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  LAURA RESNICK

  DOPPELGANGSTER

  The Esther Diamond Series:

  DOPPLEGANGSTER

  UNSYMPATHETIC MAGIC*

  VAMPARAZZI*

  * Coming soon from DAW Books

  Copyright © 2010 by Laura Resnick.

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1499.

  DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15979-8

  First Paperback Printing, January 2010.

  For Mom & Dad

  (the only existing versions of themselves)

  who liked the title

  PROLOGUE

  The fact that I had killed a man was really putting a crimp in my love life.

  Well, okay, to be strictly accurate, I hadn’t killed him. But I had helped. And I had watched enough of the Emmy Award-winning cops-and-lawyers drama Crime and Punishment on TV to know that cops weren’t very understanding about that sort of thing. I had even auditioned for the role of a murderess in a C&P episode the previous year, but I didn’t get the part. So, since I had never even played a killer, actually being one now was something of a novelty.

  It was also rather awkward, since I was dating a cop. Or at least trying to date one. And he was a straight-arrow cop who didn’t look the other way when it came to breaking and entering and vandalism (two more awkward secrets I was keeping from him), never mind murder.

  Which is not to say that I had done anything wrong. On the contrary. I stand by my actions. I was fighting Evil.

  And if that sounds absurd to you, well, that’s understandable. It sounds pretty damn absurd to me, too.

  The man I had helped kill—and I’m using the word “man” in its broadest possible sense—was a demented sorcerer’s apprentice who tried to take over New York City by summoning a virgin-raping, people-eating demon.

  You probably think I’m kidding.

  In a series of events that I was trying hard not to think about now that they were over, I had helped Dr. Maximillian Zadok, Manhattan’s resident sorcerer and local representative of the Magnum Collegium—a secret organization whose worldwide mission is to confront Evil—track the villain to his underground lair. There we had faced the demon Avolapek (an individual about whom the words “biliously repellant” are far too kind), had defeated him in what might loosely be termed combat, and had slain his maniacal creator, the rogue apprentice Hieronymus.

  I am not making this up.

  How Max had eliminated Hieronymus was not entirely clear to me. Most things about Max were not entirely clear to me. He and a fellow mage, a man named Lysander—whose day job is keeping Altoona, Pennsylvania, safe from Evil (yes, really)—had done some chanting in another language, and Hieronymus had vanished. According to Max, this was dissolution, which he described to me as “something remarkably similar to death.” Since it was a permanent, all-dimensions solution to the problem of Hieronymus and his evil plans, I had no objection. But I also had a feeling that a jury might consider any legal difference (if one existed) between murder and dissolution to be so piddling as to make no difference at all in our conviction and sentencing, should these events ever come to light.

  By the time Max arrived at Hieronymus’ secret lair to save me from becoming demon dinner, I had already beaten Hieronymus to a pulp with a candelabra and then thrown him as a decoy at the virgin-raping Avolapek (who did not refuse a free meal, so to speak). So a jury might reasonably conclude that I had actively assisted in the evil apprentice’s demise—or at least softened him up for it. I figured Max and I could both be in big trouble over those events—unless a jury also believed the part about Hieronymus summoning a demon and trying to kill a bunch of people (including me) at the very moment we snuffed out his life.

  I pictured myself saying in a court of law, “Well, Your Honor, there was this evil sorcerer’s apprentice and a flesh-eating, power-granting demon he summoned from a primordial dimension…”

  Even I couldn’t see a way to make that script work.

  Which was why I felt it was imperative that Detective Lopez, who’d dogged our steps on that case, should never find out what had happened that fateful night. Happily, no one was pressing charges about the breaking and entering and vandalism that Max and I had previously committed (hey, we were trying to prevent more innocents from getting hurt, okay?), and Lopez had dropped that particular subject by now. He was, however, still perplexed about what had happened the night that Max and I, along with several missing persons (Hieronymus’ victims, whom we rescued when we defeated him), suddenly turned up at an obscure Morning-side Heights magic club without explanation, all looking (and smelling) as if we’d been to hell and back. There was also a white Bengal tiger with us—but I digress.

  The problem was… I really liked Lopez. He liked me, too. But I was jumpy about any topic that might lead to his asking about that night. He sensed I was hiding things, and that raised his cop hackles. So our first couple of dates hadn’t gone that well. Nevertheless, he asked me out a third time. Obviously, it would have been smart for me to say no. From the beginning, actually. It would have been wise to avoid Lopez altogether, to stay off his radar.

  But, come on, I’m a single woman in New York City. It takes more than a morbid fear of doing life in prison for homicide to make me turn down a date with an employed, attractive, single, heterosexual man who has nice table manners, listens when I talk, and knows how to kiss.

  So I said yes to a third date.

  We both worked nights, so we’d met for lunch on our previous two dates. This time, Lopez wanted to take me out for dinner. He said he had something to celebrate. He was a detective in the Sixth Precinct and usually worked second shift, getting off around midnight. I was doing eight shows per week as a chorus nymph and unrewarded understudy in the new off-Broadway musical Sorcerer! So Lopez traded shifts with another cop so he would be free on Sunday, the one night I wasn’t working.

