MY CELL PHONE was beeping.

It was the middle of the night. I shot up and blinked at the clock. Shit, 4 A.M.

Groggily, I fumbled for the phone, trying to read the num-ber on the screen. It was Paul Chin's. "Hey, Paul, what's going on?" I mumbled.

"Sorry, LT, I'm at the Clift Hotel. I'm thinking you better come on down."

"You find something?" A four-in-the-morning question? Four-in-the-morning calls meant only one thing.

"Yeah. I think the Lightower bombing just got a bit more complicated."

Eight minutes later - jeans and a tank thrown on, and a few purposeful brushes through my hair - I was in the Explorer, bounding down Vermont on the way to Seventh, top hat flashing through the quiet night.

Three black-and-whites along with a morgue van were crowded around the hotel's bright new entrance. The Clift was one of the city's great old hotels and had just undergone a fancy renovation. I badged my way past the cops at the front, gawking at the lavish ostrich-hide couch and bulls' horns on the wall, a few stunned hotel employees standing around, wondering what to do. I took the elevator up to the top floor, where Chin was waiting.

"The vic's name is George Bengosian. Health-care bigwig," Paul Chin explained as he led me into the penthouse suite. "Prepare yourself. I'm not kidding."

I looked at the body, propped upright against the leg of a conference table in the lavishly appointed room.

The color of Bengosian's skin had turned a hypoxic green-yellow, the consistency of jelly. His eyes were wrenched open like mangled gear sockets. Mucus, or some sort ............