The old carpet with its Byzantine border
matted threads of burgundy and gold
ornate snowflake eye-of-God center
has a motif of predator and prey.

There are four ceremonial huntings
woven reflections in right-angled mirrors
a ring of Indian tigers mounted on deer’s backs
teeth sunk continuously in their necks.

The magi meditate on the rug’s middle
until the medallion draws them in
until they disappear
through its dilated pupil.

A cigarette has made a nickel-sized hole
big enough to peer through if the rug
were worn as a cloak and hood.

The cigarette scar’s burnt edges
seep into the fiber
like a puddle’s narrow edge.
The hole to nowhere, slightly left
of the mystic’s gaze.

Tooth mark the tiger left
The tapestry is devalued, worthless, ruined.
I’m ripping it off the wall, crouching
in the corner, swaddling it over my head.

Peering out the nickel, now
I am the center of the universe
wrapped in a skin.

When Tuesday morning arrived, Babs reached into her bag and pulled out the dormouse head. Four sets of handcuffs and a vial of sleeping pills followed.

Jonathan did a final gut check. Now would be his last chance to pass on the whole thing. Duty to his marriage and curiosity won out. His pulse quickened. He accepted the sleeping aid warily and washed it down. Babs cuffed him spread-eagle across her guest bed with his head on a pillow. “I’ll put the headpiece on you as soon as you sleep.” She laid a quilt over him made from scraps of gray flannel stitched with red yarn.

“What time will it be when I get there?” he asked.

“Noon.”

###

Jonathan woke to find himself peering out of two pools of light that merged like the view from binoculars—the mask’s eyeholes. He was at an outdoor festival. Colorful striped tents with banners waving in the wind dotted the green which filled the city square.

It felt inappropriate to infiltrate another human, like he was trespassing. But it was for a purpose. Surely Kadir (if that was who he inhabited) had signed up for this. Right? He flexed his wrists and bent his knees to get a feel for his new body.

He looked at his reflection in a man’s mirrored sunglasses, and confirmed that he indeed wore another Blue Velveteen Dormouse suit. Same costume as in Seattle, entirely different body. It was obviously male, but shorter, more trapezoid shaped, with thicker thighs.

He couldn’t recognize a single spoken word. The beer garden was overflowing with adults drinking beer from massive mugs. Accordion music blared from towering speakers on the central stage. People dressed in Eastern European folk costumes jumped and twirled onstage in a sort of polka jig. He could have hoped for a rave, maybe a little disco or trance. But the authenticity of the festival was appealing. If it weren’t for the cellphones, late-model cars on the street, and everybody else dressed in jeans, sweaters, and heavy coats—he would have thought he’d gone back in time. Soon, he was dipping his knees to the oom-pah-pah.

The weather was chilly, but nobody seemed to suffer. The stretch-velvet uniform with its ornate vintage jacket gave him warmth. He decided to scout the area, give the whole two-or-three thousand people a quick once over. He was bound to stumble onto something.

Hopefully, someone else would be here in another costume like his. If he saw him, what should he do? Maybe being so close would cause them to switch bodies. Maybe it might set off a reaction resulting in his soul irretrievably separated from his own, with no going back. He hadn’t thought about the possibility until just then. Chill. It’s probably not like that.

He scanned the bundled-up crowd. At least he wasn’t the only mascot in the central square. He saw a rabbit, a woodchuck, and a wolf cavorting around. Their heads bobbed above most everybody.

As he passed a booth selling hot sausages and pretzels, he thought, “What if Nico did it?” If the notes in the Key of Solomon were a guide to when the windows of opportunity, it would figure it was Nico.

Jonathan could freely regard this trip to Belgrade as pure research. Bigalow had been noticeably short on details about the names in the Key of Solomon. If he believed Madame Dodi’s prophecy, it might be useful to know where all the other suits existed. Because, the dance in the prophecy showed multiple dormice.

He had decided, after long and careful deliberation entirely on his own, to try to communicate with Kadir for the purpose of obtaining his suit for the dance. He couldn’t just take the mask off and look in the mirror to see him. That would break the spell.

His hands dug into the deep-furry pockets only to emerge with a few euros and a ring of keys. There was no wallet or ID. If he could leave him a note, would he even be able to read English? What should he write? Jonathan deliberated, and kicked himself inwardly for not actually having a plan. He was just supposed to confirm for himself that the spell worked. And it did. Task accomplished.

