freakishly swift and agile. My escape to the top of the parking garage would have appeared to the average onlooker as something akin to flight. How many people would credit an inebriated witness who claimed to have seen such a thing?

But two officers in the city had met violent deaths in just a few days. How large was the pool of people who recently had interacted with both of the men? I would wager that my name was on a very short list.

Did that fact have me in a panic? No. Was I even worried? No. But it was something about which to be concerned. I lived in the city. Should my name crop up again in another murder investigation in the future, it might be too much for the police to ignore. I will remind you of the delightful Special Agent Gaudin and note how little information a clever investigator needed to come to an accurate conclusion.

To my knowledge, no one had associated the Bruja with any murders, but Ms. Gaudin correctly had surmised that the Bruja and the serial killer known as the Defenestrator were one and the same. If her bosses began to take her seriously, and people began to connect dots back to Queens, I might have a wee lick of trouble.

I needed either to stop killing people—a thing I couldn't promise myself that I could do—or to learn to be cleverer about it. In the meantime, I would have to hunker down and endure the next days. On the chance that the police again came a-knocking, it was time to be the very best liar and actor that I was able.

And yet, I found myself skipping around the house and humming a merry tune as I did my housework. Me, ever the optimist, especially when I'd removed yet another threat to my and Fallon's happiness, couldn't resist.

Part of the merry feeling that was upon me was the realization that my slate was clean. My neighborhood, for many blocks in every direction, was clear of gangsters and criminals, Keebler's body was hanging around someone else's neck, and McConnell was no longer a threat. It wasn't clear yet whether the patrol officer was alive or dead, but it appeared unlikely that he would be returning to the force soon. Oh, and let's not forget Yardley Something the Third, whose career as a star athlete now was behind him.

I flopped down on the couch, pulled the queen stone from my pocket, and gave her a loving kiss.

"Last but not least," I said aloud.

There currently was no target for my ire, no people in need of readjusting or doing away with. It was a very, very nice feeling, one to which I could easily become accustomed.

That sense of quietude lasted about three hours, when there came yet another knocking on my door. I was fast in the middle of binging a series about police forensics, so I was loath to rise and attend to whatever petty issue had darkened my gate.

I appreciated the three hours of unadulterated peace, but my curiosity got the better of me as it so often did, and I fitted my mask and moved to discover who my callers were.

Alas, it was the police, but a pair that I had not met before, two men in plain clothes with impatient looks on their faces. I opened the door and did my best to be pleasant.

"Hello. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Sergeant Gurchiek, and this is Detective Kershaw. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"About what?" I so far had not opened or even unlocked the security gate, and to my surprise the sergeant's hand rose to the gate handle and gave it a tug.

"May we come inside?" The man's voice was impatient and more than a little aggressive.

I didn't move. "We can talk here."

It looked like the sergeant was about to burst a blood vessel, and his partner spoke up. "We're investigating the death of a police officer, Detective Bobby Keebler."

The man repositioned himself as if expecting me to open the security gate. I did not, but said instead, "I heard about that and am very sorry. What would you like to know?"

There was a moment's silence before either of the officers spoke again. It had not escaped me that Detective Kershaw had said "Bobby" Keebler rather than Robert. No doubt, these men were friends of the detective. I didn't care. I refused the very idea of letting two angry and aggressive men in my home looking to push me around. Two dead cops was my limit.

"When was the last time you saw Detective Keebler?" asked Kershaw.

"Two days ago at ... oh, about this time."

"And where was this?"

"Right here, at my place. I'll save you a lot of time. He was here about three minutes, chatted a little, and then left."

"And what was the character of the visit?"

"I'm not sure," I lied. "It felt like a social call. He showed up and said he wanted to apologize for a misunderstanding at the precinct a few days before. I think it was just an excuse to ask me out."

"And what was this misunderstanding?"

"You should talk to Detective Moreland about that."

"We're asking you," said the sergeant. The man made no attempt to veil his annoyance.

"They mistook me for someone else," I said politely. "If you have any other questions on that, you can ask Detective Moreland."

"How did he seem while he was here?" asked Kershaw.

"Friendly, a little flirty. Like I said, he was only here a few minutes, said that he'd forgotten something he needed to do, and then left. ... And, no, I have no idea what it was he said he'd forgotten."

"And how was he when he left?"

"He seemed fine."

"And which way did he go when he left?"

I held up my hands in front of me. "I'm sorry. I didn't notice. Look, the detective seemed like a nice fellow. I really am sorry for your loss. But I don't know anything beyond what I've told you."

"What was the nature of your relationship?" said Sergeant Gurchiek abruptly.

I gave him a calm look and then said in my most friendly tone, "He was nice and a little flirty, but my girlfriend and I are very happy together."

For the first time, the look of stress and annoyance disappeared from the sergeant's face. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a card, which he passed to me through the bars of the security gate. "If you remember anything at all, please give us a call."

With that, they thanked me and departed.

It wasn't my best work, but that couldn't be avoided. There was no way I was inviting anymore police officers into my home, especially angry ones, no matter how much my refusal to do so might pique their suspicion.

Besides, the men had nothing on me, and I was certain that I was not the true target of their anger. Police officers had to follow procedure, and going about and asking questions was part of that. The questions they asked of me seemed pro forma, and the men seemed not the least bit suspicious of anything.

Still, the sense of annoyance and hostility seemed somewhat out of proportion. It dawned on me that I hadn't checked the news all day. No doubt there would be something on what had become of Officer McConnell.

I flicked on the computer at Fallon's desk and logged onto the local news station.

"Well, shit," I said.

It was all over the splash page of the website and no doubt was all over the Internet. An off-duty police officer had been murdered in Queens, and the door cam of a neighboring rowhouse had caught the whole thing. There I was, larger than life, dropping to the sidewalk, flinging the crooked rascal into the path of an oncoming delivery truck, and then shooting into the air, as if flying.

"Well, shit."