  Unfortunately, it turned out to be a bad night for me. Also for my love life. And things soon got worse. Before long, someone was trying to kill me. And Lopez.

  So maybe he’d have been better off if he’d never asked me out a third time.

  1

  The good-looking man standing in my doorway wanted to have sex with me.

  That much was apparent just from the way he was dressed. I wasn’t born yesterday. (In point of fact, I was born twenty-seven years ago.) A man who goes to that much trouble to look sexy has got definite plans in mind when he arrives at a woman’s door.

  Lopez wore a sophisticated, well-cut black jacket and trousers with a black silk shirt. Open at the neck, the shirt exposed the smooth, dark golden skin of his throat. Even in my current state of panic and depression, I noticed how tempting this was. But only briefly.

  The dim light in the hallway glinted off his straight black hair as he held out a single red rose to me.

  I frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked a little surprised by this reception, but quickly regrouped. “We have a date tonight.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, Esther.” The hand holding the rose dropped to his side. “Sunday night. Dinner. I wanted to…” Thick black lashes lowered over blue eyes as his gaze flickered over me. “You’r
e not exactly dressed for celebrating,” he noted.

  “Celebrating?” I snapped. “Celebrating? Are you insane?”

  He blinked. “Did something happen?”

  “Ohmigod!” I suddenly realized what he was doing there. “We have a date tonight!”

  He lifted one brow. “Do you want to close the door? I could knock on it, and we could start all over again.”

  “You look nice,” I said, hoping to make up for my earlier behavior.

  “Can I come in?” he asked patiently.

  “Oh! Of course.” I moved aside and gestured for him to enter my home.

  I live in a good apartment for a struggling actress in New York City. It’s a second-floor walk-up in the West Thirties, near Ninth Avenue. The neighborhood is about as elegant as the floor of a public bathroom, and the apartment is old and falling apart. But my place is spacious (by Manhattan standards) and rent-controlled, and I have it all to myself.

  However, even with rent control, I was currently worried about how I’d keep a roof over my head.

  I closed the door behind Lopez and turned to face him as he stood in my living room. I realized he looked better than nice, he looked traffic-stopping. I suddenly regretted that I was greeting him with messy, unwashed hair, wearing old sweatpants and a T-shirt from the Actor’s Studio, with a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in my hand.

  Prince Charming meets the Bag Lady.

  Except that Detective Connor Lopez didn’t look innocuous enough to be Prince Charming. (He also didn’t look like a Connor.) Thirty-one years old, he had inherited exotic dark looks from his Cuban father and lively blue eyes from his Irish American mother. Average height, with a slim, athletic build, he looked like a man who’d want more than a chaste kiss in exchange for rescuing the sleeping princess. Especially dressed the way he was tonight.

  I’m 5 foot 6 and in decent enough condition to do eight performances of a song-and-dance musical in skimpy clothes every week, but I’m not skinny enough to work in Hollywood. I’ve got brown eyes, brown shoulder-length hair, and fair skin. My looks are versatile, and I can play heroines onstage, but my face, like my figure, doesn’t meet Hollywood leading-lady standards. However, when he chose, Lopez had a way of looking at me that made me feel like a sexy movie-star vamp.

  That wasn’t the look he was giving me right now, though.

  Eyeing my not-ready-for-dinner appearance, he said, “I can wait while you change. Er, shower and change.”

  “I can’t go out!” Seeing his expression, I said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I just can’t. Not tonight.”

  Now he looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” My stomach roiled. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Maybe eating half a pint of ice cream before dinner wasn’t such a good idea?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that.” As my stomach churned noisily, I said, “Well, maybe that didn’t help.”

  “Have a rose.” He held out the flower again. As I accepted it from him, he added, “And tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Sorcerer! is closing.” I wanted to cry.

  Both brows rose this time. “That’s unexpected, I take it?” When I nodded, he said, “When did you find out?”

  “About two hours ago.” I had come back from yoga class, done two loads of laundry, cleaned the apartment, and was just about to step into the shower when I got the call informing me I was out of work. I’d been in a blue funk ever since.

  “So… just like that? The show’s over?”

  I nodded morosely and sat down on my couch. I gently laid the rose on my coffee table, then I took another bite of ice cream. Lopez sat down next to me and took my free hand. Then he looked down at our joined hands, frowning a little.

  “Sorry,” I said. My hand was sticky. “It’s the Turtle Soup.”

  “The what?”

  I waggled my Ben and Jerry’s carton at him. “The ice cream. Lots of caramel.”

  “Oh.” When I tried to pull my hand away, he held fast and said, “No, it’s okay.”

  “In times of stress, I need ice cream,” I explained.

  “Of course.” He smiled. “Give me a bite.”

  I scooped some out of the carton in my lap and brought the spoon up to his mouth. His lips were full and, I knew from experience, felt lush when he kissed.