But surely, there was something more he could do? He desperately wanted to find out who was accessing the pool of enchanted costumes. He went to the tent where a stocky dark-haired man with a handlebar mustache was selling beer.

“Could I borrow a pen?” Jonathan asked. The man looked at him quizzically, and then ignored him for a paying customer. Jonathan waited until his back was turned, and grabbed a pen from the counter.

Jonathan wrote his phone number on his hand. He immediately regretted the rash decision. Now he had tipped Kadir off for sure. He considered finding an abandoned drink and napkin to try to rub it off. The tables were littered with people. He didn’t want to just walk up to a bunch of drinkers and reach in among their cell phones and scarves. He couldn’t take the head off, and spit on his hand, and rub it on the blue fur—that would break the spell.

He waivered in indecision. Damn it. If Bigalow found out, he’d never trust him on another mission again. He had to do something, anything to save the day. He pushed through the crowd to the sidewalk ringing the square. Storefronts with signs in an alphabet he did not recognize lined the street. He started searching for a drinking fountain. Then he changed his mind. He would leave the phone number written on Kadir’s hand. But he wouldn’t tell Bigalow.

###

Jonathan awoke to the sound of rain on Babs upstairs window. He had slept late for him. Normally he was up by six in the morning. He climbed out of the feather bed, and remade the quilt and pillows. He bent over, went into his wake-up routine—a downward facing dog yoga pose, then the cobra position which he held for a moment, before dipping into a one-handed pushup on each side. He did twenty of these before reaching into his backpack for his deodorant and a fresh t-shirt. The front of his shirt had a picture of Baryshnikov in midair, his legs in a perfect split high above the stage.

Jonathan pulled on his socks, jeans, and sneakers. He made his way down the dark wood stairs, and followed the sound of the radio to the kitchen. The welcome smell of fresh coffee greeted him.

Babs looked up from her plate expectantly. “Well? How’d it go?”

“Pretty well.” That’s all he said.

“That’s it?” Babs gave half of a snort.

“No. It was amazing. Yes, the spell really works and that’s super dope. But it felt majorly weird being in a stranger’s body,” Jonathan said. He went on to describe everything he’d seen, almost. He kept tight-lipped about leaving his phone number behind with Kadir. If that was truly his name. He hoped that Kadir would call and agree to let him borrow the suit.

###

On Jonathan’s way back to his Bijou Hotel room—which was cowboy-themed, filthy and hadn’t been redecorated since the 1960s—he stopped by the mosaics in the lobby.

He thought how he might be living the story of the wine god Dionysus and Apollo. Perhaps Zeus had cursed him by blinding him to his identity. But wasn’t what he had with Bigalow true love? It didn’t strike Jonathan that his real identity would be a party god. But he had to admit teleportation into another body was a pretty god-like sensation.

###

“I have to admit,” Jonathan told Bigalow, “the whole experience was off the hook. I totally can back up that part of your alibi. I could have done anything I wanted to in Kadir’s body, and he would be powerless to stop it. Why would anybody put themselves in such a foolish position?”

Bigalow sighed. “It’s not like that. It’s more like a secret boys’ club. We operate on the honor system. As you can see, it’s pretty trippy. Why should the powers of the dormice be wasted?”

“What kind of villain would use them for murder?” Jonathan asked.

“Exactly. I still say it’s Eduardo. He must have hired Nico. That’s what I need you to help find out,” Bigalow said.

Jonathan ached just to hold him. “So now what? What do you think we should do about Madame Dodi’s prophecy?”

“Tell Eduardo about it, and that you want to see the red windmills in the basement. See how he reacts,” Bigalow said.

“Okay. Bigalow? I have a question. Who’s picking up my tab at the Bijou?”

“Don’t worry about it, love. We’ve got you covered.”

###

Late the next morning, Jonathan found Eduardo the Impresario and Charlie the Crow sitting in a booth at the Bijou diner. Eduardo wore a black velvet vest over a white shirt. His dreadlocks resembled lint from a dryer that day.

Jonathan pulled his hoodie off his head, and adjusted his hair so it could flow down his back. He approached their red Formica-topped table. “Hi!” He smiled and stood at the head of their table, hopefully casually. “Bigalow wanted me to pester you for something again. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Bigalow? Yes, Bigalow. How is he?” Eduardo asked.

“Very excited, actually. He mentioned some big red windmills you have in the basement. Would you be willing to show me?”

###

Eduardo, Charlie the Crow and Jonathan took the Bijou service elevator. It was tiny by modern standards.

“Thank you for taking the time to continue my tour,” Jonathan said.

“Of course, of course. You’re Bigalow’s husband, so that makes you a partner. Silent, I hope.”

“About that. Bigalow said I didn’t have to worry about my tab.”

Eduardo peered up at him. “That’s true,” he said.

It was an odd thing to think about as the lift creaked and hummed into the bowels of the building. Jonathan hadn’t intentionally married Bigalow to become part-owner of the Bijou. At least not consciously. As for being silent, he’d see about that. “Surely, there’s something I can do around here to help out?” he asked. He was embarrassed to admit he had little left for spending money.

“Ever worked in hospitality?” Eduardo asked.

“I tended bar and waited tables in L.A.”

“We can put you in the bar, I guess.”

“Great! Thank you. Have you heard anything about Madame Dodi’s prophecy for Red Ballerina and the Blue Velveteen Dormice?” Jonathan asked.

“Not a word. What did her magic eyeball show?” Charlie the Crow asked.

“Only a dance that will solve her murder,” Jonathan told them.

“What dance?” the crow asked.

“Red Ballerina being caught by a ring of eighteen dormice after a long battle to Ravel’s ‘Bolero,’” Jonathan answered.

Eduardo scratched at the base of his Brillo-pad beard. “How odd. Good news for our Bigalow. Hip hip, I suppose. A ray of hope. Perhaps someone else did it.”

Jonathan wondered why Eduardo seemed unperturbed. Was his happy response just an act? Underneath, was he secretly concerned? He revealed nothing but enthusiasm for the prospect of clearing Bigalow. He didn’t seem at all worried it might catch him.

The elevator stopped, trapping them for several moments. Jonathan’s shoulders tightened. He stretched his arms up, and looked at the pattern of crystals on the ceiling. Curiosity piqued, he asked, "What’s that? A constellation?"

"Ophiuchus. Some say it’s the thirteenth sign in astrology," the impresario replied. "It’s only visible on the edge of the southern sky."

Jonathan noted its distinct shape, like the head of a bull resting on its left side.

Jonathan counted the rhinestones in the ceiling. There were nine. “Um. Should we jump up and down, or do something to get this thing going?” he asked.

"Charlie, would you do the honors?" Eduardo directed. The bird did as instructed, flying up to push the biggest star on the upper left horn with his beak. There was a faint rumble, soon the elevator resumed its descent through several floors.

“Something from a previous renovation,” Eduardo said.

It seemed to take an eternity for the doors to finally slide open to darkness.

"Maximus Illuminus!" the wizard commanded. The hidden grotto revealed itself as though by the light of day. “Voice activated.”

An empty Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool waited thirty feet before them. “We have entered the long closed Bijou Natatorium,” Eduardo told him. They inched closer to the empty pool’s edge, where they saw the remnants of two large red windmills filling the bottom.

“As far as I can gather, these old pieces were part of a Bijou tribute to the Moulin Rouge. Bigalow wanted them preserved. He said they could prove valuable for future acts,” Eduardo explained.

Jonathan asked,“How could such massive things have found their way into this underground space? There’s no way they could fit in the elevator.”

Eduardo chuckled. “This gem was a state-of-the-art grand hotel when it was built. I wish I could have seen it in its heyday.” He pointed up. "There’s a retractable roof cleverly hidden on the ceiling. It’s complete with tracks and rollers."

“That’s wonderful. These must be the windmills in Madame Dodi’s prophecy of the set for the dance. Bigalow saw them too, on Dodi’s TV. Do you think we might do the dance here?” Jonathan asked.

“If Dodi prophesied it, I guess there’s no way around it,” Eduardo said.

###

On the following Monday at ten P.M. in Bab’s warm upstairs guest room, Jonathan tried to sleep as he waited for her to put the dormouse head on him. He couldn’t decide if Eduardo was lying or not. He certainly wasn’t acting opposed to the dance. But was it just acting?

According to Bigalow’s notes in the Key of Solomon, the lunar aspects opened for Lucien in Paris that night; Bigalow suggested it might be a good place to snoop. Paris was the home to the Moulin Rouge, homebase for red Dutch windmills.

He closed his eyes and. . . barely missed a step as he caught himself in a striptease to “Material Girl” on the stage of a small cabaret. He flexed and strutted onstage to the pumpy pop beat. From how his head felt, evidently Lucien had been drinking. A bevy of young women in short dresses fawned over his muscles. To the left and right two naked hunks were taking showers in glass booths. They were excited to be there.