  Our eyes met as I spooned caramel-laced ice cream into his mouth. When I started to pull my hand away, he held it in place so he could lick the spoon. I also knew from experience that he knew just what to do with his tongue when he kissed.

  “Mmm,” he said, still looking at me.

  It should have felt sexy to feed him ice cream. Normally, it would. As previously noted, I wasn’t dating him because it was the smart thing to do; I just couldn’t keep away from him. And the way he looked tonight, with his thick black hair falling over his forehead and his open collar showing off his smooth throat…

  I sighed dispiritedly. I was just too upset to feel sexy. I was also too unkempt and dirty. Some other time, when I felt better, I’d regret that I had wasted this moment. But right now, even Lopez couldn’t stir my hormones. That’s how bad I felt.

  Evidently realizing that all he’d get out of this moment was a bite of ice cream, he let me lower the spoon. “That’s pretty good. But I’m still a Cherry Garcia guy.”

  “Heath Bar Crunch is my usual poison.” I sighed. “But this was all I had in the freezer when I got the call.”

  Since I’m an actress, I need to watch my weight. Especially while working in Sorcerer!, where my tight costumes left a lot of skin bare (albeit covered in green body paint and glitter). So I try to limit my ice cream consumption to special occasions and dire circumstances; since life is full of both of these, I always keep a pint or two on hand, just in case.

  “So does this mean you’re…” Lopez shrugged, not quite sure how to phrase it. “Out of work?”

  I nodded. “Out of work.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Welcome to my world.” I ate another spoonful of the Turtle Soup.

  “What happened?”

  I knew that to a normal, salaried person—even to a cop, who sees everything—the sudden, unexpected shift from employment to unemployment that’s a normal part of an actor’s life looks pretty dizzying. In fact, it makes actors dizzy, too. Right now, my head was reeling.

  “Well, you know, reviews haven’t been so good,” I said. Sorcerer! was a tepid musical built entirely around the (rather mediocre) magician who was the producer’s husband. After sitting through a performance, Lopez had said that only the chance to see me scamper around stage half-naked for two hours had made it a good evening. Although this sort of comment is flattering coming from my date, it’s alarming coming from an audience member. I continued, “So our houses haven’t been good.”

  “Your houses aren’t good?” he repeated with a puzzled expression. “You mean, audiences don’t applaud?”

  “I mean, they don’t come. Ticket sales are weak,” I clarified.

  “Ah. Yeah, I noticed that the night I came to see you. A lot of empty seats.”

  I nodded morosely. “That’s a bad house—one with a lot of empty seats. And Sorcerer! is an expensive show. Golly Gee’s salary alone…” I trailed off, since I’d just accidentally stepped into territory I tried to avoid when I was with Lopez.

  Golly Gee was the surgically-enhanced, B-list pop star who played the female lead in Sorcerer! I was a chorus nymph and her understudy. My involvement in fighting Evil with Maximillian Zadok had begun after Golly had vanished one night during the show’s disappearing act. I mean, really vanished.

  Lopez knew from interviewing us during the course of that investigation that Max and I both believed Golly had vanished magically. (Which was indeed the case.) He thought this was crazy, which Max assured me is a very common reaction to paranormal events. I understood Lopez’s point of view, since it was initially my reaction, too. Only overwhelming evidence to the cont
rary, right before my eyes, had convinced me to believe in things now that I knew Lopez still did not believe in.

  And any attempt to convince Lopez of what had really happened would no doubt wind up leading, in the end, to admitting that Max and I had killed Hieronymus. Or sort of killed him. (The fact that any such explanation would also convince Lopez I was nutty as a fruit-cake concerned me, too, since I didn’t want him to stop asking me out.) True, we had saved Golly Gee and the other disappearees, but Lopez would insist on knowing how. And he was good at questioning people and putting together scattered details until he figured things out. I knew that if I let the subject be opened, there was no chance that Lopez would let it be closed until he knew everything.

  So, having foolishly lowered my guard enough to mention Golly, I tried to backtrack. “Anyhow, musicals are very expensive, and without enough revenue coming in, they’ve decided to close the show.”

  “It probably hurt the budget a lot when Golly, er, disappeared for more than a week?” Lopez said, watching me with cop eyes now instead of potential-lover eyes. This was exactly the sort of thing that had made our first two dates a tad awkward.

  “Yes. Keeping the theater dark for that long was expensive.” I had refused to go on in Golly’s place and do the disappearing act without knowing what had happened to her. It was the only time in my entire life I had let a show down. And it’s a good thing I did! If I had performed, I would have become one of Hieronymus’ victims. The show only resumed ten days later, when the evil apprentice was dead (or dissolved) and Golly was back where she belonged. “Losing all that income hurt us.” I took a bite of my ice cream.

  “Golly has never been very clear about where she went.” When I didn’t reply, Lopez added, “You haven’t, either.”

  “Oh, it’s all over now,” I said, scooping up another bite of ice cream and offering it to him. “So I don’t see why—”