Jonathan would have supposed a bachelorette party would be less obnoxious in Paris. Why would a grown confident man willingly display himself like a link of sausage in a deli case to a bunch of straight women? The obvious answer was money. Straight for pay. Perhaps it was good for their ego, a bit of exhibitionism?

A mime wearing a striped t-shirt under a black suit poked a note in his g-string. Who needed a tip jar? He nodded his thanks. He saw the white-faced figure exit behind the tables through an archway in the back.

The music stopped. He bowed and waved at the bevy of dilettantes. He picked up their euros and left the stage. A fireman replaced him and began to dance a sort of herky-jerky shuffle to “Pink Pony Club.”

Behind the curtain, Jonathan pulled out the wad of bills in his pouch. He found the note the mime had left. It read: Meet me under the windmill in ten minutes.

Might it be a trap? Obviously, someone was expecting a blue dormouse to be working the party. But he could always take his head off and be back in Seattle if need be. He discounted that idea—too curious to find out if Bigalow was on the right track.

He had no idea where he was in relation to the famous burlesque. He pulled the velveteen uniform on one stretchy leg at a time, and entered the club’s boho-chic lobby. Huge curtained windows and a double-glass door opened onto the street. The afternoon streets were full of Parisians in long winter coats and flapping scarves.

He saw the legendary red four-bladed windmill just down the street. A sign made of clear light-bulbs mounted on a wire frame spelled Moulin Rouge in front of them. They glowed dimly in the pale afternoon light.

The mime strained to push away the walls of an invisible box beneath the sign; he struggled until he found the invisible door. He pointed to the building’s side, and indicated for Jonathan to follow to a back alley door.

Jonathan grabbed the door behind the sleight figure and followed backstage. It took a moment to adjust to the dim light.

“En guard!” A blue dormouse tossed him a sword which he caught by the handle. He drew back and raised his weapon. They circled one another and parried.

Clash. Clash. Clash. The sounds echoed on the concrete floor to the scaffolds above.

Jonathan stepped to the left, then twirled before attempting a sideswipe—which his opponent deflected.

Clash. The swords shrieked a shivering metallic tone as their blades slid away one from the other.

Jonathan stepped back with his sword drawn. “Who are you?”

“You first,” the costumed stranger said as he lunged forward and thrust. “You sound American.” His accent seemed German.

“I’m not sure that’s anyone’s business.” Jonathan stepped back and held his sword drawn.

“You can call me, Sir,” the masked stranger told him.

Jonathan lowered his sword. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Sure.” His blue dormouse doppelganger set his sword down and laughed. “Hope you didn’t mind a little swordplay.”

“Never too early in the day,” Jonathan said. An inane utterance, but he was playing a part. Fortunately, some of the roles he’d danced required he knew how to fence, however rudimentally.

They passed through the building in search of a bar. Jonathan didn’t think getting more drunk would make things easier. He vowed to pace himself and not start blathering.

Smoked mirrors lining the back wall turned their reflections into murky shadows. He pulled the wad of bills from his pocket. Plenty of drinking money. “What will you have?”

“Courvoisier. ”

“Two Courvoisier,” Jonathan told the bartender. He wasn’t sure how to bring up Nico. “So, how did you know about the mice costumes?”

“I’m here on business for Cosmic Engineering. It occasionally pulls me away from teaching fencing at my boarding schools.”

“Boarding schools?”

“There are five in all. I’m most proud of the one on a horse farm. They start as boys and come out as men.”

“Interesting concept,” Jonathan said.

“In America it seems to take forever for boys to become men. But I say ‘why wait?’” The mouse put his hand on Jonathan’s thigh. “I have a suite nearby.”

Uncomfortable as he was, Jonathan let the hand rest there in order to build a moment of trust. “About the costumes. Do you know anything about the magic eyeball and contraption that went missing the night of the murder of Madame Dodi in Seattle?” Jonathan asked.

“Maybe. Why?” His hand inched further up Jonathan’s thigh.

Jonathan gulped. “Because someone wearing a mouse suit just like us was seen fleeing the crime. What have you heard?”

The man inside the costume said, “Word’s getting around it was a botched robbery. The magic eyeball and apparatus didn’t make it to the client.”

“Any idea who wanted it?” Jonathan asked. He sipped his drink through a straw that passed through a small hole in the mascot’s mouth.

“No clue,” the man answered.

###

“Whoever hired Nico got stiffed, huh?” Bigalow digested the news Jonathan brought about the botched robbery and missing loot. He put his fingers to his mouth, and then pointed at him.“Okay. Here’s what we need to do. Use the dormouse to switch with Nico when the moon is in position. It’s highlighted in the Key. Follow Babs’ instructions.”

Jonathan’s guts froze inside him like giblets in the freezer.

“Nico? What if he did it?”

“He might well have. I want you to switch bodies with him to find out what you can about the eyeball.”

This was a big ask. “Are you sure? It seems dangerous.” Whack dangerous.

“Yes. I’m sure. Nico can’t harm you while he’s in your body sleeping at Babs. Nobody will be wanting to kill Nico, if he’s the one who knows where the eyeball and contraption are.”

It made sense in a way. One look at the Bigalow made Jonathan realize he couldn’t turn his back on him now. Saving the lug from prison was the most important thing in his life. “What should I do, exactly?”

“Ask the guy at the front desk if he has any messages for the blue mice. Don’t worry. He speaks English.”

###

Jonathan shivered barefoot on the black-rubber matting that ran down a gray-brick hallway. The chestnut-brown hair on his chest and legs was still moist. He could tell by looking down he was a hairy-muscular man of above-average height. He wrapped a skimpy-damp towel more tightly around his waist and adjusted the mascot head on his shoulders.

He ventured forward in the red light and came to a black-vinyl seating area. What the—? Other men with towels were watching gay pornography on a big-screen TV. He’d heard enough about bath houses to recognize when he was in one. Nothing about his current situation aroused any carnal feelings.

All I have to do is take the helmet off, and I’ll be back asleep at Babs. But he didn’t do that. Instead, Jonathan tried to come up with theories about why Nico would be in the baths. Perhaps it had to do with the anonymity of the location. People didn’t generally report who or what they’d seen in places like this. That, coupled with the mask, would keep his activities discreet.

A key dangled on a spiral bracelet made of rubber-coated wire that circled his wrist. It had embossed #19 on its tag. He explored the hallways venturing past a maze of cubicles. He looked into a shower room full of naked men rubbing soap on each other. Steam escaped into the cold hallway. “What could these men have to do with the murder of Madame Dodi?” he wondered.

He wasn’t of a frame of mind to join in group sex using a stranger’s body. He wondered what Bigalow would do in this situation, or if he’d even been here. Was he taking this all too seriously? It wasn’t like he was anti-sex. It was more about how all this reflected on his spouse—not good at all. Maybe, Bigalow had no control where the other costume was at swap-time. That made sense.

He didn’t let himself get angry, especially after his experience in Paris. How could he possibly hold Bigalow accountable for Nico? Jonathan focused on his mission to find the front desk. The maze of hallways didn’t make it evident which went where, exactly. All the doorways had exit signs leading to other labyrinths.

He turned a corner and made it to the locker room. He found #19. He unlocked it using the key on his wrist and found the rest of the dormouse costume hanging on a hook. A pair of old running shoes sat at the bottom. He looked in one and found a wallet. He opened it to an I.D. It showed a handsome soldier with short hair and a square jaw. The name was in a foreign alphabet and seemed to spell HNKRAN KY3HEYOB.

Jonathan eyed the exit and considered putting on the blue velveteen suit and leaving. He thought that was too risky with no place to go. He put everything back as he found it and padlocked the locker.

He tingled with fear as he ventured back into the dim corridors to mill about looking for clues. The bathhouse had no name he could find. Whatever posters or signs he could see seemed to be multilingual, like at an airport, but none had any names he could make out.

He ventured down a different corridor, drawn by what he first thought sounded like barking. He turned a corner to find a room full of restraints and torture devices. A naked man was bent over, with his neck and wrists inside a stockade. A man wearing black-leather chaps and a vest, but nothing else, was spanking the man’s ass with a leather paddle.

Jonathan had heard of such things of course, but never seen it in real life. He was shocked, amused, even a little embarrassed for the guy. And yet, there was something undeniably powerful about the energy in the dungeon.

WHACK

“AHHH!”

WHACK

“AHHH!”

The two men both seemed to be getting off on it. This confused Jonathan, as all he could think of was how much each whack must sting. He needed to get out of there.

He returned to where he first arrived, and found a different corridor to the front desk. “Do you have any messages for the Blue Velveteen Dormouse?” he asked.

“Bennet wants to know where the magic eyeball is,” the scruffy desk clerk replied.

###

“The clerk said Bennet wanted to know where the magic eyeball is,” Jonathan told Babs at her kitchen table the next morning. He took a swig of her strong coffee, and smoothed out the front of his New York Ballet t-shirt over his tights.

“Brilliant work!” she said.

Jonathan beamed. “I’m a little pleased with it myself. But what does it mean, exactly?”

She opened the blue curtains with yellow duckies. Sunlight filled the room. “Either Nico hid the eyeball and is lying to whoever this Bennet is, or he never got it in the first place.”

“Right? All we have to do now is figure out where Nico is and arrest him,” Jonathan said.

“Slow your horses. Nico may or may not be the murderer. We need to know why Bennet is after the eyeball and where it’s hidden.” Babs rinsed a glass and set it in the drainer.

He brushed a strand of hair from his face and smiled. “I saw Nico’s ID. I don’t know what it translates to exactly. It looked like H-N-K-R-A-N K-Y-3-H-E-Y-O-B with backward Ns.”

Babs pulled her cell from her pocket and started poking at it. “If that were in the Russian alphabet, it would translate into Nikolai Kuznetsov. Google says it’s a very common name in Russia. Although, interestingly, one was a Russian spy in Nazi Germany.”

“He’d be too old by now. Show me their pictures. Maybe I’ll recognize one.”

She showed him the images.

He involuntarily twitched when he saw the spy in his Nazi uniform. “The picture I saw looks exactly like him! But how? He’s most likely dead.”

Babs smoothed her whiskers and said, “Not if he’s a wizard. Or maybe he’s a descendant.”

“I wonder if Bigalow knows Nico might be a spy? It says here he infiltrated Vienna on behalf of Stalin. I’m not sure I should say anything about it just yet. It was very presumptuous on my part.”

“Spies have to be presumptuous,” Babs said. “But he might not be that Nico.”

“Babs. Can I ask you a question?”

“About what?”

Jonathan proceeded to tell Babs about the man being spanked in the stockade. “I mean. . .I kind of get it, but I don’t,” he said.

Babs took a sip of her tea. “It can mean a lot of different things for different people. For some it’s performance art. For others a power exchange.”

“I still don’t get it.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “It’s a personal journey. There is a line, which if crossed is abuse. It’s all about consensually fulfilling fantasies. It’s not for everyone.”

Jonathan drew back. “Hmm. Definitely kinky. Not my cup of tea, to be honest. Why would the costume be used in a bath house?”

Babs dabbed the corner of her mustache with a cloth napkin.“I thought that sort of thing happened all the time. You know—the Furries are all about anonymous sex.”

###

Jonathan slammed into his seat upon meeting Bigalow in prison the next day. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sending me to a bathhouse?” he asked.

Bigalow looked shocked. “A bathhouse? Serious?”

Don’t give me that BS. Jonathan seethed as he pulled a strand of his long hair away from his face. “If you didn’t know where I was going, why did you tell me to ask the clerk? . . . Oh, by the way—the Russian desk clerk said Bennet asked where the magic eyeball is,” he huffed. “And I found Nico’s ID.”

Bigalow frowned and darted his eyes. “Who is he?”

“Nikolai Kuznetsov. It was hard to figure out because it was written in Russian.”

Bigalow’s face crinkled up. “Shhhh! That was a foolish risk you took.”

Jonathan felt he’d done as well as could be expected, “Babs told me to poke around. Now at least, we can identify the murderer.”

“Listen,” his love whispered. “You’re lucky you didn’t get caught” Bigalow dropped his shoulders, and said in his familiar sexy voice, “Just stay cool, baby love. They have operatives everywhere. Use the mask to go to Vienna the next time the moon’s right, then report back to me. Go with the flow. Use Bennet’s body to get word of whoever is looking for the eyeball or hired Nico. Trust me. We’re on the right track. You’re my golden boy.”

“Thank you, Bigalow. I needed to hear that. I love you, too. Babs wants to investigate the crime scene tomorrow. I said I’d go with her.” Jonathan also wanted to slow things down just a bit.

Bigalow paused, and then said, “No problem. Go ahead and see what you can find, little buddy. The moon won’t be right for Vienna until a few days anyway. Stay chill and stop worrying. Just keep your ear to the ground. Nico may very well be the hitman. But we have to prove Bennet hired him for Eduardo. I wouldn’t take you this far if it wasn’t important.”